PRAISE FOR

  Delia Suits Up

  “In Delia Suits Up, her Wall Street meets Freaky Friday experience forces Delia to rethink everything that she values in life and puts a whole new spin on girl power.”

  —kc dyer, author of Eighty Days to Elsewhere

  “A delightfully fun yet thought-provoking page-turner. Ms. Aksel delivers a smart, sexy tale of a woman determined to smash the glass ceiling who discovers that sometimes the most courageous thing you can be is yourself.”

  —Melanie Summers, bestselling author of The Royal Treatment

  “[A] clever and funny first-person ‘I woke up like this!’ novel. . . . Delia’s experiences as a man in the workplace are thought-provoking.”

  —Library Journal

  “Delia Suits Up is a hilarious, laugh-out-loud, thoroughly entertaining story from the first page to the last.”

  —New York Times bestselling author Helena Hunting

  “See life through a different lens in this thought-provoking, creatively told skewering of societal norms—perfect for fans of Freaky Friday and She’s the Man.”

  —Julie Valerie, bestselling author of Holly Banks Full of Angst

  “Delia Suits Up is warm, witty, and absolutely wonderful. A winner.”

  —Meredith Schorr, author of As Seen on TV

  “A funny take on gender roles and how society sees them, this is a humorous look at the world of finance and women in business, especially in male-dominated fields.”

  —Parkersburg News and Sentinel

  “A quick, easy summer escape.”

  —Booklist

  Titles by Amanda Aksel

  Delia Suits Up

  No Funny Business

  A JOVE BOOK

  Published by Berkley

  An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

  penguinrandomhouse.com

  Copyright © 2022 by Amanda Aksel

  Readers Guide copyright © 2022 by Amanda Aksel

  Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.

  A JOVE BOOK, BERKLEY, and the BERKLEY & B colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Names: Aksel, Amanda, author.

  Title: No funny business / Amanda Aksel.

  Description: First edition. | New York: Jove, 2022.

  Identifiers: LCCN 2021059712 (print) | LCCN 2021059713 (ebook) | ISBN 9780593201633 (trade paperback) | ISBN 9780593201640 (ebook)

  Subjects: LCGFT: Romance fiction. | Novels.

  Classification: LCC PS3601.K74 N6 2022 (print) | LCC PS3601.K74 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6—dc23/eng/20220121

  LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021059712

  LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021059713

  First Edition: July 2022

  Cover illustration and design by Jess Cruickshank

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  pid_prh_6.0_140384926_c0_r0

  Contents

  Cover

  Praise for Delia Suits Up

  Titles by Amanda Aksel

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  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

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Chapter Forty-Six

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  Readers Guide

  About the Author

  For my dad, who loved comedy, especially on vinyl . . .

  And for his beloved Jeep

  One

  Isn’t life funny? Both ha-ha and strange. Lately I’ve been wondering exactly how I ended up with my tush glued to an ergonomic chair beneath migraine-instigating fluorescent lights, reviewing commercial real estate contracts and pretending I give a hoot. My glazed-over gaze falls on the tray of business cards behind my keyboard. If only they read my stage name, Olivia Vincent, with the title Stand-Up Comedian replacing my current one—Staff Attorney.

  Because the thing is, there’s nothing funny about drafting legally binding contracts. Sometimes I’m tempted to slip a joke in between the lines indebtedness secured hereby and successors thereto just to liven the damn thing up. It’s all so serious. Stuffy. The enemies of humor.

  Bzzz. Bzzz.

  My phone vibrates on my desk against my heavily used coffee mug. It’s Bernie, my booking agent, and at the moment, a very welcome disruption. “Hi, Bernie,” I say, rebalancing my eyeglasses and distancing myself from my dreaded duties.

  “Olivia, I got somethin’ for ya,” she spits out in her raspy Queens accent. Just the thing I need to escape my corporate punishment.

  “Oh my god, Bernie. Your timing could not be better.”

  “How would you like a feature spot at Funnies?” Twenty minutes of stage time at my favorite downtown comedy club? Yes, please!

  “That’s a no-brainer. When is it?” I snatch my trusty yellow legal pad and jot down the words Funnies and feature in the margins next to the newly scribbled jokes I’m planning to workshop at an open mic tomorrow.

  “In an hour but you’d need to be there at least fifteen minutes early. I know it’s short notice but the guy bailed last minute. Can you make it happen?”

  I glance at my watch, remembering that I’m supposed to be at a client dinner in an hour. Hmm, maybe Bernie’s timing could be better. In the business of comedy, timing is truly essential. It’s one of the first things I learned in comedy class. (And in case you’re wondering, there are no squeaky red noses or banana peels involved—just a group of misfit jokesters.) It doesn’t take long to grasp that when the timing is off, the punchline won’t land, and the whole thing’s a disaster. Because no matter what anyone says, there’s only one reason a stand-up takes the stage. It’s the reason we, the misfit jokesters, were put on this earth to begin with.

  To make people laugh.

  Oh, those glorious ha-ha-has, he-he-hes, and ho-ho-hos. Okay, maybe you only get the ho-ho-hos if Santa’s taking up two chairs in the audience with sugar cookie crumbs scattered over his beard. The point is that no matter the shape, sound, cadence, or volume, we stand-ups love getting the laugh. In fact, I love it so much that I’m going to ditch that client dinner and claim my birthright.

  “Of course I can. You know I’ll take any stage time I can get.”

  “Thanks, Olivia,” Bernie says. “I’ll email you the details.”

  I end the call and silently thank the idiot who backed out at the eleventh hour.

  Since I work as a full-time attorney at the law firm of Whitley, Bauer, Carey, and Klein, it hasn’t been easy for a Texas transplant like me to catch my big comedy break. That’s why I’m using the Jim Gaffigan plan. That’s right—America’s favorite pale comedian with the Hot Pockets bit. Don’t we just love a famous funny guy with their wife jokes, sex quips, and wacky impressions? And every now and then, America will love a famous funny gal too. As long as she doesn’t joke about menses. But she should because the word menses is hilarious.

  Anyway, legend has it he worked his corporate job to support his family while pursuing stand-up until he hit the showbiz jackpot. I may not have a family to support, but judging by the size of my monthly student loan bill, you’d never know the difference. Funny (not ha-ha), since we all know laughter is in fact the best m
edicine. But do we, the comedians of the world, get the credit and compensation psychiatrists and physicians do for the endorphin-inducing, cortisol-reducing, calorie-burning service that we provide?

  Uh, no.

  As it stands, if I pursued comedy full-time, I’d be subjected to a steady diet of generic foam-cup ramen until I booked enough gigs to afford the name brand. Though, sometimes it seems like a fair trade-off when I’ve been sitting in a three-hour legal meeting and my ass cheeks are numb.

  “Knock, knock,” a friendly voice calls in sync with a couple taps on my doorframe. It’s my best friend and roommate, Imani, dressed in a perfectly pressed ginger-colored jumpsuit complete with a popped collar and gold layered necklace. She tilts her head with a funny expression. “What’s that goofy grin for?”

  “I just hung up with Bernie. She snagged me a feature spot tonight.”

  “Oh, yeah? Don’t you have a dinner meeting?” Sure, Imani and I work at the same firm but we’re in different departments, so I wouldn’t expect her to know my calendar so well.

  “How’d you know that?”

  She shrugs with a sweet innocence that rivals mine. “You mentioned it this morning. And since you have other plans, I wanted to come by and see if it’s cool that I borrow your black stilettos. The ones with the gold ankle strap.”

  “My horny heels?” I can’t help but smirk at the special shoe request. “Who you doin’ tonight?” She’s been working round the clock, pulling for a promotion at the firm, which doesn’t leave a lot of time for sex and dating. An issue that plagues us both.

  “No one. Just meeting a guy for a drink thing.” Her gaze trails off as she swipes her glossed lip with the tip of her ring finger, showing off her new ombre manicure.

  “What guy?” I could ask myself the same question but it would mean something completely different.

  “Just a guy. I swear I’ll tell you all the dirty details later if I can borrow your shoes.”

  “So there will be dirty details?” I press the issue.

  “Liv! The shoes?”

  “Sheez. Someone needs a little hoo-hoo in her hmm-hmm,” I say under my breath.

  “I heard that,” she says. “And you’re one to talk.”

  “Can’t argue with that, but tonight, the shoes are yours. Just don’t forget to leave on your finder app.”

  “I always do.”

  Real-time GPS locators are one of the best things to happen to single women in the city. And stalking ex-girlfriends. Imani and I use it regularly to look out for each other when the other is out late alone. And seeing as I’m moonlighting as a stand-up, that’s pretty often.

  “So who are you opening for tonight?” she asks.

  “Um . . . I forgot to ask.” I pull up my email on my phone, scrolling for details from Bernie. When I see that it’s ten after and add up the twenty-plus minutes it’ll take to get downtown, I set the finer points aside for the commute. I can’t be late.

  “So how exactly are you going to get out of your meeting tonight?”

  I grab my bag and shut my laptop. “Don’t you worry about that. Just enjoy the shoes.”

  She waves me off and I hurry down the hallway, stepping as lightly, but swiftly, as I can in my pumps. What I wouldn’t give to wear my stage Converse in the office. Sneakers are even frowned upon on casual Friday, which occurs only monthly instead of weekly at our firm. I turn the corner and run smack into Mr. Whitley, one of the partners and my boss, nearly headbutting his silk tie.

  “Oh, shiii— Sorry,” I say, managing to curb my words.

  “Whoa, where’s the fire?” Mr. Whitley brushes himself off with his usual stony expression.

  “No fire,” I say, catching my breath and flashing a toothy smile. “Just need to unload all this coffee in my system.”

  “I’m not following.” If I spoke in heretos and therefores, perhaps he’d get my drift. “But since I’ve run into you, please make sure you show Mr. Fenwick a good evening. As you know, he’s a very important client.”

  This may seem like the opportunity to ask to skip the client dinner but I find that managing partners don’t take too kindly to associates prioritizing activities that don’t include billable hours, which include but are not limited to family taco night, martinis with friends, tickets to Hamilton, and of course performing stand-up comedy. In my experience, it’s better to ask for forgiveness rather than permission in these matters.

  “Absolutely, Mr. Whitley. I’ve got it covered,” I say, and his eyes roll over me as if he’s detected a hint of bullshit. So I throw him off the scent with a sweet, slightly Southern-sounding, “Now you go on and have a good night, sir.”

  The moment he passes, I’m off to the races again, finally flinging the door open to Fawn Douglas’s office. “Olivia, I was just about to come get you. The reservation’s at seven.”

  “Yeah, about that . . . How would you like to fly solo in this meeting?”

  Now before you go thinking my evil plan is to schlep my responsibilities onto someone else, let me explain. Fawn and I are not that different. Except that she actually likes being an attorney. It’s her dream. A dream she had to fight for when her hippie artist/activist parents had a fit, convinced she was to become a cog in the capitalist machine. The only thing worse would’ve been if she told them she voted Republican. I too had to face a parental tribunal when I came out as a comic. So if I can support her dream by letting her shine at tonight’s meeting while she helps me step into the spotlight in front of a brick wall, then all the better for both of us.

  “Why?” Fawn’s suspicious tone is unexpected.

  “Okay, I don’t have a lot of time so I’m just gonna level with you. I got an incredible opportunity to open for a—” I stumble, still unsure of whom I’m helping out tonight. “A super well-known comic at the same time as the Fenwick dinner. I wouldn’t ask if I thought you really needed me tonight because you don’t. You’re a rock star and it’s going to be a fabulous night because of you. What do you think?”

  She shakes her head like she’s taking it in. “Yeah, okay, I guess I can do it alone. But where should I say you are?”

  “Tell him I had some bad potato salad at lunch.”

  “Potato salad?”

  “You think I should class it up a little?” I ask, and she nods. “How about tuna salad?”

  “Let’s go with shrimp.”

  “Whatever you’re in the mood for.” I glance at my watch. T-minus twenty-four minutes. “Shit. I have to get downtown. Thanks a bunch. I owe you one.”

  “Your office does have a better view,” she teases.

  “I’ll keep that in mind.” I begin backing out the door as she calls out, “Have a good show!”

  “Shh!” I hush her like a crotchety old librarian and mime zipping my lips. She whispers an apology and mirrors the gesture back at me. As long as Mr. Whitley doesn’t come to Funnies tonight, I’ll be in the clear. Lucky for me, my boss doesn’t have a funny bone in his body.

  Two

  Outside, droves of people pass by as sweat beads on the bridge of my nose, causing my glasses to slide down a bit. If I’d known summer could be hotter in the city than the country, I might’ve considered Los Angeles. Now I have to contend with the heat and make that crucial decision all Manhattanites are faced with in a hurry—taxi or subway.

  That’s one thing I miss about Texas, my own transportation. Blasting Britney Spears while I cruise 158 with the windows down, dust blowing in the wind, is a far cry from stop-and-go cab rides or squeezing into a packed subway car and praying no one accidentally grazes my tits or ass.

  According to my maps app, either option will get me there, but barely on time. Given the current circumstances, staying aboveground feels safer. So cab it is. I wag my arm, mustering my inner New Yorker. I’ve been here two years and I still ask myself, Am I doing this right?

  A lit yellow Toyota pulls in front of me and I slide in. Guess that answers that. “Damn, it’s hotter than Satan’s asshole out there.” I lean forward, letting the air conditioner blow some frosty air on my face.

  “Where to?” the driver asks.

  “Funnies on Eleventh and Third, please. I’m performing soon.”

  “Got it,” he says. “What kinda accent is that?”