Play Smart: An Enemies to Lovers Rockstar Romantic Comedy (Work For It Book 5), page 32
PLAY SMART
WORK FOR IT BOOK #5
ALY STILES
WWW.SMARTYPANTSROMANCE.COM
CONTENTS
1—Training
2—Clashing
3—Pivoting
4—Smoldering
5—Recruiting
6—Plotting
7—Fawning
8—Fighting
9—Revealing
10—Pretending
11—Bonding
12—Networking
13—Reconnecting
14—Exposing
15—Losing
16—Gaming
17—Believing
18—Thwarting
19—Avenging
20—Hoping
21—Dreaming
Epilogue
About the Author
Also by Aly Stiles
Also by Smartypants Romance
COPYRIGHT
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, rants, facts, contrivances, and incidents are either the product of the author’s questionable imagination or are used factitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead or undead, events, locales is entirely coincidental if not somewhat disturbing/concerning.
Copyright © 2022 by Smartypants Romance; All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, photographed, instagrammed, tweeted, twittered, twatted, tumbled, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without explicit written permission from the author.
Made in the United States of America
eBook Edition
ISBN: 978-1-959097-06-8
1—TRAINING
NASH
There are three things you have to understand:
1. I’m desperate.
2. Desperation makes people do strange shit.
3. Gouging one’s eye out with a butter knife doesn’t pay well or I’d be doing that instead.
I stare at the whiteboard in the shrinking conference room. At least it isn’t the six-inch binder in front of me. We’re on page something after fourteen and before ninety-seven. I know this based on how I zoned out for good at page fourteen and there’s a scheduled break at page ninety-seven. We’re definitely not on break.
“And what do we call the room that contains the servers?”
I pull my gaze from the luxurious white nothing to rest it on the instructor. He’s staring at me with wide eyeballs about to burst from his head. He also wears a toothy grin that makes me suspect the stain on his polo shirt might not be ketchup.
“You’re asking me?” I say, pointing to my chest.
He adds a vigorous nod to his killer-clown face. “Yes, Nash. What do we call the room that contains the servers?” He says this in the same tone an adult would use when asking a toddler if it’s ever okay to bite our friends?
“Um. The… server room?” I respond dryly.
He claps once and juts a finger at me. “Exactly. The server room! Turn to page twenty-seven while we review a list of all the features of the server room.”
Wait, we’re only on page twenty-seven?
A puff of air expels from my lungs as I drop my forehead to my fists. This can’t be real. I angle my head just enough to check on the other intern, but she’s glued to Chad like he’s some business mastermind and not a pompous idiot who asks questions like, “What do we call the room that contains the servers?” Hang on, is she actually taking notes?
My roommate Marcos warned me about this place when he asked his girlfriend to get me a job at Reedweather Media, her father’s company. What he didn’t warn me about was my direct supervisor, Chad Smith, or the fact that I’d be competing with another intern for some permanent position I don’t want. If I had to guess, his negligence is related to the fact that he and Nate are tired of covering my portion of the rent and had no interest in lending me the ten grand I need to buy the recording equipment I’ve been drooling over since Abram Fletcher of Redburn told me it’s mine if I want it.
And I want it—badly enough to turn to page twenty-eight, it turns out. Is that a diagram of a toilet?
I glance up, and sure enough, our boss is demonstrating flushing. If he wipes his ass, I’m out. Speaking of, the brownnoser beside me shoots up her hand.
“Yes, Paige,” Chad says, crossing his arms in a bold display of instructor-ness.
“Is the soap in the dispenser a liquid soap or a foaming variety? I don’t see it listed.”
I stare at her in disbelief. She’s not even being facetious. Her fingers hover over her keyboard, waiting to transfer this information to her laptop. What could possibly be the context for referencing that in the future?
Never mind. I don’t want to know.
Chad scrunches his brow and taps his chin. “That’s an excellent question, Paige. It’s the foaming variety, but I’ll make a note to add that revision to the training manual.”
Paige adjusts in her seat with a self-satisfied smile and… no freaking way. That was a distinct gotcha look that just blasted my way. Oh shit, she’s for real.
I straighten a bit and study her more closely. Her prim and proper business attire meant, like this manual, I lost interest the second my eyes grazed her stuck-up silhouette. But apparently, a direct challenge is enough to awaken the cynic in me, because suddenly I’m seeing way more than some expensive tailored business costume. Vibrant dark red hair twisted in tight curls frames pale skin without a single freckle or blemish. Well, except for a beauty mark on her left cheek that is not, and I repeat, not kind of sexy. (Fine, it is.)
Bright hazel eyes flash with confidence and indignation when they turn on me. Even her pen and leatherbound folder are pretentious and irritating. I snagged my writing utensil from the bulletin board in the lobby of our apartment building on my way out this morning.
She flips her curls over her shoulder and fires an eye-dart as if daring me to engage. I arch a brow in response, loving the way her pretty eyes narrow with disdain. She wants to play? Fine. At the very least, messing with Chad Smith will give me something to do that doesn’t involve memorizing bathroom protocols.
I raise my hand, smirking at Paige’s surprised flinch.
“Yes, Nash,” Chad says, pointing at me—I guess to distinguish from all the other Nashes in the room.
“While we’re on the subject, I don’t see anything in the notes about whether or not the toilets are high-efficiency and-or water-conserving models. I think it’s very important to be cognizant of our environmental impact, even in the most mundane of tasks.” Yes, that last sentence was entirely sculpted to make Paige Goody-Two-Shoes react with flabbergasted concern the way she is now.
That’s right, my friend. I’m bored, not an idiot.
Her eyes blaze as she shoots up her hand again.
“Yes, Paige,” Chad says, his voice now strained. I must have rattled him. Clearly, he’s concerned about whatever bombshell is coming next that will blow up page twenty-eight of his precious manual.
“While my colleague, here, makes an excellent point”—she says colleague like I’m the one who decided not to disclose the soap viscosity—“he always has the option of relieving himself at his home before and after his shift. I presume an environmentally conscious activist such as my counterpart has a high-efficiency-water-conserving toilet in his personal residence.”
“You want me to hold it for nine hours?” I ask, turning to her.
“Your bodily functions are none of my business,” she quips.
“I mean, you’re the one who brought it up, so it kinda makes me think you’re interested in my bodily functions.” I toss a flirtatious half-smile just to piss her off more.
She huffs and straightens in her chair, focusing back on Chad who looks like he’s lost a limb, not control of a conversation about toilets.
“People! Can we calm down? Please!” He waves his hands in frantic motions toward the floor in what I’m guessing is a “calm down” gesture if we’re supposed to do the opposite of what he’s doing. “Look, you both have raised some very important questions. How about we take five minutes while I investigate, and you…?” He makes the cryptic hand-flapping motion again.
I give him a confused look just for fun.
And we what, Chad? Sit on the ground? Worship the whiteboard? Fan ourselves?
I know I shouldn’t even as I do it. But… well…
Hand.
Up.
“Yes, Nash,” he sighs out in exasperation. I taste Paige’s ire when I swallow a smile.
“So, where exactly do we stand on the toilet situation for this break?”
His eyes grow into giant orbs just as steam wafts from the woman beside me.
Hell yeah. I am so down for this. I may have no interest in a pointless internship, but I’m extremely interested in messing with an Ivy League princess.
And Chad.
I’m leaning against the wall outside the conference room, enjoying some precious seconds of training-free solitude, when an older man with slicked-back hair and a slicker smile screeches to a halt in front of me. He turns abruptly, and I cringe at my second killer-clown grin of the morning. What’s with this place and weird smiles?
“Well, hello, my young friend! Reed Reedweather the third. Nice to meet you.” He shoves his hand in my direction, and I strai
Reedweather? As in Reedweather Media, the place where I’m currently employed? Guess this is the big boss.
I take his hand on instinct, wincing inwardly when his fingers clench around mine in an uncomfortably tight grip. With our hands clamped together, his eyes narrow and bore into me with disturbing intensity. I stare back, blinking through several rounds of whatever is happening right now. When he finally lets go, I flex my fingers and shove them back in my pockets.
“Hello, Mr. Reedweather. Nash,” I say.
“Just Reedweather.” There’s that smile again, this time with a hint of confusion.
“Okay?”
“No Nash.”
“Huh?”
We exchange another long, awkward look.
“My name isn’t Reedweather-Nash. Just Reedweather,” he explains.
I squint back. “Um.” Is there a re-start button for a conversation? I shake my head, clearing everything that just happened, and point to myself. “I’m Nash Ellis. That is my name.”
“Oh!” he laughs out, clapping my arm. “Right, right, my boy. Nash-el-is. You must be one of the new interns.” He looks damn proud of himself for putting that together. “I’m sorry I missed your introduction this morning, but you’re in good hands. Chad is one of our best and brightest.” Well, that’s alarming. “It wasn’t so long ago he was just a young pup like you.”
I tilt my head, having no idea what any of that means. I settle on: “Okay” with a tight smile. He seems to like that and claps his hands.
“You look like quite the interesting fellow, Nash-el-is.”
“Thank you?”
“Are those… what do they call them?” He tugs on his earlobe, and I resist the urge to say “ears.” This conversation is already confusing enough.
“Gauges,” I say instead.
“Ah, quite the rebel, aren’t you?” This comes with what I think is supposed to be a conspiratorial wink. Is that a rebel thing?
“And those too.” He points to my forearms, now exposed from rolling up my sleeves in that stifling conference room. I’m going to assume he’s referring to my tattoos and not a shirt.
“You a bike boy, Nash-el-is? I used to ride them all back in the day. Hot and heavy, if you know what I mean.” Another wink, which makes me fairly certain that I don’t know what he means. Also, what’s a bike boy?
“Um. No, actually. I’m not.” I don’t think? His eyes narrow again.
“But the…” He points to his forehead, and now I have no clue what the hell is going on.
“The… head?” I ask.
“Ah.” He crosses his arms and leans back. “Is that what they’re calling them now?”
“Yes?”
He purses his lips, studying my face with aggressive intrigue for a passing hallway chat. “You know, there was a time when establishments like this wouldn’t have permitted the…”—he waves his hand at my face—“and the…”—now at my arms. Can he not use nouns or something? “But here at Reedweather Media, we believe in what we call, Rapid Inclusivity. Have you covered Rapid Inclusivity yet in your training?”
Shit, more chapters to dread? I lie with a nod.
“Excellent! Yes, my boy. We open our hearts and arms to all types, even the unorthodox ones such as yourself. So welcome, Nash-el-is. You’re our first ever bike boy.” I can’t even argue since I still have no clue what that is. “And who knows, maybe one day I’ll get myself a head.”
He winks again and continues on his way with a smug gait.
I stare after him, scratching my own head. When my finger brushes my eyebrow piercing, I almost choke.
Please let me be there when he walks into a body-piercing shop and asks for a head.
Back in the conference room, my amusement fades. Chad must have decided our training wasn’t boring enough and has added a slide presentation to explain our first official project as interns. At least it doesn’t involve toilets.
As usual, MBA Princess over there is vigorously typing notes. She even types like she thinks we get points for our button-pushing ability. I pick up my pen and write the word Groundhog with several bold underlines on my notepad between us just to mess with her.
To my utter delight, she peeks over and startles in her chair. She stares at the word for at least ten seconds before studying her screen, then back to my notes. I add Rapid Inclusivity with a heart around it. Her eyes widen and narrow. I draw a stick-mouse wearing a top-hat, and she huffs in indignation when she realizes she’s being played. It’s everything I can do to keep my snort inside.
“Something funny?” Chad interrupts, his gaze lasering in on me. I lift my head from where it was resting on my fist.
“No, sir,” I say. “Just taking notes.” I hold up the pen in my hand, and Chad’s expression transforms from annoyed to suspicious.
“If that’s true, then perhaps you’d like to make the first suggestion?”
I clear my throat and straighten in my chair, sliding my attention to the screen to figure out what’s going on.
Wait.
I squint at it, suddenly mad at myself for missing whatever this is. Because, that, right there, is magic.
“A… mermaid?” I say, slanting my head. No. Not a mermaid. A peanut with a tail fin? Do peanuts swim? Damn, where’s that conversation re-start button?
“Not just a mermaid. We’re launching an entire Mer-Nut campaign,” Chad clips out, totally serious.
“I’m sorry. A what?” I rip off the top page of my notepad so I have more real-estate for whatever is about to go down.
“A Mer-Nut campaign,” he repeats with some measure of irritation. “You and Paige will be working together to develop a comprehensive plan for our proprietary Mer-Nut brand representing Sandeke Telecom’s Warp Speed Internet Service.”
He waves at the screen impatiently like that’s a sentence people say all the time. I stare back at it, but I still only see swimming peanuts. Hang on, is one of them wearing a monocle? Also, the king Mer-whatever doesn’t look like a peanut, but I can’t place that particular legume. Is it possible this underwater kingdom hosts a diverse array of tree nuts? I suppose that fits Mr. Reedweather’s Rapid Inclusivity narrative. I scan the crowd of Mer-things looking for any being that could be considered a “bike boy.”
“We need print, digital, and television ads, along with developing a line of Mer-Nut merchandise to create buzz. To our knowledge, this concept is completely original and has never been used before.” An aquatic nut community? Seems like a valid claim. “You will find all of this information, as well as a variety of resources to get you started in the second half of your binder.”
I flip to the tab helpfully labeled “Mer-Nuts.” Sure enough, smaller versions of the weirdness on the screen clutter the page in front of me. I turn the page to find what looks like a human wizard in a pointy rainbow hat staring back at me. Now I’m even more confused—and strangely delighted. The next page contains a detailed map of an underwater community, meaning Mer-Nuts have an entire civilization and socio-economic system. This might be the stupidest thing I’ve encountered in my twenty-four years, which makes me love it all the more. And I thought this job was going to be boring.
I glance over at my counterpart who doesn’t look nearly as pleased.
2—CLASHING
