Say it again, p.1
Say It Again, page 1
Table of Contents
Blurb
Dedication
Author’s Note
Acknowledgments
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Epilogue
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About the Author
By Tessa Hatfield
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Copyright
Say It Again
By Tessa Hatfield
Daniel Greene’s life is dance. What it is not? Really anything outside of that. He certainly doesn’t know how to hobnob with rich people or play bartender for their rich private parties, so when his best friend guilts him into doing exactly that, it ought to end in disaster. Instead, it ends with him pressed against a bathroom wall while a hot lawyer kisses his grand jeté-ing brains out.
Aaron Silva is the swooniest. He’s gorgeous, he drips in romance, and the sex is transcendent. So what if he would rather be Daniel’s dream man than talk about work? Being an attorney must be tiring. All those late nights. All those needy clients.
It’s not until Daniel enlists Aaron’s help with some legalese that he stumbles into a bit of a quagmire:
Aaron isn’t a lawyer as Daniel originally assumed. He’s a high-end escort.
Suddenly the clouds Daniel was dancing on get awfully stormy. He can’t compete with other men—richer men—and why should he have to? This changes everything. Well, everything except the way they feel about each other. Can he and Aaron find their way to a happy-ever-after that’s not just another happy ending?
For my lava rock.
Author’s Note
When a dear friend asked me to stand by her side as she filed a restraining order against a man, I said yes. I awoke early, I walked through metal detectors, I helped carry a ream of papers into a packed courtroom where we were told to take a seat and get comfortable, as we were the last people to testify. I expected us to win that day, and we did. What I didn’t expect was for this book to be born.
To the two men who stood with your chins lifted to tell a courtroom of strangers your painfully relatable story, I may never know your names, but I want you to know I laughed with you that day. When your story turned intense and difficult to tell, I held my breath with you. And when you shared the deepest parts of yourself, holding nothing back while a roomful of people speculated, I want you to know I cried with you that day too. This may not be your story—your story is yours and yours alone—but you are the essence. Someone was bound to come along and capture your beauty, your spirit, and your heart, so I went home that day and started writing.
I’ve always found myself drawn to fiction grounded in imperfect human experience. The stuff that gives us a reason to laugh. To cry. To stay up late holding our breath, hoping for a happily-ever-after.
Acknowledgments
When I told my husband, Chad Hatfield, that I wanted to write this book, he didn’t say, “You don’t know how to write a book,” or “But who would want to read that?” What he did say in that honest, salt-of-the-earth way of his, was “Do it.”
You let me dive all in, running on negative sleep, doughnut fumes, and borrowed time from sweetly napping redheaded babies. What a tremendous pillar of faith you are. There’s no one else with whom I’d rather weather this journey. Or that journey. Or even that one where we eventually take a vacation again. I lava lava you now and always.
To my agent, Madison Scalera: Girl, what a constant delight you are to work with. There’s not a single interaction with you that hasn’t left me feeling wildly uplifted, beautifully supported, and confident that Daniel, Aaron, and all future characters are in the most capable hands possible. From the bottom of my little Midwestern heart, I thank you warmly for taking a chance on me.
Speaking of beautifully supporting debut authors, to my brilliant editor, Brenda Chin, you are precisely that: brilliant. It’s more than talent that you possess. It’s vision, and you’re so good at what you do that you make me look good too. I’ll continue to osmosis your genius as long as you have me.
Ebony Granger. Where do I start? Would this book be what it is without you? No. Would it have even been written? It’s difficult to say, as I can’t imagine a world in which I’m not writing and you’re not right by my side, telling me to keep writing. I adore you. Thank you for being the world’s most comforting friend and possibly the greatest believer this story had. (P.S. I’m sorry Aaron’s hair isn’t longer.)
Similarly, Nicki LaFoille & Sue Tejada, my lovely critique partners in crime, take yourselves to the bank as you are literal gold, and profoundly invaluable.
I would like to extend an extra special thank-you to the incredible team at Dreamspinner. To my Editor in Chief, Ginnifer Eastwick, you have a way with not only words but, as it seems, a way with just about anything you touch. L.C. Chase, you have a way of taking a humdrum suggestion and making it dazzle. To anyone else who worked their tails off on this manuscript, thank you, thank you, thank you. And I’m sorry about the commas.
Chapter One
THE DANCE floor at the St. Louis School of Dance didn’t care if Daniel Greene didn’t have his life together. It didn’t pass judgment if he showed up late to teach class, dressed in another guy’s clothes from the night before, smelling of self-loathing and just a hint of wine slushy. Very Eau de Walk of Shame.
These old hardwoods beneath his feet didn’t care, because they were his home. No, they were homier than home. They were the homiest. And not even because his actual home was also littered with dust and hair, with the occasional fascinated onlooker peering in through the front window. (Well, but in all fairness, Marvin wasn’t an onlooker so much as he was the landlord, and a generally clingy man. It was the whole Where’s the rent? business. Like, every. Single. Month.)
Twenty long years he’d been dancing, which meant twenty long years he’d been in love. Now, at twenty-five, it was the only thing that kept his quivering Jell-O mold of a nervous system quelled, and it worked just like a miracle tonic for all life’s pesky lemons.
Except for when it didn’t. Like right now.
Olivia, his best friend, fellow dance instructor, and the peskiest lemon of all, whined as she mooched all up in his space. She mooched so hard that he couldn’t crest a delicate arm up to the ceiling all gracefully or properly pirouette without whacking her. “Daniel, you can’t say no. You can’t.”
“I can’t? Let me try.” The hardwoods creaked as he corkscrewed in a spin to the floor, where he sat with his toes pointed and torso folded in half, snug against his thighs. He smiled, eyes serenely closed. “No.”
“You’re not thinking about the consequences.” Olivia plopped to the floor beside him. “If you don’t help me tonight, I’ll be forced to tell the rich people they won’t have a bartender for their rich party. Do you want that on your conscience? A bunch of sober rich people? They’ll bore each other to death talking about cryptocurrency.”
Olivia’s side “business” of bartending and serving private parties was the definition of amateur. Other than harassing the dance studio’s instructors, she hadn’t gone to any lengths to hire employees for her LLC, After the Pumpkin. An homage to Cinderella, it was supposed to mean something like “after midnight.” But all it did was spawn a lot of confusion that ended with Daniel cornered and answering questions like After what pumpkin? And What happens after it?
It was too late to change it now. The promotional stress balls had been ordered. Why had she designed them to resemble a clock set to a random two thirty instead of, say, pumpkins? Because Olivia was a mess.
“Do you remember what happened last time I helped you?” he asked with a stern eyebrow raised. “What happened to my dignity?”
“Oh my God, you have to let that go. It was an honest mistake!”
“My life has never been the same.”
“People confuse other people with their Louisianan aunt from the back all the time. You have to admit you have a delicate frame, and you were wearing a sun hat. Plus, that guy was really high.”
“My life,” he said, toying with his necklace as he gazed into the distance, “has never been the same.”
“Look at me, Daniel.” She leaned forward. “See me.”
He couldn’t help but smirk as he scanned her face. The havoc of it all—the outline of yesterday’s winged eyeliner; a gemstone nose ring that had lost the gemstone; black, chin-length hair that looked as if it’d been chopped with those tiny construction paper scissors (because it had been). She was indisputably lovable.
“I know you could use the money,” she said, gently tapping his chest. “Because you have none.”
His smile died. Her lovableness was suddenly up for dispute.
“You’r
He groaned as he scrubbed a hand over his face. It wasn’t like he could deny how broke he was. Or how cute.
He hailed from humble-ish beginnings, far from able to use “summer” as a verb. It turned out his dad was right, and he couldn’t make any money as a dance instructor, but he was willing to admit he cared about making money like he was willing to “summer” on the surface of the sun. “We are really broke.”
“Really broke.”
“And so cute.”
“So fucking cute.”
“You don’t have anyone else?” He bounced a little. “I thought you finally hired someone. Audrey Something-or-Another?”
“Audrey? You want me to bring that aggressive ostrich to a party? Indoors?”
“Why’d you hire her if she’s that bad?”
“I didn’t know she’d be shattering a plate every four minutes. You know who’s never dropped a plate both times he’s helped me?” She smiled, all lopsided, as she pointed a finger. “This guy.”
Well, had he known that was all it took….
“But that’s not all. There’s so much that makes you special, Daniel. Starting with your perfect skin.”
He rolled his eyes so hard he could swear colors looked different. “You can’t just compliment my skin every time you want me to do something—”
“Not only is it sheeny, but it’s like it’s aglow from within. Must be your smoldering lust for life.”
Not that he was falling for it—how silly—but he did risk a glance in the mirror, and okay, perhaps, yes. He did look a bit more bedewed than usual.
“Wow.” She glided her fingertips down his cheek. “An English meadow on a spring morning. What a waste for you to be holed up inside your house tonight, in the bored arms of your disinterested boyfriend—”
“He’s not that bad.”
“—when you could be out. Spreading your radiance. Your incandescence.”
He scrunched his face at the thought of being holed up in his house. Not that his boyfriend was disinterested. He just wasn’t, well, interested. He was more of a safety net than a boyfriend, anyway. Good old safety net Nate. A Safety Nate.
Awkwardly, they’d been sleeping together long enough that it sort of enfranchised into its own relationship. Nate, who didn’t really like to go out on dates. Nate, who didn’t really see Daniel’s potential, but in Safety Nate’s defense, it was difficult to hear another person’s hopes and dreams over the harrowing screams of one’s video game victims.
Was now the time to revel in the joys of dating Safety Nate? Not when he had a favor to try to avoid doing. “But I wouldn’t have time to go home and change.”
“What’s wrong with what you’re wearing?”
“This? I can’t wear this. Look at me, Olivia.” He spread his arms and peered down at his outfit, which was a lot of slinky black atop slinkier black. “I am the personification of liquid eyeliner.”
She studied his clothing, tipping her head side to side. “Yeah, shoot.”
He widened his eyes. “Well, you’re clearly not supposed to agree with me! God, you think I look like the personification of liquid fucking eyeliner?”
“Oh, um.” She sputtered to recover, shoving a lock of hair behind her ear. “Well, not in a bad way! Hey, it’s better than what you wore yesterday? Nude-colored anything just doesn’t flatter your complexion.”
It’d be impossible for his eyes to get any wider. “So now you think I’m too pale for the pursuit of happiness?”
“What? I do not think—! Okay. You have to come tonight, so I’m willing to beg.” She threaded her fingers beneath her chin and squeezed them in a tight prayer. “Please, Daniel? Please, best friend of mine? This is me begging.”
He grumbled as he splatted onto his back like a pale, broke starfish.
“Pretty please?” Her voice had gotten obscenely high, just like her smile had gotten obscenely hopeful.
He huffed out a sigh. “Dammit.”
Chapter Two
DAMMIT. LATER that evening, Daniel followed Olivia up the walkway of an excessive home in the posh but downright arrogant Central West End of St. Louis.
“Well, hello.” A shirtless guy with dark statement eyebrows and lavender hair spilled his martini as he answered the door. He shrugged a beach towel over his shoulders and frowned. “Yikes. You guys know it’s a pool party, right? You’re a little formal.”
“We’re with After the Pumpkin,” Olivia proudly announced. “Eric hired us.”
“The what?” The guy cocked his head. “What pumpkin? What happens after it?”
Olivia’s eye twitched, but she continued, “Yeah, is Eric here?”
“He’s floating around somewhere….” The guy trailed off as his gaze snagged on Daniel’s lips. Then torso. Then crotch. “Ooh, he’s gonna love you.”
Daniel sucked his lower lip, darting his eyes to the side. “Okay?”
“Eric!” the guy squawked. “Your staff is here.”
After a loud whump from inside, a drunken cruise ship captain, or presumably Eric, circled the corner and tossed an arm around the other guy. “My whaaa—? Ahh!” His laughter jiggled his body. “I forgot I hired you guys.”
“I’m sorry we’re a little late,” Olivia said. “Hopefully, you still need us?”
“Well, yeah. It’s still a party, baby,” Eric said with a wink, a shimmy, and a bawdy Mae West inflection that stopped existing after the 1920s. “The more the merrier. Go find the caterers. They’ll tell you what they need.”
Daniel started to follow Olivia into the kitchen, but Eric snagged him by the elbow and asked under his breath, “Hey, what’s your deal?”
He studied the man’s tan-in-a-bottle face. “My deal?”
“Yeah, name your price.”
Daniel opened his mouth and closed it again as his eyes narrowed to a squint. Had they accidentally wandered onto a spy movie set? “Come again?”
“Your price, boy.” Eric worked his hands in agitation like Daniel’s answer should’ve progressed by now. “What is it? How much to take your shirt off and go stand over there with the others?”
He scanned the living room for the shirtless others to no avail. “I’m sorry, but the other what?”
“Eric!” someone yelled.
“Coming, my sweet.” Eric whirled toward the stairs and pointed a finger back at him. “Think about it. Come find me later. I’ll be in the sauna. Not the steam—the infrared.”
That storm of confusion fizzled just as quickly as it brewed when Olivia grabbed his hand and yanked him to her side. She giggled and pointed to a recessed living room off the kitchen. “Look.”
Above the fireplace hung a portrait of Eric and Lavender Hair Boy. Naked. Fearless. Surrounded by puggles.
A grin twitched his lips. “The dream, though.”
She sighed wistfully and rested her head on his shoulder. “The dream.”
The party consisted mostly of older men, all puff-bellied, white-bearded, and oily-skinned. They slipped in and out of the pool like seals, only bobbing up to cackle or take a sip of something spritzy from a cocktail glass.
Daniel strolled around, filling waters, gathering empty champagne flutes, doing his best to avoid eye contact so no one would ask him questions he didn’t have the answers to. Questions like Where’s the bathroom? or Do those meatballs contain pork? or What are you doing? Do you know what you’re doing, Daniel?
He did not know what he was doing, as all he’d ever done was dance, then study about dance, then dance some more, but at least he didn’t shatter any of the plates that a mother-daughter team of caterers kept stocked with canapés or toothpick-speared meatballs no one ate. (Because they contained pork? Because they didn’t?)
“Daniel,” Olivia hissed from where she stood behind the bar outside, surrounded by blinking sugar-skull string lights. Her eyes were all wide and insisting as she beckoned him over.
“Yes, ma’am, how can I help you?” He brushed off his apron and checked his pants for grime. “You want a mysterious meatball? Maybe pork? Maybe not? Hey, this party is weird, by the way. Everyone’s either twenty or literally mummified—there is no in-between—and I just saw an adult man doing a whip-it. Like, when does the Grateful Dead start playing?”
