Play Smart: An Enemies to Lovers Rockstar Romantic Comedy (Work For It Book 5), page 2
PAIGE
I dip my spoon into my yogurt as I glower at my laptop screen. For the record, my eyes keep drifting over the top to skim the guy at the neighboring breakroom table for purely cynical reasons. The fact that Nash Ellis has stunning blue eyes that practically glow from his face is completely irrelevant. In fact, it’s disturbing how his thick dark lashes provide such a stark contrast to his luminescent irises that it almost looks like he’s wearing eyeliner. Okay, it’s possible disturbing is a strong (inaccurate) word for the effect, but I’m in no mood to be generous.
There’s an arrogance to Nash that has gotten under my skin in record time. He clearly has no interest in being here, while I’ve worked my ass off for this opportunity to climb my way through the prestigious Sandeke Telecom Empire. Sure this internship sucks and our boss might be one of the most inept people I’ve ever met, but my journey to becoming a CEO of a multi-million (billion?) dollar company has to start somewhere. If I have to pretend to be interested in toilets and whatever this weird Mer-assignment is, so be it.
As a confident, accomplished woman in a man’s world, I spend a lot of time pretending. Pretending not to be angry when my achievements are devalued or flat-out stolen. Pretending not to be offended or embarrassed when I’m forced to endure sexist jokes or even direct harassment. Pretending I don’t want to throw a right hook when someone calls me sweetie or makes a comment about my appearance instead of my skills and intellect. Pretending I don’t want to scream when some man tells me I need to smile more.
My grip tightens on my spoon. Cue new subject, please.
I divert my gaze back to my laptop and open the folder Chad said contained electronic versions of all the information in the binder. Why he killed a tree to print what was already on the server, I have no idea. I caught Nash’s smirk when Chad made that announcement so I know he was thinking the same thing. Maybe that’s what I hate the most about Nash. He’s clearly intelligent but seems intent on making sure no one knows that. Wasted brains are not something I tolerate well.
I lift my eyes over the screen again, and sure enough, he has his head on his folded arms as if he’s napping. All I see is a curtain of dark medium-length hair draped over a toned, tattooed forearm. Oh, and did I mention the gauges and eyebrow piercing? All of them are small, but still. With his black jeans and plaid button-down shirt rolled to the elbows, he looks more like a roadie for a rock band than a future executive. Not once have I seen him open the laptop Chad gave him this morning. What is he even doing here?
As if sensing my critique, he raises his head and blasts me with an electric blue stare. The corner of his mouth ticks up in amusement, and I snap my attention back to my screen, heat spreading over my chest and into my cheeks. I sink further in my seat, hoping he can’t see my blush from his vantage point. I don’t even know why I’m blushing. It must be an allergic reaction to irritating people. (We can ignore the fact that I didn’t blush once in Chad’s presence.)
Crap, he’s getting up.
I pretend to be concentrating on this folder of—I can’t tell yet—as he approaches my table. He then proceeds to lean over and check my screen before pulling out the chair across from me.
Rude! Who does that? What I’m doing on my laptop is none of his business. Also irrelevant to this situation is the fact that his flagrant intrusion may have reminded me that he smells really good. He doesn’t seem like a cologne kind of guy, so I can’t figure out what that distracting scent is. Body wash? Shampoo? I shudder and force my thoughts to anything other than Nash Ellis in a shower. Which, of course, is now triggering unhelpful curiosity about other piercings he may have.
“Whatcha doing?” he asks, lowering himself to the chair.
I flick a dismissive glance at him. “Working. You should try it.” I hate that I can sense his wry smile without even seeing it. Gah! That’s going to be annoying.
“We’re on break.”
“And what’s your excuse for the rest of the morning?” I ask, looking up.
Ugh. Big mistake. His eyes light up with a competitive spark I feel in my bloodstream. I live for the chase, so if he’s planning to challenge me for this job, he’s in for a hell of a ride. Plus, there’s the strange effect of his annoying symmetrical face. Seriously, what’s up with that? It’s like he pierced his brow just to distinguish the left side from the right side. No one should be that good-looking. It’s unethical.
I glare back at my screen.
“I took notes all morning,” he says.
I hear the smile in his voice, so I know he’s referring to the doodles and random words he kept jotting down to distract me. Along with Groundhog, some odd stick-animal, and Rapid-something, he also kept scribbling a bunch of other completely unrelated sentences that read more like lines from poems. I don’t think those were meant for me, though, since he wrote them on one of the pages deeper in his notepad and kept covering it up when he finished. I will never, ever admit that one of them actually struck me in the gut.
“Let the waves of darkness break, and take, the pain below, purged by the undertow…”
Even that annoyed me. Stupid pretty, intriguing words that were so much more enticing than the strange Mer-things we were supposed to be talking about. Also proves my point that this boy has zero interest in the topic at hand.
Once again: Why. Is. He. Here?!
“You scribbled doodles and wrote poetry. Pretty sure that doesn’t count as work unless you’re in preschool,” I reply, squinting at my screen again. What is this folder supposed to be? There’s a map of an amusement park and the beginning stages of a proposal—evidenced by the word “Proposal” typed at the top of a blank page.
“Lyrics.”
I slide my gaze back to the intruder. “Huh?”
“It wasn’t poetry. They were song lyrics. Specifically.” He shrugs like it’s totally normal to be writing song lyrics during a training session on your first day of employment at a new firm.
“Why are you writing song lyrics instead of paying attention?” My glare returns when his face gets all smirky again.
“Why are you watching me write song lyrics instead of paying attention?”
Somehow I manage to swallow my growl and focus back on my work. “By the way, feel free to jump in and help with this project anytime,” I quip without looking at him.
“We’re on break.”
“And your breaks are different than your working hours how?” I arch a brow and dare another look.
This time his sly smile does something to my stomach I don’t like… because I really like it. Ugh.
“A rollercoaster,” he says finally.
“Huh?”
The smile grows into a grin, and I harden my stare.
“Look at us. We already have a rapport.”
My glare becomes a squint. “What are you talking about?”
“I say a word. You say huh. Let’s try it again. King Chester Chestnut.”
“Huh?” Crap. “I mean, excuse me?”
His look of pure triumph is two seconds away from getting covered in a cup of half-eaten yogurt. I ball my fingers into fists to keep from getting fired on my first day. After an agonizing moment of letting his smuggery sink in, he leans forward and braces his forearms on the table.
“The folder you’re looking at. It’s the planning phase of a cross-promotional venture with an amusement park to sponsor a rollercoaster featuring one of those weird Mer-whatevers. Pretty sure it’s some dude named King Chester Chestnut.”
Wait. What? On so many levels—what?
“How do you know that?” I snap. I’m also praying he’s wrong because what the hell?
He shrugs and leans back. “I looked at it before we left for lunch.”
“I didn’t even see you open your laptop!”
“Okay? Well, I did. I was curious what kind of machine they gave us. Of course, it’s a piece of shit. We won’t be able to do much with it from a graphics and recording standpoint. I’ll bring mine tomorrow.”
“Recording standpoint?”
“The song we’re going to write to go with the Mer-crap. I didn’t see anything about original music but I’m, like, ninety-nine-point-nine percent sure we won’t find an existing track to license that’s appropriate for this campaign.”
“Is that what those undertow lyrics were for?”
His amusement fades, his gaze lowering abruptly. Hmm. Interesting.
“No. That was something else,” he mumbles, picking at a scratch in the table.
I shouldn’t have mercy on him but those haunted blue eyes suck all remaining snark out of me when they lift hesitantly. Besides, how the heck did he figure the amusement park thing out so quickly? I’ve been sifting through these files our entire lunch break and still haven’t found enough evidence to draw that conclusion.
“So what’s a musician doing as a marketing intern at Reedweather Media anyway?” I ask.
He seems to clear the cloud from his head and shrinks back in mock offense. “What makes you think I’m a musician and not a marketing nut? Pun intended.”
I roll my eyes and focus back on my screen. Anything to keep me from rewarding him with a smile. I open the next file and—oh no. He was right. Grinning back at me is a schematic drawing of what looks like the front car of a rollercoaster. There is definitely a creepy looking Mer-Nut king sketched out in blueprint lines and measurements. Beside the designer’s logo is the title “Chester_Chestnut_Car_1 – Rev 1.0.”
I think I do a great job pretending I didn’t just die a little on the inside.
I usually take the elevator to my apartment on the fourth floor. Today? Stairs. Hell, I’m not positive I won’t turn and march back down them when I reach my floor just so I can stomp back up again. I hope I’m disturbing the neighbors. Especially Mrs. Hammond who thinks the entire building wants to hear her rehearse for her imaginary opera debut. Someone needs to tell her she’s not a soprano and drawing out vowels does not make a word Italian no matter how hard you roll the Rs.
Val looks up from the small breakfast table by the window when I burst through the door and slam it shut behind me. I’m a tad more gentle with my laptop case and my blazer which happens to be my favorite because of the way it accents my eyes. But everything else in my path, fair game—including my brother who pulls the studio headphones off his ears and loops them around his neck.
“And how was the first day?” he lilts out with faux cheerfulness.
I glare back as his lips twist up in a smirk reminiscent of a certain annoying intern. This deepens my scowl.
“It was glorious, Perceval,” I say, lashing back with his given name. “How was… whatever it is you do?”
He shakes his head, clearly not up for a fight which disappoints me. I could use a good round of verbal sparring, and there’s no one better at it than my younger brother.
“It’s called producing.”
“Whatever,” I mutter, grabbing my water bottle from my bag and joining him at the table.
His recording gear has officially taken over the entire right side of our tiny apartment. I don’t know what most of it is, but my talented brother can do a lot with a laptop, guitar, small keyboard, and a handful of electronic box things. He tried explaining it to me once. He never tried again.
“So let me guess, not the corporate utopia you were hoping for?” he says.
I cross my arms and try to block images of schematic drawings of soap dispensers from my mind. “They taught us how to use toilets.”
He laughs, thinking I’m joking. His smile fades when he sees I’m not. “I don’t understand.”
“Exactly.”
“But…”
“Exactly. And that’s nothing compared to what happened after that. We’re being put on the most asinine project you can imagine. Wait. No.” I hold up my hand. “You can’t imagine it. It’s beyond imagination. And the worst part? I have to work on it with this horrible other intern.”
I don’t like his smile. It doesn’t match the appropriate level of indignation he should be displaying on my behalf.
“Horrible, huh. Let me guess, this person isn’t up to your unreasonable standard of perfection? You know not everyone is going to be a level-one genius like you, right?”
My glare returns which widens his annoying smile. “Yes, if you must know. He’s… Well… no. He’s actually… I mean…” Crap. How to explain Nash Ellis?
I study my brother in the filtered light from the window. Dark longish hair, two-day scruff, torn graphic tee that’s supposed to look like garbage, tattoos everywhere… it’s the one on his cheek at the corner of his eye that finally made our parents formally disown him. Not kidding, they put it in writing and had it served to him like some weird divorce notice. Our parents are a whole other discussion.
Anyway, all this is to say that my brother is… basically Nash.
My scowl scowls. “Never mind,” I mumble.
He lifts a brow, amused. “Hmm. Interesting opinion on the topic.”
“I don’t have an opinion,” I snap.
“No? Then that would be the first time ever.”
“I hate you.”
His irritating grin widens. “Yeah? Is that why you’re blushing right now?”
“What?! I am not,” I say, crossing my arms.
“No?”
“No! If I’m flushed, it’s because of anger.”
“At me or him?”
“Both!”
“So you do have an opinion on this guy.”
I point at him. “I refuse to take your bait. Your opinion on my opinion is irrelevant. Besides, what about you, smartass? I’m guessing your day was all rainbows and sunshine?” Probably not Warp-Wizard-hat rainbows, though. Lucky bastard.
His smile fades as he tugs the ends of his hair like he does when he’s distressed. Uh-oh.
“Better to just stick to your day,” he grunts.
My mood shifts as I search his face. “What’s going on? One of your magic music boxes stopped working?”
His mouth tips up in a weak smile as he shakes his head. “Nah, nothing about that. Just…” He blows out a breath at my stern look. “Mom and Dad are on my case again.”
My fist tightens around my water bottle. “What happened this time?”
He averts his gaze and reaches for his headphones with a shrug.
“No way,” I warn, staring him down. “Talk.”
God, I hate our parents. How can they not see how amazing and talented their son is? Their life-box is so freaking small and restrictive.
He releases a long exhale and swipes his phone off the table. After scrolling through it, he pushes it toward me. My stomach tightens as I pick it up and focus on the screen.
“You have to be kidding me,” I mutter. Have I mentioned I hate our parents?
I look back up, my heart breaking at the expression on his face. He shrugs again but I see the pain in his eyes.
“They’re demanding repayment for your one semester at Yorkshire?” I ask in disbelief. I knew our parents were bitter that he didn’t submit to their chosen path, but this is downright vindictive. Borderline ruthless.
Wait, now that I think about it, Dad did wear that eyepatch after his laser surgery. And didn’t Mom buy a matching outfit for Polly, her precious Maltese so they could sit maniacally on the “nice” chaise for the Christmas card photo?
O.
M.
G.
Our parents are ruthless.
“They’re saying it was a loan and they’re calling it due. I have two months to pay it back or they’ll sue.”
I don’t even know what to say as blood boils inside me. “How the hell are you supposed to come up with that kind of money in two months?”
“They know I can’t. This isn’t about the money,” he says quietly. “You know that.”
I shake my head, refusing to believe even they could be so cruel. And this is a brain that’s accepted Mer-Nuts are a thing.
“They’re monsters, Val. You get that, right? This is a reflection on them, not you.”
His gaze drifts to mine before he lowers it again. “I mean, it’s just thirty grand. No big deal, right?” He huffs a dry laugh as he grabs the headphones and readjusts them in place. I let him go this time, watching for anything else in his body language I should be worried about.
Val Andrews is the sweetest, smartest, most driven person I know. So what if he doesn’t want to devote his life to the family empire like the rest of us. It doesn’t take a PhD to see he’s not wired for KPI Reports and… whatever Reedweather Media is turning out to be. Believe me, corporate America can only handle one angsty musician, and right now that slot seems to be filled by Nash Ellis.
Rhonda and Burt Andrews are on notice. You mess with my brother, you mess with me.
“We’re going to figure this out,” I say in my stern big-sister voice. “They do not get to dictate our lives anymore.”
My brother looks up with those big brown eyes I vowed to protect with my life since they made his a living hell.
By the power vested in me by the Mer-Nut state of Macadamia, I hereby declare:
Game. On.
3—PIVOTING
NASH
I look up from my guitar at the clatter of the front door. Marcos shoves it open, his face spreading into radiant glee when he spots me on the couch.
“You? Are a dick,” I say, pointing at my roommate as he kicks the door closed behind him.
“That’s no way to thank your best friend for getting you a job,” he teases.
I’ve never gone to blows with my best friend, but there’s a first time for everything. My fingers clench around the neck of the guitar to be safe.
I’ve been playing and writing since the second I got home in an effort to cleanse my head of today’s nightmare, so far to no avail. I don’t think there’s enough music in the world to appease the corporate Cerberus that is Chad Smith, Reed Reedweather, and Paige Andrews. Somewhere that ancient Greek hellhound is merrily tormenting the eternal souls of vanquished interns.
There’s maybe a twenty percent chance I go back tomorrow.
