Work for it, p.26
Work for It, page 26
An hour later, Lizzie is asleep in bed, and Isaac is seated by her side, their hands intertwined. I’m holding baby Benjamin, watching the way his lips move over his toothless gums. He’s like an old man. An old man I could balance in the palm of my hand.
“I remember,” I say absently, “when Elizabeth was born. She looked just like this. But I wasn’t allowed to hold her or get too close.” I dip my head to the baby’s hair and breathe deep. “I bet she smelled like this, too.” Lovely. Perfect. Tiny. Is it possible to smell tiny? Clearly, the answer is yes.
“You like babies,” Griff says, sounding very pleased with me indeed.
“I do believe I’ve mentioned that before, one way or another.” My eyes don’t leave Benjamin.
“You have. But it’s one thing to hear it. This is…”
“What? This is what?”
He kisses my cheek. “Something else.” The words are soft, like a touch. I smile. Then he says, “Want one?”
Which snatches my attention completely from my nephew.
“Want—? A—?” My mouth works as my mind reaches for a yes, hesitates, then flinches away. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea.” And I mean it—I simply don’t know. But I want it to be.
Griff must see that because his gaze holds mine steadily, quietly understanding. “Will you let me convince you?”
I take a breath. “Perhaps.” The shock fades, and hope glitters. I flash him a smile and add, “If you can.”
He huffs out a laugh, because there’s one thing we both know: Griffin Everett could convince me of anything. But all he says is, “I’ll do my best.”
After a pause, I decide, “So will I. To be brave, I mean.”
“Together.”
“Together.” I lean into Griff’s shoulder and kiss my nephew’s head.
The End
I can’t thank you enough for reading Work for It. I hope you enjoyed Olu and Griff’s story!
Word of mouth is an author’s best friend, so it would mean the world to me if you could share your thoughts about this book in a review.
And if you want more emotional enemies-to-lovers romance, try Elizabeth and Isaac’s story, Undone by the Ex-Con.
“Lizzie and Isaac’s relationship reminded me of Pride and Prejudice… two people who are so magnetic to each other but cannot stand one another.”
- Phoenix Rising Book Blog
Keep reading for a sneak peek…
“This isn’t legal.”
Lizzie was sitting in the window seat of her Parisian apartment, feeling as frigid and fragile as the glass behind her. But she couldn't allow anyone to see that. She'd rather die first. And so, she kept her voice steady and her gaze uncompromising as she launched one final, desperate attack.
“I could sue,” she continued. Even though the words felt like ash in her mouth, she forced herself to say, “My parents are very powerful.”
Powerfully vile.
“Lizzie,” Ellen said. “Please.” There was desperation in her voice. She was afraid, then. How satisfying.
But Lizzie's old friend and roommate was not the most important person in the room. That honour went to Mariella Rossi, the company's ballet mistress. The woman who quietly choreographed every step of the inner workings at Paris House, no matter what her job description might say.
The woman who was ruining everything.
She stood before Lizzie, her feet tucked into fifth position, her face grim and unyielding. “Elisabetta,” she sighed, and even her frustration was graceful. “Please do not become hysterical.”
Hysterical. That was an interesting word. Lizzie should be hysterical. She should be horrified, devastated, holding back tears.
Instead, she felt only a detached sort of outrage. And shame, of course. Always shame.
You’ve failed. Even in this, you have failed.
“We are not sacking you,” Mariella was saying. Her voice sounded like an echo, like the distant racket of a train through a dark tunnel. “It has simply been suggested that you take a break—”
“A break?” Lizzie interrupted, her voice sharp. Somewhere in the corner of her mind, she heard her mother’s severe tones: Elizabeth. You are losing control.
Didn’t matter. All of a sudden, Lizzie was quite sick of control. Simply look where it had gotten her in the end.
Nowhere.
“A break,” she said again, huffing out a bitter little laugh. “Every dancer knows what that means.” She shot to her feet, anger burning through the fog of detachment. “I’ve gained… what, three inches at the waist? Four at most.” Five. But who gave a fuck? “I am still the best dancer here, and you know it. There will be no break, Mariella.”
“Ah, Betta,” the ballet mistress murmured. The low words might as well have been a whip crack, so attuned was Lizzie to this woman’s voice. “You misunderstand,” she said, her lyrical accent stretching out each word. “Some things are more important than the way you look.”
Lizzie couldn’t hold back her laughter at that outright lie. “We all know that’s not true, Mariella. No need to be delicate about it. If you want me to lose weight, say so.” Lizzie’s mind ran through calculations that had become painfully familiar in the past few months. She considered carbohydrates, calories, practice sessions… “I’ll need time,” she finished. “That’s all.”
But Mariella was shaking her head. “Time will not heal your sickness,” she said gently. It was the gentleness that hurt the most.
Lizzie sucked in a breath, ignoring her mother’s voice—school your emotions, child—as the implication of those words sank in. She turned accusing eyes toward Ellen, who was blushing fiercely.
“You told?” Lizzie demanded.
Despite her red cheeks, Ellen refused to back down. “I had to,” she insisted. “I'm sorry. You aren't looking after yourself.”
Hearing those quiet, hopeless words was like taking a fall mid-pirouette. Like a blow that snatched the air from Lizzie’s lungs, and the fight from her soul. "I'm trying," she whispered, her voice cracking. Breaking. Crumbling like everything around her. "You don't understand—”
"It's difficult," Mariella said, her voice soothing. She approached Lizzie slowly, as one approaches a wounded animal. "Diabetes is a serious condition. You must think of your health first, Elisabetta.” She rested a cool hand on Lizzie's shoulder. “Your body is different now. You must relearn your limits."
Her words, her touch, should have been calming. Instead, they acted as another reminder that Lizzie had failed.
She had failed to maintain physical perfection. And now, even worse, she had failed to adapt; failed to overcome. Everything Mother had taught her, everything they’d prepared for over the years… it was all coming to an end. Because Lizzie’s body couldn’t care for itself alone, and she hadn’t worked hard or fast enough to make up the difference.
Shit. Shit, shit, shit.
Tears pooled in her eyes, and for a moment, Lizzie felt the urge to accept Mariella's comfort. To turn and seek out an embrace, to cry in the woman's arms like a common fool.
The impulse passed as quickly as it had come. In its place, Lizzie saw her mother's lipsticked mouth forming the familiar words: Perform, Elizabeth.
Well. It was too late for a true performance: she had been found out. Her so-called-friend had betrayed her, and Mariella had pity in her eyes, and everything was falling apart.
But at the very least, Lizzie might maintain her dignity.
“I have discussed it with the director,” Mariella was saying. “And we both agreed that you should take some time off.”
The words echoed like a death sentence. Like the last cry of hope as it fell screaming from a cliff.
Her career was over.
So why did she feel… relieved?
Lizzie pulled herself together, cradling her battered pride to her breast like a crying babe. She thought of her mother’s frigid, blue gaze, of her father’s dismissive arrogance. And she channelled them both, wielding her heritage like twin blades, her only weapons against the threat of humiliation.
“No time off,” she said coldly. “I don’t need it. I’m leaving.”
“Betta,” Mariella murmured, her lyrical accent pampering the word. “That is not necessary.”
“I’ve had an offer,” Lizzie lied. “Back home, in England. I intend to go soon.”
There was a pause. Mariella pursed her lips, raising her hand from Lizzie's shoulder. “I see,” she murmured, the way one panders to a screaming child before laying them down for a nap. “Well... we wish you luck, of course.”
“Thank you,” Lizzie said. Chin high. When the sun rises, you become a swan.
And none of this will matter.
Mariella turned with her usual grace, gliding out of the room as thought the bare floorboards were a stage. But Ellen, the traitor, hovered awkwardly behind, her face a pale moon beneath the flames of her tumbling, red hair.
Lizzie cast a venomous glare at her former friend. “I require privacy,” she said acidly.
“Liz,” Ellen whispered. “I really am sorry. But I’m worried about you—”
“You are worried about the fact that my star rises with each day while you remain in the corps with no hope of ever becoming a soloist,” Lizzie snapped. Some distant part of herself knew that she was lashing out unfairly, but she couldn't help it. She had trusted Ellen. She had ignored her mother's training and confided in someone outside of their family—and look at the result.
Lizzie had been a fool. But it wouldn't happen again.
Ellen’s face fell, and regret prodded at Lizzie's heart. She opened her mouth, ready to take back the cruel accusation—but no; that wouldn’t do. Instead, she visualised Mother’s face over her own in the mirror, forcing Lizzie’s springy curls into a bun. With each painful, imagined twist, Lizzie's grip on her self-control tightened.
There. The regret still prodded, but she could hardly feel it now.
“Leave,” she said icily.
And, with a sigh, Ellen obeyed.
As soon as the door closed, Lizzie rushed over to the bedside table, pulling her phone from its charger. She sat down on the bed, her knees unsteady. She would allow herself one moment of weakness. Just a second. Just for now.
Her hands shaking, Lizzie dialled a number that she’d called less and less these past few months, praying that he would answer.
With each ring came a new worry. He won't pick up. He's busy. You shouldn't be calling, anyway. Are you a child again, running to him whenever disaster strikes? The phone rang and rang, and she almost gave up. But then, finally, she heard his familiar voice.
“Keynes,” he answered, because that was what everyone called him. Everyone but her.
“Olu,” she said, taking care to keep her voice steady. They hadn't spoken in so long, and yet there was no need for preamble and politeness with him. “I need a favour.”
He saw through her facade immediately, of course. Probably because he knew how to command such deception himself; after all, they’d learned falsehood and performance together
Only he'd never needed to use them. He was braver than her.
“Lizzie?” She could hear the frown in his voice. “Is everything okay?”
“It’s fine. I’m fine. I just... I need you to do something for me. That’s all.” She patted her head absently, her fingers gliding across the smooth waves of her scraped-back hair. Everything was still in place. She was in control now. She could do this.
“Well... Alright,” came his doubtful reply. “If you’re sure.” And then, perking up at the prospecting of helping—how Olu loved to help—he added, “Anything for my baby sister.”
“Thank you,” she whispered. And then she cleared her throat and began spinning stories.
She'd always been an expert at that.
One-click Undone by the Ex-Con!
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Love and biscuits,
Talia xx
Author’s Note
My first full-length (-ish) novel was Bad for the Boss, in which Olu’s best friend Theo wooed his now-wife Jen with the contract Olu describes in this book. It was exactly as messy and sexy and romantic as it sounds. It was also a learning curve and a turning point for me. If it weren’t for that book, I might not have the career I have today—and if it weren’t for that book, I wouldn’t have written Work for It, which might be my favourite project ever.
Olu sprang into my head fully-formed from the moment Theo first calls him in Bad for the Boss. And now here I am, almost two years later, finally telling his story in this spin-off. It’s been a while, but that’s okay because this book needed time to brew. It also needed a level of experience I didn’t have back then. Even now, I doubt I’ve done Olu and Griff complete justice, but I’ve definitely done my best. I hope you agree.
If you are struggling with depression, anxiety, or any persistent moods, thoughts and behaviours that affect your life negatively, please know that you are precious simply by virtue of existing—you don’t have to do anything else to matter—and that you should look after yourself by seeing a medical professional. There is no shame or stigma in taking care of your mental health; it’s arguably the most important aspect of health there is.
If you are looked down on, diminished, bullied or mistreated, never feel silly or childish for being hurt by it. Never feel as if rejecting or avoiding that treatment is an overreaction. You deserve kindness and respect at an absolute minimum.
If you are struggling with coming out, please know this: how you choose to express yourself in a world that doesn’t deserve you is no-one’s business but your own. You have no-one to answer to. Your identity belongs to you alone, and anyone who tries to take that from you is both monstrous and doomed to fail.
All my love,
Talia
About the Author
Talia Hibbert is an award-winning, Black British author who lives in a bedroom full of books. Supposedly, there is a world beyond that room, but she has yet to drum up enough interest to investigate.
She writes sexy, diverse romance because she believes that people of marginalised identities need honest and positive representation. She also rambles intermittently about the romance genre online. Her interests include makeup, junk food, and unnecessary sarcasm.
Talia loves hearing from readers. Follow her social media to connect, or email her directly at hello@taliahibbert.com.
Also by Talia Hibbert
The Brown Sisters
Get a Life, Chloe Brown
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The Ravenswood Series
A Girl Like Her
Damaged Goods
Untouchable
That Kind of Guy
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The Dirty British Romance Duet
The Princess Trap
Wanna Bet?
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The Just for Him Series
Bad for the Boss
Undone by the Ex-Con
Sweet on the Greek
The Complete Series: A Boxed Set
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Standalones
Operation Atonement
Merry Inkmas
Talia Hibbert, Work for It
