The Billionaire Boss Next Door

by Max Monroe

  The reality of what I’m up against crashes down on me all over again, and my breathing breaks down into uncoordinated gulps.

  I study the faces around me, but they’re all ensconced in their own conversations and unconcerned with me.

  Desperate for a lifeline, I scour the refreshment cart in the corner, but there’s not one paper bag for hyperventilation purposes in sight. I can only hope I weather this storm on my own.

  Breathing may sound instinctive, but I wouldn’t put it past myself to forget to do it. And I do not want to be known as the woman who passed out on her first day for the rest of my employment with Turner Properties.

  In a room full of men, I refuse to be the fainting to the floor, fucking damsel in distress.

  Especially not when one of those men is that rude, bastard prick from the gym.

  Trent Turner. Well, Trent Turner Junior, I guess is his full name.

  If I weren’t so amped up on anxiety and dread, I might take the time to laugh silently at the fact that his full name includes Junior. Like he’s a little boy. A fucking kid.

  Unfortunately for me, his tight muscles and sexy jawline and piercing green eyes are the exact opposite of what a boy should look like.

  No sirree Bob, he is all man, Greer. All-fucking-man.

  Pfft. Whatever. The fact remains that he’s a Grade A asshole.

  The titter of conversation dims as the green-eyed devil himself steps inside the glass-walled conference room and shuts the door. I didn’t get the chance to really take him in when he bumped into me before, but as a mere member of the crowd, I more than have the chance now.

  His suit is pressed and a crisp black in a way that isn’t maintainable without a hefty dry-cleaning bill. Below the edge of his jacket sleeves, the white of his shirt cuffs sticks out ever so slightly, and a shiny silver clip holds the emerald green of his tie in place.

  It matches his eyes almost perfectly, and my knees feel weak. I’m almost certain the two are completely unrelated.

  “Hello, everyone,” he greets simply, and we all respond with nods and hellos of our own. At least, everyone else does.

  For some reason, I’m having a hard time forcing the civil exchange past my lips, and my hello comes out more like a stuttered “e-low.”

  What is it about him that rubs me so wrong? I mean, I barely met the guy the other day. It’s not like we’ve got some long-standing rivalry that dates back to pigtail-pulling and shoves on the playground.

  He poked fun at me. Big deal.

  It shouldn’t be a big deal.

  It is, though. I feel the weight of my agitation toward him deep in my gut, right next to the two mini donuts I shouldn’t have shoved down my throat in the employee break room.

  It’s burning and achy, and I don’t recognize it at all. For the greater part of the last five years, my emotions have avoided the extremes. If I were to make a line graph to represent myself, Greer’s numbness would be a great big tick mark right across the middle.

  Suddenly, now I can’t seem to stop bouncing off the sides of the scale.

  “I’m looking forward to working with you for the next several months to make Vanderturn NOLA our most enjoyable and profitable property yet. The work may get grueling, thanks to the timeline that we’re working with, but I know you’re all up to the challenge.”

  He’s barely even begun his speech, and already, I’m rolling my eyes at his management spiel.

  He knows I’m up for the challenge?

  Besides our altercation in the fitness room, he doesn’t know anything about me. I mean, unless he’s a fucking fortune-teller, he can’t possibly know that I’m up for the challenge.

  Hell, I don’t even know if I am.

  I’ve never taken on a workload like this, and my previous assistant Rosaline already moved on to another job. If I’m going to find a staff to help me manage it, I’ll have to start from scratch.

  But with the schedule we’re on, I might have to go it alone.

  “Five days from today, we’ll convene in New Orleans at the property site to get started. I’d like it if we could all go into that day with at least one thing we can contribute to making this the best property in the country. One specific, plan-oriented thing. Take the next few days to consider it, to strategize, and Wednesday, we’ll start implementing.”

  His smile is big but completely devoid of warmth as his father steps in front of him in a gesture of dismissal. “Thanks, Trent.”

  Junior only hesitates for a second, his features strangely confrontational as he focuses on the back of his dad’s head, before turning to the glass door, heaving it open, and retreating down the hall.

  That’s weird.

  Fortunately, I don’t have the time to focus on their freaky exchange or my panic attack as chatter fires up once again.

  The rest of us stand up from our seats and start to mingle as Senior makes a point to talk to each of us individually.

  It’s clear he’s known Marcus and Harold for years, but Brad, Frederick, and Isaac all seem to be new like me.

  Still, he treats us all the same, inquiring about our personal backgrounds with a thorough warmth.

  Marcus is the only one who’ll actually be on site with us, everyone else’s role centered in the financial and business aspects of the build, but by the time Senior’s done making the rounds, I feel like I know little pieces of everyone’s lives. Their families. Their work experiences. Their personalities.

  Everyone but his son and the actual boss of the New Orleans project.

  No, other than the bothersome way he makes me feel, that asshole is still a complete mystery to me.

  Mr. Turner finishes getting to know everyone just before lunch and dismisses us for the day.

  After a quick call to Emory, who’s been shopping all day on Fifth Avenue—the lucky bitch—we decide to meet for lunch at the 51st Street Deli.

  It’s no surprise that Emory is waiting for me in a booth at the back of the restaurant—built soundly for a party of eight—when I walk in. Most of the seats are filled with bags from designer brands and boutique shops I could never afford, but she manages to leave just enough space for her ass and mine.

  “You’re late,” she accuses as I sit down to a hot pastrami sandwich and a half a dozen pickles—a personal weakness—already waiting for me. I roll my eyes in a secret gesture of appreciation.

  I’m the only one who knows the secret, but I’m thankful in my heart, and that’s what really matters, right?

  Right.

  “And?” I laugh caustically. At some point, she’s got to realize this is never going to change. “If you’re surprised, you should be really disappointed in yourself.”

  She huffs, banging her hands on the table and innocuously rearranging her silverware. I smile, amused by my friend’s closet OCD.

  “I just don’t understand. You were done when you called me. You were closer. We agreed to meet here as soon as we could. How on earth do you end up taking double the time?”

  I shrug. I really don’t know. “I guess I just come by my tardiness naturally.”

  I’ve always had a gift for shitting away time. Two hours in front of the TV, an hour and a half in the shower, forty-five minutes on my bed in the middle of the day for no reason—I’m an Olympic-level athlete at all of it.

  It’s no wonder I haven’t a clue what I did between the time Emory called me and the time I got here to delay myself.

  Seriously. Time just disappears.

  “Whatever,” she finally sighs, delicately spooning a mouthful of her side of chicken noodle soup into her mouth and swallowing. “Let’s talk about the job.”

  “What about it?” I furrow my brow, and she rolls her eyes like my question is the dumbest question that’s ever existed.

  “Aren’t you excited?” she asks, and her voice rises three octaves. “Relieved? Anything? I mean, I feel like there should be some kind of emotional evidence of your success.”

  I shrug. In a way, I am relieve
d. But in another, much bigger way, this is just the beginning. And the rest of the story includes finding some way to lose the animosity I feel toward my new boss. Trent fucking Turner. He may be a stuck-up prick, but I doubt his opinion of me is much better. “I didn’t make a great first impression with my boss.”

  “What do you mean? You got the job, didn’t you?”

  I choke down an overly large bite of pastrami in my haste to answer and have to grab my throat as it burns.

  “You’re not a snake, you know,” Emory teases. “You don’t have to swallow your food whole.”

  I scrunch my face into a fake hysterical laugh and sneer. “I’ve hardly eaten anything all day,” I retort. “And if you keep up that kind of bitchy food judgment, I’ll assume you want me to start eating your food too.”

  “Greer.” Emory just stares. I swear, if her eyes get any bigger, they’ll pop straight out of the sockets and literally push me for the answer to her initial question.

  I waver between ending or prolonging her misery, but it doesn’t take long for me to decide that it’s best if her eyeballs stay secured inside her head.

  “Yes, I got the job,” I finally answer. “Mr. Turner loved me. But it’s his son who’s running the New Orleans hotel and, well, it’s that Trent Turner I fucked up with.”

  “How?” She scrunches up her nose. “How have you already fucked up so badly in a day?”

  “Because I sort of met him the other day at the hotel, when you sent me to the gym…” My voice is needlessly accusatory. “And I might have said a thing or two I shouldn’t have.”

  She pulls her sandwich away from her mouth and glares. Sometimes she really knows me too well. “What did you say?”

  I shrug in an effort to play it off and pick at the seeds in my rye bread. “Just…you know…that the décor in their hotel was so hideous, I felt as though I might actually die from it.” My laugh is scary. “No big deal, right?”

  Emory drops her head into her hands. “Jesus Christ, Greer.”

  “I know! Gah!” I wail. “But I didn’t know it was him! He never introduced himself, and he was really fucking rude to me about my fitness. It just came spewing out like lava. You can’t blame me, really. It was a volcano!”

  She’s skeptical, and it shows. I can’t blame her, really, but I’m actually telling the truth this time. Green-eyed, good-bodied Trent is a Grade A prick. “Rude to you how?”

  “He said I was pretending to work out!”

  Her raised eyebrow is nothing but accusatory and calling me on my bullshit. “And were you?”

  “What does that matter?” I screech.

  Her sandwich hits the plate so hard, it falls apart and rains corned beef on the table. I reach out to pick it up—no meat left behind and all that—and she smacks my hand.

  “Here’s what you’re going to do. First day on the job in New Orleans, you’re going to march right up to him and apologize.”

  “What? No! I’m not apologizing to that asshole. If you hadn’t been so busy primping, we would have been able to fly up here earlier with Quincy. I would have had more time to stabilize the bitchiness.”

  “Don’t you dare blame this on me and my spa day!” she snaps. “This is on you, and you only have one option.”

  I raise a skeptical brow and grimace. She doesn’t even bother to soften the blow.

  “Take your pride and shame and stubbornness and eat it, Greer,” she instructs. “Pretend they’re all fried and pickled if you have to. For God’s sake, don’t you remember what you have riding on this?”

  Everything, my mind remarks. Literally everything.

  “Fine,” I huff, shoving her hand out of the way and grabbing her meat defiantly. “When we get to New Orleans, I’ll apologize. And then I’ll be on my best behavior. But I’m not going to like him. No buddy-buddy exchanges and shit. This is business. Period.”

  Emory nods.

  “And for the love of God, he better be open to suggestions. I refuse to stamp my name on the puke-worthy design they have going on in the Vanderturn Manhattan. I’d rather starve to death in my newly renovated cardboard home on the streets than do that.”

  “Of course,” she says with a hum, and I decide to ignore the fact that she’s humoring me.

  “I would,” I retort. “If I’m going to do a good job, he’s going to have to trust me to make decisions. I can’t work creatively when everything I come up with is being turned down.”

  She rolls her eyes. “You’re assuming a lot here. You haven’t worked with him. He might be a great team player. Just because the two of you bumped heads in the hotel fucking gym, doesn’t mean he’s not open to suggestions.”

  “It might. Trust me. You didn’t see him when his father introduced him to the rest of the team today. He was so cocky. So removed. So…managerial. Plus, no one should be that obsessed with the cleanliness of workout equipment.”

  “Workout equipment?” she questions. “What in the hell are you talking about?”

  “At the gym,” I respond.

  “For the love of God, Greer, forget about the encounter at the gym.” She shakes her head as if she’s literally shaking away my words. “And I’ll bet during the meeting, he was confident not managerial. Your first encounter is probably coloring your opinion of him.”

  “I guess.” I frown and breathe a deep, heavy sigh. “I just need this to go smoothly, and a better start would have really helped things along.”

  “You’re used to rough starts,” Emory reasons kindly. “Look at the way your life started, Greer. Most people would have let it sour them. Not you. You fight harder than anyone I’ve ever met,” she says with a little, knowing smirk. “Sometimes when you don’t need to.”

  I roll my eyes.

  “Just try to put away the boxing gloves,” she pleads. “Only for a little while. You might be surprised what it gets you.”

  “But I’m pretty good at boxing…”

  Emory snorts. “Greer, just try to approach this with a less cynical mind-set. And definitely leave the sass and sarcasm at the door.”

  “All right,” I agree. “I’ll try.” Skepticism and sarcasm come naturally; niceties and kind exchanges do not. The effort to change will likely be Herculean, but for Emory’s sake—and mine—I’ve got to try.

  “Good.” She takes a sip of her water and switches conversational gears. “Now, tell me something good. I barely saw you at the party the other night and since you refused to come to Marquee with me yesterday, I haven’t heard anything about how your New Year’s Eve actually went. Please tell me you didn’t bail and go to bed early.”

  I roll my eyes at her insinuation that I was actually invited to Marquee with her and Quince—as in, in some other way than I’m just being polite, but if you come, there’s a chance you’ll see us tongue-fucking each other—and think about the New Year’s Eve party instead.

  I think about Walt. I think about that incredible kiss.

  Hell, I can still practically feel his lips on mine.

  And those delicious, teasing words of his have been popping into my brain for the past thirty-six hours.

  If we were anywhere else in the fucking world but here, my next kiss would be between your legs.

  I blush unexpectedly as the delicious memory wakes up my underused loins, and she notices. “Oh my God. What happened?”

  I shake my head. My vagina wants to sing about unexpected “feelings” and “a new lease on life,” but winter in New York means I’ve covered her big fat mouth in several layers of clothing.

  The rest of me is far less chatty.

  Emory slams her hands down on the table and leans toward me. “Greer Hudson, you tell me right now!”

  Avoidance is usually the easiest way out of things I don’t want to be a part of, but with Emory, I have to sink to new levels of low. Specifically, a transfer of blame. It’s an old trick I’ve used one too many times, but she’s left me with no other options. “If you weren’t so drunk on Quince, you might already
know.”

  She smacks me. “Stop trying to make this about me.”

  Goddammit, she knows me too well.

  “Well…”

  She smiles and leans forward in her seat, perched on the edge almost comically. When it takes me more than a beat and a half to answer, she yells. “Well, what?”

  A few patrons in the diner look in our direction, and I sigh.

  “Fine.”

  I guess the most concise, base-level details won’t hurt.

  “I kissed someone,” I say, my voice a whisper compared to hers. “At midnight. It was good.”

  “Oh my God! And you’re just now telling me this? What the hell!”

  If I’m being honest, it was more than good. It was, like, masturbation-worthy good.

  But no way does Emory need to know those dirty details. Her overzealous reaction makes it obvious she wouldn’t shut up about it if she did, and I don’t have time to put out some kind of New York search party for a guy I kissed…once.

  A guy whose face was hidden behind a rubber Walt mask.

  A guy whose name I don’t even know.

  “It was nothing,” I say, my voice easy breezy. “I mean, we only interacted for about ten minutes beforehand and none after. It was…weird. He said ‘Happy New Year,’ and then he left.” I shrug. “I don’t know.”

  He also insinuated he wanted to eat my pussy, but that’s a minor detail, right?

  “What don’t you know? I mean, come on, Greer. You’re not exactly prospecting to be on The Bachelorette. You haven’t even thought about a man in the last five years that I know of. Now, you’re kissing strangers at midnight, and it’s just no big deal? I’m sure he had a reason for walking away.”

  I shrug again, and it only amps her up more.

  “Greer!” she shouts, and when I don’t respond right away, she reaches across the table and smacks my arm.

  “What?” I ask with annoyance in my voice. “It’s not like it’s going anywhere, you possessed nutcase. I don’t live in New York. I don’t know who he was. I don’t even know his fucking name! All I know of him is his knowledge of Walter White and Breaking Bad and that he’s not a complete moron like Albert Einstein. For all I know, he hated every moment of our interaction,” I huff out, but my brain reminds me of his sexy words and even sexier mouth in a rebuttal.