The Billionaire Boss Next Door

by Max Monroe

He smiles, and for the first time since I landed this fucking interview, hope actually sprouts in my chest.

  “I knew I liked you.”

  “You did?” I’m dumbfounded. Hardly anyone ever likes me based on my first impression. I’m crass and inappropriate, and I don’t do the best job of following normal social cues.

  “I’ve seen your exemplary work, and your clients spoke highly of your work ethic and designs,” he responds. “You see the world the way few people do, I can tell, and that means you’ve got a good head on your shoulders. My son is heading up the New Orleans project, and he really needs someone like you on his team.”

  “I’m hired?” Shock laces my words, and I’m powerless to stop it. As much as I’ve been counting on this job—dreaming of it—I never really thought I’d land it.

  Designing the Vanderturn New Orleans is a big deal. Way bigger than Greer Hudson and a totally new endeavor for Hudson Designs.

  “Indeed. It won’t be easy. We’re on a tight timeline, but I’m excited to see what you can do for us down there.”

  I jump up from my seat and shove out a hand again. I’m too excited not to. This is it. The kind of moment I’ll never get to experience twice, no matter what I do with my career from now on.

  This is the kind of turning point I’ll never forget.

  Thankfully, he takes my overzealous hand with a smile.

  “You won’t regret this,” I say as I shake.

  He laughs. “I hope not, dear. Why don’t you head out and see my assistant again? She’ll get you a cup of hot tea while I gather the rest of the New Orleans team to introduce you.”

  I absolutely despise hot tea, but I nod anyway. I’d drink a cup of toilet water at this point if Trent Turner wanted me to.

  He’s just given me a shot. A second chance at making my dream a reality, and really, a chance to make it better than I’ve ever imagined.

  This isn’t the kind of thing most designers have on their resumes—and certainly not something they add to them at thirty-three.

  But for as sarcastic and cynical as I am about everything else, I’m three times as grandiose with my expectations for my work.

  I’m going to put everything I have into this and then some, and when I’m done, people will know my name all over the Gulf Coast.

  Now, I just have to win over the rest of the team.

  Trent

  Quincy Black and Caplin Hawkins split the space on my enormous twenty-seven-inch computer screen, and thanks to the breadth of the display, they’re about the size they are in real life. Except in real life, we never sit this close to one another.

  “Emory has a friend. I know you’re not into being set up, but I haven’t technically met her, so really, this isn’t a setup,” Quincy, my longtime friend and hotel supplier, says. Just like always, a huge smile is permanently tattooed on his face.

  Not, like, literally. But Quince is the kind of guy who never lets the world get him down, even in the worst of situations. He’s a positive force and a positive source for someone like me, one who definitely forgets to look on the bright side sometimes. Some days, it seems like I’ve known him forever.

  “How can you technically not have met her? Isn’t it a you have or you haven’t type of thing?”

  “I met her at the Mask-erade. She was dressed like—”

  “No, no, Quince,” Caplin Hawkins interjects, paying attention for maybe the first time throughout this whole call. “Turn only dates women with the personality of a turnip. Remember?” He smirks at me patronizingly. “And I know a lot of instances of technically. My first high school girlfriend was technically a virgin, but it was like she wasn’t, you know?”

  It’s official. What was once a business video conference call with my supplier and my lawyer about merchandise liability for the bath products we plan to carry in all of our hotels has become an episode of Singled Out from the 1990s. Which is appropriate, I guess. That’s around the time we all became friends, and around the time they decided I needed a name different from my father. I blame the nickname Turn on junior-high-level creativity. We may have gone to a private school on the Upper East Side, but we were just as maturity-stunted as the rest of the kids our age.

  Truthfully, we may not be all that much more mature now. Outside of our careers, we’re all still basically a bunch of big kids.

  “What personality does a turnip have, exactly?” I ask, rubbing my chin with the tip of my middle finger meaningfully.

  “Bitter, mostly. A hint of spiteful. Fairly good-looking, but about as interesting as a fucking turnip.”

  “They’re not all that bad,” Quincy, the goofball with the good soul, defends.

  Cap scoffs. “None of them are good.”

  I’d be tempted to take Cap’s words personally if they weren’t so true. I’ve dated a fair number of women, but the depth of those relationships was practically nonexistent.

  Cathy Hounds was after my family’s money, Tina Gabriel was after my dick and then my family’s money, and Sadie Billings was after an appearance on Page Six. I was a means to an end to them, and I guess, if I’m honest, they were the same for me. I can hardly distinguish one’s bland personality and plastic parts from another’s, and looking back, I don’t want to.

  They weren’t worth more than a mediocre fuck, and these days, I’m too busy to even go looking for that.

  What about the enticing woman at the party the other night? my mind taunts, but I slam the brakes on that thought just as quickly as it appears.

  “What do you care? It’s not like you’re searching extensively to find your soul mate,” I challenge Cap. “You sleep with any woman who purrs in your direction.”

  If Caplin had a vagina, it’d be the size of the Holland Tunnel. He’s looser with his physical affection than most hookers, and he doesn’t even get paid.

  Though, I’m half convinced he would if it wouldn’t get him disbarred.

  But just like with Quince, our friendship goes back a long way. The three of us spent the majority of our formative years together, horsing around and giving each other shit about everything.

  As an only child, they are the brothers I never had, and I wouldn’t recognize my life without them.

  “Yes, but that works for me. Really well.”

  “And it doesn’t for me?”

  Cap laughs right in my face, the bastard. “You’re painfully monogamous, Turn. And if you’re going to insist on fucking one woman, I’m going to do my part to make sure it’s a good one. Flexible. Acrobatic. A true joy to be around.”

  “So, according to your description, I’m supposed to date a gymnast or a bendy straw,” I retort with a smirk, and Quince laughs.

  But Cap, well, he keeps rolling with his outrageous and nonexistent point. “Both sound like better options than your usual.”

  “Just so I’m clear on your suggestions…” I pause and lift up a paper clip from my desk. “It bends. Hell, it’s even shiny. Should I fuck this, too?”

  Cap grins. “Some action is better than no action, Turn.”

  “You’re off your fucking rocker, you know that?”

  “That might be true, but…” His grin only gets wider. “My dick is a happy and entertained lad every-fucking-day of the week.”

  “Your dick is one bad hookup away from shriveling up and falling off.”

  “Meh.” He shrugs. “At least he’d go down with a smile.”

  Quince sighs. “It’d be great if we could have one conversation where your dick isn’t discussed like it’s an actual person.”

  “Aw, don’t worry, Quince,” Cap retorts. “I’m sure your dick is a real nice guy. A little boring, far too predictable, but there’s a real sweetheart inside that barely average-sized core of his.”

  “Barely average-sized?” Quince scoffs. “You—”

  “Hey, I’ve got an idea,” I chime in before they start getting out rulers and measuring shafts. “How about someone lets me know if we should sign the contract with Essence Skin Car
e? Hell, if Cap’s dick is well-versed in legalese, that’ll work at this point.”

  “It’s all good in the hood, baby.” Cap winks. “I have a few recommendations for the contracts that I’ll send your way, but it’s all pretty minor shit.”

  I look toward Quince, who is now smiling.

  “The report from product research came back with no areas of concern related to liability.”

  “Great.” The line goes silent for the briefest of moments, and I can’t stop myself from veering the conversation back to the ridiculous. “Oh, hey, Quince. Guess who Cap saw the other day?”

  Goddamn, I’m just as bad as they are.

  The instant the question leaves my lips, Cap glares and Quince tilts his head to the side.

  “Who did you see, Cap?”

  “He saw Sophia Moran.” I kindly offer up the information on a silver platter.

  “No shit?” Quince responds. “How is she doing?”

  “Uh…good.” Cap clears his throat. “She’s doing real good.”

  Doing real good? Yeah. Nice one, Cap.

  I have to bite my lip to hold back my laughter. And, fuck, this is too entertaining not to continue. So, I do. “What did you guys talk about?”

  “Well…” Cap pauses and flashes me another glare before moving his eyes across the screen to Quince. “We didn’t get a lot of talking in…”

  Realization in…

  5

  4

  3

  2

  1

  “Are you kidding me?” Quince snaps when he connects the dots of Cap’s passive innuendos. “You slept with my ex-girlfriend?”

  “Dude.” The big bastard raises both hands in the air. “I promise you we didn’t sleep at all.”

  Quince looks at me and then back at Cap before an annoyed laugh escapes his throat. “You’re a real asshole, you know that?”

  “I do, actually.” Cap nods, and his eyes turn apologetic. “Honestly, Quince, I didn’t know. I mean, she looked kind of familiar. Her name sounded familiar, but I had no idea she was your ex.”

  “I think your dick is stealing your brain cells,” Quince retorts, and I laugh.

  “Yeah. That, right there, is a likely scenario.”

  Cap just shrugs. “He does have a mind of his own.”

  “Trent,” my dad says after peeking his head in my office without knocking. “I’ve got someone for you to meet.”

  “Gotta go,” I say and hit end on the conference call without giving Quince or Cap time to interject.

  But they’ve been around long enough to know about the tense, tumultuous relationship between my father and me. They know he can be a demanding, controlling bastard and that I spend most of my time trying to keep the fucking peace between us. They also know I’m not completely above hiding one of their bodies if they ever decide to ride my ass about it.

  Without another word, my father steps back out of my office with the expectation that I’ll follow.

  And, of course, I do.

  Always the fucking peace-keeper.

  I shove back in my chair, grab my suit jacket from the rack I keep behind my desk, and head out the door.

  I would have loved to have a minute to prepare to meet the group of people I’m going to be spending all of my days and many a long night with over the next nine months, but Trent Turner Senior waits for no one, least of all his son.

  Tight-jawed and tense, I make my way down the hall toward the conference room as quickly as possible, bumping carelessly into a woman as she’s stepping out of the break room.

  “Ow,” she umphs, groaning as I step on her toes.

  Shit.

  Instantly, I grab her by the waist to keep her from falling. “I’m sorry. Are you okay?”

  She flips her hair up and out of her face, a smile prepped and ready to forgive me, when our eyes meet.

  “You,” she growls.

  And at the exact same time, I spit “You” through a clenched jaw.

  It’s her. The woman from the gym. The smartass in the Metallica T-shirt with the all-consuming hate for my father’s prize hotel. I’ve been thinking about the flippant way she talked about everything my family’s business is built on ever since she sauntered out of the fitness center, and seemingly, it hasn’t done anything to diminish how annoyed she makes me.

  Not to mention, she didn’t even wipe down the equipment she was pretending to use, and I had to spend the last twenty minutes of my workout inhaling her sweet fucking perfume.

  I mean, it was a good sweet. A soft and seductive kind of sweet.

  But fuck, she should’ve stuck to gym etiquette.

  “What the hell are you doing here?” Once again, our timing and our words are completely in sync.

  “I asked you first,” she argues snottily and settles her red-painted fingers into the perfect crook of her skirt-covered hip.

  I snort. “I think not.”

  Her impressive blue eyes turn cold, and my blood pressure skyrockets. Today of all days—the beginning of the next phase of my career—I have to run into her again. Talk about the last thing I fucking need.

  “What are you doing here?” I demand. “At my company.”

  “Your company?” she shrieks, her wavy brown locks swaying with the agitated forward motion of her upper body. “I work here.”

  My heart pumps twice instead of once, and my vision tunnels around her words. Her awful fucking words. “You…you work here?”

  “Oh good,” my father says, appearing out of nowhere. Apparently, the strength of my surprise and disdain at the sight of the rude woman from the gym was enough to completely block out the action of him walking down the hall toward us. “I was hoping I’d get a chance to introduce you two before you meet the rest of the team.”

  His smile is as radiant as the sun, and sweat drips appropriately down my back.

  “Greer, this is my son, Trent. And, Trent, this is Greer Hudson. She is going to be heading up the design in New Orleans.”

  Heading up the design in New Orleans? At my hotel?

  You have got to be kidding me.

  “Trent,” she sneers.

  “Greer,” I snarl, memorizing the name that goes with my enemy’s face.

  It’s a showdown worthy of any old Western, and I can practically hear the clank of our spurs as we take our positions opposite each other.

  High noon and the fastest draw, winner take all.

  Oh man, if only office politics were that simple.

  Reluctantly, knowing my dad is watching, I stick out a hand for her to shake. She takes it roughly, digging a fingernail into the back of it. I’m almost certain her attempt at skin mutilation is on purpose.

  My father is oblivious to our silent showdown. “It’s safe to say the two of you are going to be working very closely together over the next year, so the sooner you can get to know each other, the better.”

  Greer’s face is a mirror of what I imagine my own looks like—sheer horror.

  When it comes to a hotel, there’s no more important relationship than the one between the project head and the designer. Together, those two roles on the team are building an experience that is supposed to translate to everyone who steps inside. Most of all, they need to be able to work together.

  Instantly, the logistics of my new reality become crystal clear.

  Me and this woman. Working together. Side by side. For nearly a year.

  This is so fucked.

  “Come on,” my dad says, somehow unscathed by the singe of our eye lasers. “Let’s meet the rest of the team.”

  Greer nods and smiles, which is more than I can say for myself. I’m still locked in a nightmare and struggling to wake up, and my body acts accordingly.

  Either that, or I’m having a small stroke.

  My dad, of course, notes the lag and files it away as yet another mark against me.

  “Jesus, Trent. Did you not sleep last night or something? Look alive.”

  I jolt into action, but not befor
e I notice Greer’s smirk. My dad’s castigation of me amuses her.

  Something inside me ignites and starts running at high idle.

  She might think she’s ready, but she has no idea what she’s getting into with me—how much animosity I’m built to withstand when it comes to working at Turner Properties.

  For the first time ever, my father’s criticism of me may serve a greater purpose.

  I stay put, giving her and my father a minute to make their way down the hall without me, adjust my tie, and take a deep breath.

  Greer, my mind rumbles.

  If she wants a battle, I’ll give her a damn war.

  Greer

  Nerves jump up and down in my stomach like a million chaotic bouncy balls set to work by a bunch of manic kids. I am freaking the fuck out.

  The green-eyed, good-bodied, trash-talker from the gym is my boss.

  As in, in charge of me at work.

  As in, signs my paychecks.

  As in, he is the only thing standing between me and a new job at the Stop and Pop gas station where I will have to drown my life’s failures in cheap beer, cigarettes, and cheesy curls.

  I don’t even smoke, never even let a cigarette touch my lips, but from where I stand, a life filled with dirty ashtrays and cheese-stained fingertips is a strong contender for my future.

  Holy bitchtits. This is bad.

  And like a spoiled high schooler who actually has parents who pay for all of their stuff—like a woman who doesn’t have everything on the line—I gave him attitude. I talked back. I dug my fingernails into his hand when he shook it.

  What the hell is wrong with me?

  My breathing kicks up a notch, and I glance around the conference room to see if anyone has noticed how close I am to hyperventilating. After my altercation with his son and with my heart beating a million miles a minute, Trent Senior led the way down the hall and into this room. I’m sure employees made eye contact with me, but the only thing I could see was my career going up in flames.

  Five people other than me circle the large marble table in the center of the room, not a single one of them a woman.

  I’m the only hen at this cock party, and that spurs my anxiety further.