Takes One to Know One

by Lissette Decos

Genres: Women's Fiction; Romantic Comedy

Synopsis

You Had Me at Hola meets Dirty Dancing in this enemies-to-lovers rom-com set in Puerto Rico's music industry.

Daniela is risk-averse, blazer-obsessed, and likes to be taken seriously. So when her record label job is on the line, she’s prepared to do anything to keep it. Except for working with the genre of music she hates most: reggaeton. It's supposed to inspire sensual hip-swinging dance moves and Dani’s hips do not swing—not like that anyway. Out of desperation, Dani lies and says she loves reggaeton. But not only does Dani get to keep her job, she gets a ticket to Puerto Rico . . . on a mission to clean up the scandalous image of international reggaeton singer Rene ‘El Rico’ Rodriguez.

Despite her best act, Dani’s dislike of his music and Rene's prickly disposition is palpable, resulting in them butting heads at every turn. Yet as the two spend more time together under the island’s sizzling sun, Dani realizes there’s more to Rene than his rough edges and good looks. The man that many only see as a sex icon actually cares about his music, community, and culture. Against her will, she slowly begins finding him harder to hate. And before she knows it, Rene is teaching Dani how to find the rhythm of the music and learn to let go. But will she ever be ready to acknowledge the heat growing between them and put her heart on the line?

Release date: April 1, 2025

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 336

Sample

THERE’S A BARE BUTT SHAKING IN MY FACE. CORRECTION. There’s a sparkly butt in a barely there thong shaking in my face. There’s a butt on the wall, a butt near the ground, and a butt bent over and balanced on one leg. Everywhere you look, there are strong, beautiful booties gyrating to the music.

A dozen or so backup dancers have decided to rehearse in the middle of the hallway in the basement of this arena. They are pure, uninhibited sexiness. And then there’s me. The girl in the oversized vintage eighties silk blazer. Standing tall, but stiff. Like a gymnast that’s just nailed her floor exercises.

I check my phone again, but the walls down here must be solid cement. I only have one bar and it’s more of a stubbed toe than a bar.

I want to bolt for the exit, but some greater force is making me stay put. Like in one of those dreams where you can’t move no matter how hard you try. A lunatic with a chainsaw is running toward you but there’s a magnet holding you in place. That’s how I feel at the moment. It isn’t the dancers. Though they’re definitely not helping. It’s because I can’t afford to lose my job and there’s a very nice man standing inches away, trying his best to get me inside this door so I can interview a singer I know nothing about. I don’t even know what René “El Rico” Rodriguez looks like. Is he the one with the bleached-out goatee? Or the one with the thin, twirly mustache?

Ángel, René’s manager, has the imposing physique of a bouncer. “We weren’t expecting anyone from the label tonight,” he shouts over the music.

“Yeah, sorry about that. It was a last-minute thing.”

He nods and checks his watch. “He should be ready. Give me a second.” He knocks twice on the door and steps inside.

The back of my neck feels clammy, so I pull my thick, wavy hair up into a tight bun with the hair tie on my wrist and check my phone again. Nothing. Not even the stubbed toe is lit up now.

A new, faster-paced song kicks on, startling me. I’ve hurled my phone across the hall, so I fumble around the backup dancers to retrieve it as they get into a new formation. In unison, the women drop slowly into a deep squat. I’m dumbfounded by them and the way they move their bodies. Technically, I should be more at ease. I’m half Cuban and half Puerto Rican. Cuba Rican. Or Puerto Cuban, depending on who you ask. But I grew up on salsa and merengue. This is reggaeton.

Salsa and merengue have rules. There are basic steps you can repeat for the stretch of a song and you’d be fine. Reggaeton, on the other hand, is lawless. Anything goes with this kind of sexy dance music that combines rap with Caribbean rhythms, and it’s way more sensual. There’s a lot of touching of one’s body, grinding, getting down low, rolling, bending, ass-shaking, and head-twirling. Reggaeton is salsa on ecstasy.

When I hear this kind of music, it has the opposite effect on me than what’s intended. My body receives the signal, and somewhere deep inside there’s a longing, but then I stiffen and take on a plank of wood quality. I don’t even feel comfortable standing here. I suddenly wish I had a sexier stance.

I really didn’t think this through. A few hours ago, I was desperate and about to lose my job.

“Dani, you may have already heard, but I wanted you to hear it from me.” My boss, Maureen, VP of Marketing and Publicity at Ocean Records, had called me into her office.

“Don’t you have a flight to catch, Mo?” I asked, wanting to avoid this conversation.

“I still have a few minutes.” She tapped the slim leather watch on her wrist without looking at it. “Grab a seat.”

I had heard the rumor all day. We had been bought out by some huge conglomerate, and in the merger, there would be downsizing. Here we were, end of day on a Friday, and I’m pretty sure I read somewhere most layoffs happen on a Friday. It seems unnecessarily cruel to ruin a person’s weekend like that. Mondays would be way better. Being sent home on a Monday would almost be a good thing, if you didn’t like your job. But I happen to love mine.

The aspect of the record label business I’m assigned to is all about looking forward. There are lots of calendars to manage. Production. Marketing. Launch. Awards. Each phase of the process, neatly divided into tabs on an Excel document.

“We’ve acquired a label out of Puerto Rico.” Maureen’s voice ended high-pitched with excitement. Late sixties, Mo wears a chic bob of thick ginger hair that’s always perfectly smoothed down behind her ears. “We’re expanding into reggaeton.”

I sat up in my seat, confused. So far, the rumor was way off.

“Unfortunately, that may come with some cutbacks here. But any expertise would be invaluable. Do you follow the reggaeton scene?” My stomach tightened.

So the rumor was at least partly true. There would be layoffs. I quickly read into what Maureen was saying. If I could attach myself to this new genre, my position as marketing coordinator was secure.

Maureen isn’t just my boss; she’s always been my guardian angel. She mentored me all through my college internship and, when it ended, created an entry-level position just to keep me on. I’ve learned so much from her in the past seven years. I admire her ability to connect with artists. She always has lunch with them when they’re in town and gets invited to their weddings.

Mo is in complete control and born for this job. She and her office always smell like an expensive candle, and her skin is flawless and matte. I’ve never seen her break a sweat. If she has any personal problems at all, they’re tucked neatly away somewhere in expensive canvas boxes.

As far as I could tell, Maureen’s one and only fault is always assuming that just because my parents are from the Caribbean, I have extensive knowledge and passion for all music ever to emerge south of Texas.

“Oh my God, yeah,” I blurted out. “I’m very familiar with reggaeton. Been following it for a long time.”

“Coming out of Puerto Rico?” She raised one of her eyebrows.

“Well, yes. Of course.” The look of relief in her eyes made me feel instantly guilty. “Where else would it be coming from? Am I right?” I was a devious snowball plummeting down a mountain. In my defense, I thought I’d have time to research. As music genres go, reggaeton hasn’t been around all that long. I could be an expert by Monday.

“But do you like it?” This time her face was more serious.

My cheeks froze in a half smile, hiding the preparation of another lie. The only time I listen to reggaeton is when it’s forced upon me. Like my little sister, Meri, playing it whenever I drive her anywhere. I could only define it in vague terms: Sort of like reggae, kind of like hip hop, always with the same incessant beat. The kind of music that makes you want to get an extra job so you can buy your sister a car.

“Do I like reggaeton? No, I don’t like reggaeton, I love it.” I leaned back in my chair and exhaled. “Reggaeton is my life. I just can’t get enough of it.” When Meri forces me to hear it, I zone out using different techniques. “I know everything there is to know about it.” Humming other songs is effective. “The Hills Are Alive” works well. “I love how each song is so different and you can really hear the nuances, you know, the, uh… the sounds.” Last summer Meri and I drove to the Keys, and after three hours, I could feel my brain slowly turning to mush. “But my favorite thing is, um, how this new wave of reggaeton artists are always pushing the limits of the genre, you know?” Because the same must be true for every artist in every genre, right?

Mo’s face lit up. “That is great to hear. Who’s your favorite up-and-comer?”

“My favorite? Oh wow. My favorite up-and-coming reggaeton artist…” I spoke slowly to gain some time and scanned the wall behind her. There was the picture of her with one of The Rolling Stones members and another one with Yo-Yo Ma. “There are so many…” I said pensively and looked out the window. “It almost feels wrong to pick just one. Like choosing a favorite child, you know?”

I tried to keep it together, but it felt hopeless. I was sinking into the plush chair. I tried to think up an elegant way to excuse myself and thank her for her mentorship all these years, but I couldn’t look her in the eyes. I stared off at the view of the green tops of banyan trees outside her window, and the delicate wisp of a single cloud on the bright blue sky… when a name popped out of my subconscious.

“El Rico.” At that answer, Maureen’s smile became almost too big for her small face.

“What a coincidence!”

“Yeah?”

“Well, this is just amazing. Isn’t his voice magical?”

“Magical. That’s exactly how I would describe it.”

“I knew this would be the right fit for you.” The lines around Mo’s eyes spread out like sunshine. “You’ll get a chance to step into a leadership role. It’ll be a small team, so it’s not going to be easy. You’ll have to wear a lot of hats.”

“Are you kidding me? I love hats!” Mo smiled at this. I knew nothing about the label we had acquired, but the only thing that mattered was I had secured my job. I was taking charge and Mo’s excitement was contagious. The room felt electric with possibilities.

I was so grateful my sister loved reggaeton. And thankful El Rico’s name had somehow lodged itself in my brain. Like all reggaetoneros, he must always say his name in his songs. Just in case we forget who we’re listening to.

This could mean better job security. Ocean had released successful albums in the world music scene, but hadn’t had any major luck in a long time. A reggaeton artist could go mainstream. Sure, for every Bad Bunny and Daddy Yankee, there were plenty of flops. The genre didn’t guarantee success. But if my sister had heard of this guy, he had more potential in the United States than the Bosnian ska band we had been promoting the last few months.

“Do you want to meet René?”

“Absolutely.” Who’s that? I wondered but I was on autopilot. I’d figure it all out later. I was about to thank Maureen for always believing in me, when she told me El Rico was making a guest appearance at a concert tonight and I should pop by for a quick introduction and to get a quote for the press release about his new album.

“What a coincidence that René ‘El Rico’ Rodriguez is your favorite, right?” She did her best attempt to roll her R’s, her compact frame shaking with excitement.

“Yes, absolutely.” The skin on my face froze, like the runner-up of a beauty pageant pretending for the cameras that everything’s fine. She offered to drive so I wouldn’t have to deal with parking.

While I considered feigning a stomach flu, Maureen told me she trusted me. That she was relieved it was me representing the label. How great it was for him to meet someone who really knew him and cared about his music. Mo hadn’t met René yet, but she’d had a few meetings with his manager.

“I hear he’s not much of a talker. Let him know you’re here to help every step of the way,” Mo encouraged me as she pulled up backstage.

“Of course,” I said, feeling dismal, and slowly opened the door to let myself out.

“He only just recently signed and is recording his first album in a few weeks. Let him know Ocean acquiring his label is a good thing. I don’t want him to think we’re out of touch,” she added.

“Oh, no. We wouldn’t want that.”

Right then, his manager met me at the door, so I’ve had absolutely no time to learn a single thing about the guy.

There’s a painful pulsing all along my forehead. I’d love to track down a cold towel, but at any moment the door will open and I’ll need to step inside. The one time I lie. The one time I don’t stick to the rules.

I wish I’d had time to request a cameraman, then James could be here with his supportive presence. As one of our regulars for press interviews or behind-the-scenes of music videos, he’s reliable and tech savvy. He would have made me feel better and I probably could have used his cell phone. Somehow his budget cell plan always mysteriously secures a signal whenever mine won’t.

I take a deep breath. If I could just formulate a few poignant questions, I’d feel more confident. One of the backup dancers flips onto her hands, creating a shaking halo of bootie for the dancer in front of her. The loud music ricochets off the bare walls and isn’t letting me concentrate. The lyrics in the song are about wanting to undress all the girls “in el club,” as well as all the girls “outside el club.”

I can’t think of a single question that isn’t insulting. What do you think about the blatant machismo often found in your genre? Are you all for it? How do you make the boring, repetitive beat found in every reggaeton song all your own? That’s gotta be a challenge.

I try to think back to when my sister introduced me to his music. The beats and the vocals sound faint and mumbly in my memory, like they’re being played underwater.

Whenever we drive anywhere, Meri and I take turns playing music for each other. I bring in classic punk or new alternative artists from our label. While Meri’s turns are almost always reggaeton.

I take a deep breath and decide I have no choice but to go with a less-is-more approach. Pop in, shake his hand, introduce myself, tell him how excited I am to get started and show the world what he’s all about. All I need to do is get him to say something fun and interesting about his new album.

The song ends and the dancers finally disperse. Now the sounds of the packed arena stomping their feet and cheering echo down the hallway.

The door opens and René’s manager steps out. “All right, we’re good. You’ve got five minutes.” I thank him and he waves goodbye, leaving me there.

Five minutes? Five minutes sounds like an eternity. Thirty seconds would be plenty.

I step inside the room and a security guard shuts the door behind me.

There’s a large clothing rack near the door preventing me from seeing too much at first. Chill rap music is playing. A relaxing beat with soft Arabic flutes. The whole room seems warm and soothing, and completely the opposite of the cold hallway. I step slowly around the rack and take in the dressing room. Dark wood-paneled walls, well-worn golden velvet sofa, black floors. One wall is a large mirror with old-fashioned stage lights around it.

A makeup artist is sprinting about, a barely clad stylist is sifting through a box of clothes, and a girl in a large floppy hat is lounging on the couch watching me. She’s the only one who seems to have noticed my arrival. I muster a half smile in her direction and then turn to face the mirror on the far side of the room. I feel instantly nauseous. My vision goes blurry in what I can only imagine is some sort of stress-induced blindness.

I’m in a house of mirrors.

There are three guys standing next to each other, dressed in the exact same monochromatic look. Thick, white turtleneck sweaters, white slacks, and white sneakers. The one on the right is looking in the mirror and getting his hair teased by a makeup artist, the one in the center is scrolling through his cell, while a stylist is helping the one on the left with the cuff of his pants.

My eyes dart from one to the other. One of these is the real René, but I have absolutely no idea which one.

I’M WITH THE LABEL. I SHOULD BE ABLE TO PICK RENÉ OUT OF a lineup. From the corner of my eye, I notice Floppy Hat Girl is watching me. Long legged and sprawled out on the velvet couch without a care in the world. Everyone else in the room is going about their business, letting me just stand here.

Seven years of being around musicians, a lot of whom were way more famous, and I’ve never felt like this before. Worried I’m going to throw up or hyperventilate.

I take a deep breath and focus on the René in the middle. He has a scruffy mustache attached to a thin, scruffy beard. I check the others for wigs or prosthetics, but all three guys seem to have similar bona fide facial hair. They’re not identical triplets, though. One is slightly shorter, one’s leaner, and the one in the middle has an amazing body and beautiful tan skin.

“This is awesome,” says the one on the right. He has an accent I can’t quite place, but it’s definitely not Puerto Rican, so I quickly rule him out.

I check out the one in the middle. He catches me checking out his reflection in the mirror and his dark, bedroom eyes perk up. A faint grin emerges on his lips. He seems sweet.

The one on the left steps away from the mirror, giving the stylist kneeling before him more room to work on his pants. His hand reaches out and pushes a strand of her hair away from her face. The move is slick and flirty. That’s gotta be him.

I step forward and reach out my hand. “Hi René, I’m Dani from—” His chin tilts up, revealing a confused look on his face. “Ocean Records,” I finish half-heartedly.

Floppy Hat laughs.

After a beat, I laugh nervously, too. “Oh, sorry, you got me. That’s a great trick.” I’m addressing the real René now. The one in the center, who’s turned around and side-eyeing me. “I guess that’ll be fun… to fool your fans.” I’m moving my arms around more than I’d like.

“Are you?” He sounds suspicious.

“Fooled? Yes!”

“No, a fan.”

My hands wave off the question. “Of course.”

He grins doubtfully, walks over to the girl on the couch, and plops down beside her. Floppy Hat hands him a pair of dark sunglasses. “¿Para esto me apuraron?” he grumbles to her as he puts them on.

This is why they were rushing me?

I could pretend I didn’t understand. That’s what I should do. But I need to fix this. Plus, if I don’t let him know I speak Spanish now, who knows what he’ll say next? Besides, he doesn’t have to be rude.

“Listen, I’m sorry,” I say boldly. “I… forgot my glasses,” I lie, defending myself. “I was in the hallway for so long and it was bright out there and so dark in here. My eyes were still adjusting.”

René spreads his arms wide across the top of the couch, clearly annoyed.

He leans over and lifts a dripping golden bottle out of an ice bucket near the couch.

“Champagne?” He’s offering but there’s something curt in his tone. I can’t believe how wrong I was about this guy. There’s nothing sweet about him.

“No, thank you.”

He dunks the bottle back in the bucket and it sloshes around in the melted ice for a moment before settling.

I collect myself. “So, are you—”

“So, are you…” he mimics, “nearsighted or far?”

At this, Floppy Hat sits up and squints her eyes at him.

“You know what, um, it’s kind of actually more like medium sighted. I can read just fine. And far away is also pretty good. It’s more like that, you know, five-to-seven-foot range that’s a problem,” I ramble, motioning at the distance between the mirror and me.

His eyes soften and his lips twitch as though fighting the urge to smile. At this, Floppy Hat folds a long leg over one of his. I could be wrong, but it feels like she’s claiming her territory. René leans forward and gently taps her, making her lift her leg back up and away from his.

She adjusts her whole body, crosses her legs the other way, and snaps her head in the direction of the stylists and the extra Renés. “All right, guys,” she yells, clapping a few times to get everyone’s attention. “Can everybody wrap up? We need to get going.”

Everyone shuffles out of the room, leaving me alone with René and his girlfriend? Personal assistant? Person who can throw her leg on him and order the team around.

“So, you must be excited to start working on your new album?” I say enthusiastically, trying to smooth things over. “Anything you can share about it for our press release?”

“You speak Spanish?” he asks, ignoring my questions.

“Yes. I’m half Cuban, half Puerto Rican.” And half hoping this gets me a few points.

He raises his chin and drops his gaze to my blazer. “Half Puerto Rican,” he repeats. “The good half.” His voice has dropped to a sexier octave.

“Well, I don’t know about tha—”

“I’m just kidding. You should loosen up.”

My jaw tightens. I have an aversion to being told to “loosen up.” I’ve heard it a lot. Like a lot a lot. Every single time I’ve tried to pick up a sport or a musical instrument. How can I “loosen up” my wrist and hit a ball at the same time? It doesn’t make any sense. It’s not like I haven’t tried. The problem is, I don’t know how loose is loose. I have two extreme settings: stiff or completely undone. Like when they shut off the inflatable tube guy at the car dealership. Neither of which can serve a tennis ball.

“Do you dream in Spanish?” His voice is low and casual. I don’t know if it’s the unexpected and somewhat intimate question or the way he’s delivered it, but he’s cut through all my wires and I’m suddenly calmer.

“That, um, actually, I think I might.”

“Yeah?” His face brightens with interest.

“My college roommate told me I talked in my sleep in Spanish.” He nods approvingly. “She went out and bought a Spanish dictionary because she wanted to make sure I wasn’t saying anything about her.”

René smiles wide. It’s a sweet, friendly smile. The kind you’d never expect from someone this good looking.

“What about you?” I’m trying to play it cool, but it feels like someone’s started a fire inside my blazer.

“That depends.” He pulls his sunglasses down. “Will my answer be on the record?”

At this, Floppy Hat adjusts in her seat impatiently. She grabs loose strands of her sandy blonde hair and brings them out in front as though someone’s about to take her picture. René is perfectly still but there’s a lot of movement on her end of the couch. If I weren’t busy trying to get a handle on my own situation, I’d feel bad about hers.

“I would hope so. I do need a quote for the press release. Do you ever get ideas for songs in your dreams?” I’m impressed with my determination to get the job done.

René pushes his sunglasses back in place and leans over to Floppy Hat. “Can I have my phone?”

At least I hope I’m getting the job done. And that I’m only just imagining the abrupt change in his demeanor. That just because he’s scrolling through his phone doesn’t mean he’s gone back to ignoring me.

“You said you’re a fan, right?” After a few quiet moments of scrolling, he stops and hovers a finger over his phone screen menacingly. “So, I’m wondering, are you a fan of my old songs or the new stuff?”

He taps the screen and a reggaeton song takes over the speakers. It’s nothing I recognize. Just the same repetitive beats. “Yeah, mmmm.” I pretend I’m tasting something delicious. Something I’ve had before and I’m so happy to be eating again. But I can’t even tell which of the two men singing is René, let alone where this particular song lies in his repertoire. The only thing I know is that I’ve begun to sweat. Like a lot. “Amazing. I love… this era.”

“How about this one?” A woman’s voice comes on, then, after a few stanzas, what I presume is René’s. Of course, his cell phone would get a signal down here.

Actually, I have heard this song before, but had no idea it was his. I bob my head along to the beat, trying so hard to remember the words. I’m actually moving my mouth, attempting to keep up with the lyrics.

René’s barely moved a muscle. If we were having a moment a few seconds ago, it dissipated the moment I brought up the press release. His stupid, gorgeous face is actually enjoying watching me squirm.

“What’s the name of this song again?” René hollers over the music.

My stomach flinches. This can’t be happening. I can’t believe I’m being quizzed about René “El Rico” Rodriguez for the second time in one day. Please, music gods, don’t let me lose my job over a reggaeton song.

Someone knocks hard on the door, saving me.

A woman walks in holding a red leather jacket. René lowers the volume and hands Floppy Hat the phone and his sunglasses. He gets up and takes the turtleneck off, revealing a strong chest, most of which is covered in tattoos. He also has a sleeve of ink that travels up one arm and wraps around his neck.

He slips on the jacket without a shirt underneath and checks himself out in the mirror. He’s got this whole brooding bad boy thing going. Will definitely help with sales, I think. And he has nice lips. Some would even call them luscious. But his roller coaster of a personality takes away from the overall appeal.

I glance around the room, pretending to be interested in the shade of the paint on the walls. When I look at him again, he’s watching me. I do my best to maintain eye contact, while ignoring the warm churning happening in my stomach. Between the sweat and the heat, it’s now officially a sauna inside my blazer.

Floppy Hat snaps a picture of him with her phone, then he steps away and poses for another. He clearly enjoys the fashion angle of the job and he’s got swag. I’ll give him that. He takes the cell and turns the camera toward her. She takes her hat off and extends her legs off the couch, striking a pose.

“How about recording the album at Ocean Records’ studio in Miami?” I ask, trying to get a handle on things. “That will be nice. We’re really close to the ocean.”

“Nothing like the beaches back home,” he says, handing the phone back.

“Believe me, I know,” I say with intense passion, then tap my hand anxiously against my thigh because I’ve never been to Puerto Rico.

He takes the jacket off and hands it to the stylist. He stands there, hands on his hips, looking at me like he’s actively trying to solve a puzzle. “What do you miss about our beaches back home?”

Maureen was wrong. She said he wasn’t much of a talker, but he sure asks a lot of questions. And he’s incredibly comfortable being shirtless in front of strangers.

I smile nervously. “Oh, you know…” His dark eyes get smaller and I feel he can see right through me. He knows I have absolutely no idea what I’m talking about. Fried cod on Flamenco Beach. The memory of the song my father used to sing all the time distracts me. I pause and decide I don’t want to lie. Not about this. “Actually, I’ve never been,” I say at last.

René eyes me silently for a moment, then steps away. He’s helped into the turtleneck and takes a seat back on the couch.

I need to change the subject. Keep calm and carry on. I’ve always appreciated that expression. Well, that and any motto that implies forward movement. “So, can you share anything with your fans and any potential new fans about the album?” I’m desperate.

“Nothing at the moment.”

“How about influences?” I spit out.

“Sure.”

“Any you care to mention?”

He looks away, considering this, then looks back to me. “No.”

Carry on. Even when there’s a large boulder in your way. One that wants to be difficult on purpose.

“How about—”

“What do you think I should say? Since you know me so well.”

I fight the urge to shuffle in place. “Okay. I think it can be simple. You’re clearly excited to get into the studio. You could mention what an amazing opportunity it is to work with Ocean.” I’m making it up as I go. “How you’re hoping our diverse, international roster will open doors to some unique collaborations,” I suggest, remembering that the two songs he played had other vocalists in them.

René grunts. After a long pause, he shakes his head and exhales deeply. He seems upset. I don’t understand what’s happening. A dark cloud has floated in above him.

“We should get going,” Floppy Hat says gently, trying to help.

I want to cheer him up too. Bring him out of whatever hole he’s crept into, but I have no idea what’s upset him. “Listen, everyone at Ocean is amazing. You’re in good hands, I promise.” René doesn’t budge. “The music always . . .