The Billionaire Boss Next Door

by Max Monroe

  “I’m sorry,” Quince mumbles. “I think I just swallowed my tongue.”

  “Jesus Christ, Greer,” Emory grumbles. “Can I not take you anywhere?”

  “What?” I shrug. “I’m just making friendly conversation.”

  “It’s fine, Em,” Quince says. “I’m kind of in love with her now.”

  I can’t exactly see Emory’s face clearly under her Taylor Swift mask, but I don’t have to. She is undoubtedly ordering a voodoo doll of me from an Etsy shop tonight and stabbing it right in the vagina.

  “No, no, she’s right, Quince. You guys are adorable together, and it really is nice to meet you. I’m surprised but honored that you’ve heard of Hudson Designs, and I appreciate the excitement about my work. I’m also digging the Kanye, Taylor Swift couple irony you have going on here.”

  “That was Em’s idea,” he says admiringly and tucks her closer to his side. The two of them lock gazes and sway toward each other with fairy-tale precision.

  And I officially need a drink.

  I excuse myself pretty easily since they’re ensconced in their canoodling and slink toward the long marble bar along the windows on the far side of the ballroom. Free drinks are one of the bright spots of attending this party, and I fully intend to enjoy the opportunity to consume them.

  The line is long and the people are chatty, so I take the time to retreat deeper into myself. The bartender works the crowd and smiles readily with everyone, and he seems like the kind of easygoing guy I could get along with.

  His name tag glints in the light, and I ready myself to regale him with charm by studying his name.

  When I finally belly up to the cold gray stone, I lean my elbows into the counter and announce cheekily, “Chardonnay me, Kevin.”

  Kevin’s eyebrows pinch together, and his fun-loving demeanor suddenly seems a lot less fun. “My name’s not Kevin.”

  What?

  I glance back to the name tag I was so sure had set me up for success and read it again.

  Karen. Her name is Karen, and Karen is a girl.

  Dear God, I need to get my eyes checked.

  “Heh. Whoops.” I laugh nervously. “I have…uh…cataracts. And you look lovely tonight, Karen.”

  Her scowl is scary, but I’m not leaving without my Chardonnay. I tap my fingernails on the counter as she prepares it, and I watch with an eagle eye for spit or poison.

  Thankfully, the open setup of her workspace makes it hard to achieve either form of sabotage, and she slides the half-full glass toward me.

  Her intense loathing of me won’t make getting another drink easy, but maybe I can sweet-talk Emory into switching masks with me in the bathroom before I need more.

  I turn to leave the bar and smack right into a hard wall.

  “Excuse me,” a tuxedo-wearing Albert Einstein says. I can’t see his face, obviously, but the fit of his formal wear is superb. I can feel the hot muscle of his chest through the expensive fabric as I force myself to step away.

  I smile flirtatiously on instinct, but it’s not until he speaks again that I realize he can’t see a goddamn thing thanks to Beyoncé.

  “Are you okay?” The mask does a good job of muffling his words, but it does nothing to disguise the deep, rich, masculine edge of his timbre.

  “Oh, sure, sure. Just a little elementary particle interaction,” I tease flirtatiously. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

  “What?”

  Jesus. Don’t tell me my eyes have failed me again.

  I squint through the tiny holes in Beyoncé’s rubber skin. “Aren’t you supposed to be Albert Einstein?”

  “Yeah.”

  I frown under my mask. “I was referencing the theory of relativity. Albert’s kind of famous for it…”

  “Oh. Yeah, I just went with the first mask I found.”

  Wow. Note to self: don’t be lured into the trap of svelte physique, Greer. He may be pretty, but some people really are all looks and no brains.

  Not even bothering to formally excuse myself, I turn and head for the darkest corner I can find. Luckily, it also happens to be right outside of the kitchen—perfect for getting first selection of hors d’oeuvres as the servers bring them out on shiny silver trays.

  When I’ve had almost more than my dress was built to accommodate and the waiters start to subtly shield the trays with their arms upon exit, I mosey back toward the dance floor and try to find Emory and Quince.

  I’m due for a new drink anyway.

  Thanks to Quincy’s size and Emory’s blue tulle gown, I locate them effortlessly. They’re swaying in the center of the room with champagne glasses tucked close to each other’s backs, and interrupting them in the name of alcohol suddenly doesn’t seem like such a good idea.

  Emory’s been searching for a man of worth for nearly as long as I have, and in the process, she’s dated some real dogs.

  With a parade of cheaters, gamblers, drinkers, and a few money-hungry clingers, she’s sampled from quite the mixed bag. She even married one in Vegas for, like, fifty-five hours just like good ole Britney Spears, but her parents’ lawyers got it annulled before he could ruin her life.

  From what I can tell, Quincy seems different. A little goofy, sure, but altogether a really good guy.

  She deserves to have a romantic New Year’s Eve with her long-awaited Prince Charming.

  Even if it means I have to suffer through the rest of this party sober…fucking hell.

  “Excuse me,” a man says as he runs into my back thanks to my decision to reroute midstride. Flashbacks of Ignorant Einstein turn the corners of my mouth down into a grimace as I turn to face him, but upon inspection, I’m thankful to find a different scientist entirely—Walter White of Breaking Bad.

  He’s tall. Fit. His shoulders are the perfect kind of broad beneath his well-fitted and dapper tuxedo. Even though I have no idea what his face looks like beneath the mask, the rest is a welcome sight for my eyes.

  “My bad, Walt,” I apologize. “I’m the one who switched directions.”

  He laughs and rubs a tanned, long-fingered hand across the black-and-white material at his chest. “Well, in that case, I Better Call Saul.”

  I smile at that, Beyoncé and her rubber-masked cockblocking be damned, and look to the ground self-consciously.

  My feet feel like they’re bleeding, my dress might as well be painted on, and I’m starting to sweat under this stupid mask, but finally, the evening seems to be looking up.

  “Would you like to get a drink?” Walt asks, and I can’t contain the fervor in my nod.

  “God, yes.”

  He holds out a hand to indicate I should lead the way when I remember my little mishap with the bartender and the possibility of, you know, poison.

  “Ah, hell.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Oh. Well, see, I didn’t make the best impression on Karen earlier, and I don’t really think she’s going to do cartwheels at the idea of serving me again.”

  “She’s an employee of the hotel. It’s her job.”

  “Yeah.” I laugh. “I guess you haven’t seen the movie Waiting.”

  He’s silent for a moment, perhaps considering the absolutely disgusting subject matter of that movie, before changing his tune. “Okay. You wait here. I’ll get the drinks. What do you like?”

  “Tropical vacations. Reruns of The Office. New Kids on the Block. Kittens—”

  “To drink.” I swear I can hear a soft chuckle escape his lips, but I can’t be sure over the music pounding from the speakers. “What do you like to drink?”

  “Ohh, that,” I say with a knowing laugh. “Chardonnay.”

  Not being able to take advantage of facial cues when bantering with a new partner is disconcerting to say the least, but Walter seems to be up to the challenge and properly versed in humor. I decide to trust that he’ll understand mine.

  “Great. Be right back.”

  I weave among the dancing couples as he makes his way to the bar and hover cree
pily behind Ed Sheeran and Miley Cyrus while Walt orders from Karen.

  I can almost sense the moment he says the word Chardonnay—because her eyes surreptitiously scan the room. I slouch farther behind Miley and peek again.

  Reluctantly, Karen smiles and grabs a bottle from the shelf behind her to pour my glass of wine and then gets to work making a complicated concoction for Walt.

  My back aches from hunching, and Miley might have to consider adopting me by the time he finally turns around to make his way to me again.

  I kind of want to tease him about it, but the desperate little bird on my shoulder reminds me what that will do to my prospects for having someone to kiss at midnight, and I seal my sarcastic mouth tight.

  There’s not much worse than standing around watching everyone else in a room toast to the future with someone they love while you whither in your lonely destitution.

  A little dramatic? Probably. But my dismal business situation has me riding quite the emotional wave. Cowabunga, dude and all that.

  Walt hands me my glass, and I take it gratefully. “Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  I lift the bottom edge of my mask and slip the glass underneath to take a hearty gulp, and he does the same.

  Lost for words now that I’ve forbidden myself from saying anything too sarcastic, I flounder in my awkwardness and fidget obsessively. A tug at the fabric on one strap of my dress, a smoothing hand across my stomach, and a tap of my toe on the marble floor later, the lights of the room finally flicker their absolution.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” a disembodied voice says over the speakers of the room. “Make your way to the windows and find your companions. The ball will be dropping in one minute.”

  I’m half expecting Walt to excuse himself to find his wife or girlfriend or someone else, but he doesn’t. Instead, he holds out a gallant arm. “Shall we, Beyoncé?”

  Oh, Walt. We definitely shall.

  With my hand tucked into the crook of his elbow, he guides me across the room and to the windows, even managing a spot for us right up front with an unobstructed view.

  We face forward silently as a countdown begins from thirty.

  Lights flash in Times Square below, and the crowd in the room gets restless. They chant the numbers exuberantly, but with each progressive number of their countdown, I retreat deeper into uncertainty.

  Disquiet about why I’m here and what I’m doing with a guy I only know as Walt and insecurity about the big interview with Turner Properties.

  What if I fail?

  What if I put everything I have into this business of mine, and I walk away with nothing but years of stress and aging?

  I’m so lost in my thoughts, I almost don’t notice when the crowd turns bloodthirsty for satisfaction and winds their way down from ten.

  A roar of noise penetrates the windows from below, and still, I don’t flinch.

  It isn’t until the touch of a warm, gentle hand slides across my back and puts pressure on me to turn that I realize Walt has rolled up the very bottom of his mask and is reaching for mine with the hand not at my back.

  Seconds masquerade as millennia, and cheers take over the room. The transition of one year to the next is official, and Walt’s lips are on mine.

  Slow and exploratory, he teases and tastes and builds energy in the bundle of butterflies at home in my stomach.

  The kiss is…exquisite.

  It’s new and unfamiliar, but satisfyingly right.

  It’s everything I’d want out of a midnight kiss with a stranger and more.

  There’s a buzz between us—a hum of electricity or energy or some other new age shit—and my body sways toward his naturally. His big hands move down my sides and over my hips until they’re gripping the silk material covering my ass, and a soft moan escapes my throat.

  He feels so good. Tastes so good. Like mystery and excitement and promises of sex and sin.

  I slide my hands to his broad shoulders, letting my fingers explore the firm and taut muscles of his upper body.

  Time is nonexistent. The partygoers around us go poof. And the music coming from the speakers of the dance floor disappears entirely. This mind-blowing, deepening kiss commandeers all of my senses until the only thing I can hear is the excited rhythm of my heartbeat pounding inside my ears.

  Our lips tease and explore and take all of my breath, so that when he finally pulls away, when the moment finally ends, when we finally come back down to earth, I don’t even have the air left to sigh.

  All sorts of reckless possibilities run through my mind and pulse in my vagina as I work up the nerve to ask Walt back to my room. It’d be a night of wild chemistry if nothing else, and a good cleaning for these dusty pipes.

  With his hands gently gripping my fingers, he leans back and looks down at me, and I can’t stop my gaze from fixating on his now visible mouth.

  God, no wonder he’s such a fan-fucking-tastic kisser.

  His lips are full and round and just…perfect.

  Damn near entranced, my eyes follow the path of his tongue as it sneaks out and runs across his bottom lip, almost like he’s savoring the taste of our kiss.

  It’s incredibly arousing. Even my vagina agrees. The horny little bitch is already throbbing and aching over the mere idea of spending the night with him.

  “Hmmm…interesting…” he says on a near whisper, and I honestly get the vibe that it’s more for himself than for me.

  But I can’t be sure.

  And interesting? What does that mean?

  Good interesting? Bad interesting? “You are an incredibly weird person, and I never want to kiss you again” interesting?

  I have no idea, but I can’t stop myself from trying to find out. “What’s interesting?”

  He doesn’t answer. Instead, his eyes search mine for a good ten seconds.

  And he squeezes my fingers with his hand as his attention snags for the briefest of moments over my shoulder. But he quickly recovers and brings his gaze back to mine.

  Before I can urge him for an explanation or for his name or for him to let me see the face behind the mask, he leans in closer to my body, and his warm breath brushes across the skin of my cheek. “If we were anywhere else,” he whispers, and his soft lips just barely tease against my ear. “If we were anywhere else in the fucking world but here, my next kiss would be between your legs.”

  Holy fuck.

  Instantly, a shiver rolls down my spine, and every damn cell in my body is shouting for him to make an exception.

  We can go anywhere but here! my vagina basically shouts from beneath my dress. Just let her get her purse, and we’ll be on our way!

  “Happy New Year, Beyoncé.” His tone sounds so final. Too final.

  Instantly, my stomach takes a nose dive into disappointment.

  A part of me wants to urge him to reconsider. But another part of me, the larger part of me, is all about keeping my pride intact.

  So, I do the only thing I’m capable of. I swallow down my discomfort and keep it locked beneath the rubber of my mask.

  “Same to you, Walt,” I whisper back.

  After one last look into my eyes, he lets go of my fingers and walks away, disappearing into the crowd of happy people and leaving me to wonder all alone.

  Is it better to have been kissed and left or to have never been kissed at all?

  Trent

  It’s the second official day of the New Year, and I’ve already hit the ground running.

  There’s no rest for the wicked and the work-driven, and I have an entire hotel to get off the ground in New Orleans and a short-as-fuck timeline in which to do it.

  And, apparently, this morning, I also have an impromptu meeting with my father.

  As I walk down the marble hallway of the sixteenth floor of Turner Properties’ New York headquarters and toward my father’s office, my phone buzzes in my jacket pocket, and I pull it out to check my messages.

  Cap: Do you know the name Sophia
Moran?

  I smirk and shake my head at the same time. Caplin Hawkins is one of my best and most ridiculous friends. With my fingers to the screen, I type out a quick response.

  Me: That’s Quince’s college girlfriend.

  Cap: Quince had a girlfriend in college?

  Me: Uh…yeah. They dated for two years.

  Cap: Ah, fuck. I knew that name sounded familiar. How firm do you think Quince is on Bro Code?

  I can see the text bubbles in the chat box move up and down, and I hurriedly type out a response before he can say anything else.

  Me: Keep whatever details you’re about to tell me to yourself. I do not want to become an accessory to your crime.

  Cap: Who says I did anything wrong?

  I laugh to myself. And as I step into the reception area of my father’s office, I type out one final text and slip my phone back into my pocket.

  Me: Everything you’ve ever done in your entire life.

  Helen, my father’s assistant, is busy typing something out on her computer, but the instant she looks up from her screen, a genuine smile consumes her face.

  “I’ll let him know you’re here.”

  “Thanks.” I nod and move toward the large floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the massive city.

  With leftover snow from last week’s storm dusting the rooftops and buildings and streets, New York oozes winter. But the cold weather doesn’t stop her liveliness. The sidewalks are littered with people, and the streets are filled with yellow taxi cabs and delivery trucks navigating the early morning rush.

  Eventually, I move away from the windows and make myself comfortable in one of the chairs positioned across from Helen’s desk.

  In a weird way, waiting outside of my father’s office is almost like sitting in my own living room. The taupe-gray walls house pictures of familiar faces from all over the world—a sort of shrine to all of the connections my dad’s made over the years—and the feel of the cushion of the leather chairs reminds me of all the years I’ve spent sitting in them.