by Max Monroe
“You’re getting the PI, right?” I ask, and he tilts his head to the side and smirks like a bastard.
The instant the question leaves my lips, the inklings of regret start to roll around in my stomach. A PI? Really, Trent? She might be a big fucking problem, but isn’t a PI a little over-the-top?
It might be. Okay, it probably is.
But what could it hurt, really? Just because I’ll get the information doesn’t mean I’ll actually do anything with it.
“Is this your way of telling me you’re done here, sweetheart?” Cap asks, and I nod.
“Yep.”
“Consider your dirty work done.” His grin grows wider. “And consider yourself mere weeks away from knowing what pretty little Greer feels like—”
Instantly, I cut him off before he can say any more obnoxious shit. “Goodbye, Cap.”
Without another word, I head for the door, but not without lifting my middle finger over my shoulder.
Cap, however, has one final comment before the door closes behind me.
He’s laughing as he says it, and his voice carries all the way to the other side of the building.
“Sexual destruction in five, four, three, two, one…KABOOM!”
Cap
The instant Turn leaves my office, I lean back in my chair and have a good laugh at his expense. I don’t make a point to laugh at my friends behind their backs, but fuck, he came in here with guns blazing and insanity predicting his every word.
Greer Hudson. A woman who, apparently, holds the power to turn an otherwise intelligent man crazy.
I like her already.
I might’ve told Turn a little white lie about hiring a private investigator to hunt down some dirty secrets on his sexy archnemesis, but that doesn’t mean I actually planned to follow through.
Sure, I know people, all kinds of fucking people, but my good buddy doesn’t need a PI.
He needs to get laid.
Eventually, though, curiosity gets the best of me, and I snag my phone off my desk and type the name Greer Hudson into the search bar on Facebook.
Instantly, thirty Greer Hudsons fill the results, and I start the process of elimination.
Hometown: Portland, Oregon. Nope. Next.
Age: Sixteen years old. Not her. Although, that would really make this interesting.
Occupation: Kindergarten teacher. Unless she’s schooling Turn on humbleness, this forty-year-old Greer Hudson isn’t her.
By the time I reach the fifteenth Greer Hudson, I’m certain I’ve found my match.
New Orleans, Louisiana.
Thirty-three years old.
Owner of Hudson Designs.
Bingo.
Without any preamble, I click on her profile and scroll through the pictures I can see without being Facebook friends. And it doesn’t take long for me to understand Turn’s momentary insanity.
While she may be a real stubborn pain in his ass, she is, without a doubt, a fucking beauty.
Long brown hair. Crystal-clear blue eyes. Greer Hudson is what most would call stunning.
Perfectly proportioned and curves in the most delicious of places, this fury-inducing designer is sex on a pair of mile-long legs, topped off with a great set of perky tits.
I laugh hard. I can’t help it.
Trent is so fucked.
Hell, it’s no wonder he came in here shouting about firing her for shit like property damage and undisclosed pregnancies.
Goddamn. I probably shouldn’t be so amused, but I am.
And I’m more certain than ever.
These two enemies are in for the fucking of their lives. Hell, I’m almost jealous of their future orgasms.
When my assistant buzzes my intercom to let me know my next conference call has been rescheduled by thirty minutes, I click out of Facebook and type out a text to the one and only person who needs to be pulled into Turn’s wild web.
Me: You still pissed about Sophia?
His response is instant. And far more forgiving than I deserve.
But that’s Quince for you. Always kind. Always calm. Always positive.
Quince: Nah. I know things like thinking get hard when your dick is involved. Consider yourself forgiven, you bastard.
“Get hard when your dick is involved.” Fucking hell. It takes everything inside me to hold my sarcastic, witty tongue and stay serious.
Me: Thanks, Q. You’re a real class act.
Quince: I know.
I grin and type another message.
Me: Now that we’ve kissed and made up, I have some news. Meet me after work at Murray’s Pub.
Quince: Your news is going to have to wait. I have dinner plans with Emory. I’m taking her to her favorite New York restaurant before we have to head back to New Orleans tomorrow.
Me: Aw, look at you all romantic and shit.
That’s cute and all, Q being a good little boyfriend and taking his gal for a night on the town, but it’s not helping me. Though, with me being the brilliant bastard that I am, it doesn’t take long before I get an idea and send the bait.
Me: What’s her favorite New York eatery?
And, as expected, he bites like a fucking fish.
Quince: Le Bernardin.
“Hey, Liz,” I call out to my assistant through my intercom system. “Call Le Bernardin, act like you’re Quincy Black’s assistant, and find out what time his dinner reservations are tonight.”
Her response is quick and to the point. “On it.”
“Oh, and get them to change the reservation from two to three.”
“Only if this doesn’t lead to me being an accessory to a murder.”
I grin and hit the intercom to answer. “Would I ever put you in that kind of situation?”
The only response I get is silence. Fucking crickets.
“Fine, Liz,” I chuckle into the intercom. “No murders. Promise.”
She sighs, literally sighs, into the receiver. “I’ll call Le Bernardin now.”
I smirk at her lackluster response, and before I get lost in the rest of my work day, I grab my phone and begin one last but very important text conversation.
Me: Full check complete.
Lucky for me, he responds right away.
Turn: Huh?
Me: The PI. He completed his check. Very thorough. FBI, CIA, FB, IG, 23andMe. You name it, and he did it.
Turn: I just left your office, like, an hour ago…
Me: My guy is good.
My guy is me. And I am good. So, yeah, technically, I’m not lying.
Turn: Did he find anything?
Me: Well…I’m not sure how to break this to you…
Turn: Break what to me?
Me: She’s wanted.
Turn: WHAT?
I grin like the devil as I type out another cryptic message.
Me: In all fifty states.
Turn: WANTED FOR WHAT?
Fuck, I wish I could keep this going for just a teensy bit longer, but I have too much work to catch up on. So, I throw in the towel and give him what I know.
Me: Just kidding. She’s clean as a fucking whistle.
Greer Hudson isn’t anything but a thorn in his side.
Not a criminal. Or a drug addict. Or some freaky dominatrix who ties people up and whips them. She’s simply a beautiful woman who makes Trent Turner crazy.
Turn: You didn’t hire a PI, did you?
Obviously, I didn’t, but that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t be allowed the opportunity to slow roll him a bit.
Me: Are you calling me a liar?
Not even twenty seconds later, my phone vibrates in my hand.
Turn: Yes, you lying motherfucker, I am. No PI completes a “thorough” check in one fucking hour.
I can see the text bubbles moving up and down on the screen, indicating he’s primed and ready, and I send another quick response before he can shoot me a ramble full of fuck yous.
Me: You’re welcome for saving your ass and preventing you from doing someth
ing stupid.
Instantly, the text bubbles stop and never return.
Obviously, I do know people. But I’m not hiring a PI because Trent has a hate-boner for his new employee.
And everyone thinks Quince is the most reliable friend.
Pfft.
Emory
I look at the time on my phone and see it’s quarter after seven. Instantly, my eyes move toward the entrance of the restaurant and then take a quick detour heavenward when my boyfriend is nowhere in sight.
And here I sit, inside Le Bernardin, one of my favorite New York restaurants, all by myself.
A sigh escapes my lungs as I pick at the white napkin wrapped around my cutlery.
For some reason, I spend the majority of my life waiting on people.
My best friend Greer can’t be on time to save her life, and it seems, now that they’ve met, her tardiness has spread to my boyfriend like a parasite.
I look at my phone to see if Quince has texted or called to let me know how long he’ll be, but I’m redirected when my sassy sister from another mister slides a text into my inbox.
Greer: I can’t believe you’re ditching me to have dinner with your boyfriend.
Greer: In New York, of all places, btw. It’s like you’re just asking me to get mugged or kidnapped or something.
This snarky bitch grew up in New Orleans. She spent her weekends working at her grandfather’s restaurant, which means she also spent her weekends strong-arming drunk Mardi Gras tourists.
I’ve literally seen her punch a guy three times her size in the balls.
A punch to the face you’d expect.
Even a kick to the family jewels is understandable.
But a fist to some drunken asshole’s balls? That’s the kind of crazy shit I’ve learned to expect from Greer.
Needless to say, this isn’t the kind of chick who would get kidnapped. If anything, the kidnapper wouldn’t last two minutes before returning her.
I scoff to myself and type out a quick response. Giving attitude is, without a doubt, her most readily available skill.
She serves it as both a means of self-preservation and amusement, and she’s been that way for as long as I can remember.
And that’s a long time.
Me: Why is that something you can’t believe? Quince is actually nice to me.
Greer and I first met at St. Augustine School in the first grade. She was toothy and full of piss and vinegar back then. She cursed and spat and did everything my mother had told me a lady never did. At the time, I didn’t understand it was because she was being raised by a man and a boy in the absence of her parents, but I didn’t need to.
As a first-grader born into privilege and swanky parties, I thought Greer’s aggressive take on life seemed almost otherworldly cool.
She was outspoken and didn’t take shit off anyone.
She was the six-year-old who stood up for me with a mouthful of sass and curse words a child her age never should’ve said when Sara Ruey told me I had ugly hair.
She was a shit-talking, outrageous enigma, and I wanted to be her with a desperation I didn’t understand.
Ironically, she would have given anything to be me.
I had two parents who loved me and everything material the world had to offer at my fingertips. She had pictures of the parents she’d never met, a uniform that was a size too small, and a pair of gym shoes her grandfather snagged from the Goodwill. Scuffed-up, beaten-down Nikes that she snazzed up with black-inked doodles of hearts and skulls and her name.
But for as much as we wished for the traits of each other when we were kids, our dynamic still hasn’t changed today.
Greer is still the same cursing girl with a secret heart of gold, and I’m the friend who loves her for it.
Greer: I’m nice to you! The amount is just expertly tailored to make sure you don’t get spoiled by it.
I roll my eyes. She may not think so, but she’s so fucking predictable, it’s ridiculous.
Me: Sure, that’s it. Just like I’m sure you’re not already in your pajamas, eating room service, and giving me shit just for the hell of it.
Greer: What kind of person would do that?
I smirk and tap one manicured finger on the table while I use my free hand to type out a three-letter text.
Me: You.
Greer: Fine. I’m halfway through a cheese quesadilla and a brownie the size of my head. This hotel may have shitty taste in decor, but they’ve got good food. I’ll give them that.
Greer: Seriously. You can’t deny this hotel’s style is like Exorcist-level scary.
I shake my head at her inability to get out of her own way and glance to the door again for Quincy. Still nothing.
I sigh and type out more advice she probably won’t heed.
Me: Maybe you should practice not calling it shitty now.
Greer: That’s no fun. I like my way.
Me: Whatever.
Greer: Is this you being done with our conversation?
Me: Yep.
Greer: P.S. Enjoy your date with my superfan.
I’m typing out a response when a feel a gentle hand on my shoulder. I drop my phone into my purse and look up instead.
“Hey, baby,” Quince greets, pushing his lips to mine for a quick kiss that makes me shiver. Even after three months together, I still get goose bumps when he simply says hello.
The mere realization of that urges a smile to kiss my lips.
Unfortunately, the sweet little swoony pebbles on my skin turn into the R.L. Stine version as he steps to the side to reveal his friend Caplin. Dressed down in jeans and wearing an actual flannel shirt, he looks more like a farmer than the top corporate lawyer and billion-dollar entrepreneur Quince has painted him to be.
I force a phony laugh and look to Quince imploringly. I was expecting this to be a date, not boys’ hour at the tractor pull. “I know we’re still kind of new, honey, but I should tell you now—one man is absolutely all I can handle.”
Quincy’s smile grows, and he’s really fucking lucky I like the way it looks on him so much. “That’s fine. Because I can’t handle any.”
I grin—I can’t help it when he looks at me like that—and he mouths the word sorry.
The chair scrapes across the carpeted floor as he takes his seat. Caplin has already made himself at home, not letting the exchange between Quincy and me deter him at all. His brown hair is messy, and a five-o’clock shadow is in full effect on his chin, but I suppose it rounds out his impression of Farmer John quite well.
A handsome-as-hell Farmer John who, from what I hear, way too many women drop their panties for, but still, he looks ridiculous.
And fucking oblivious that he’s the third wheel.
I watch as he snags one of the two menus sitting on the table and just starts scrolling through his food options.
“Cap wants to have a quick chat with me after dinner, and since he managed to find his way to the restaurant, he decided he might as well use this opportunity to make a really great impression on you before we head back to New Orleans,” Quincy offers in an attempt to give me an explanation. It’s not the real explanation, I’m almost certain of that, but it’s an explanation all the same. “Isn’t that right, Cap?”
Caplin jerks his head up. “What?” he says, complimentary bread from the table hanging haphazardly from his lips. He pulls the excess away, sets it on his plate, and chews quickly. “Oh. Yes. Best of impressions. That’s really important to me.”
Dear God.
“Did you have some kind of laundry mishap?” I ask. “An explosion at your dry cleaner’s, perhaps?”
“Nope.” If he has any shame, it’s somewhere else—across the globe. The corners of his lips curl up as he holds eye contact until I look away.
“Just another person who wouldn’t know fashion if it smacked them in the face, then?”
“You look at it how you want, honey. I like the way I dress just fine.” He smiles around another bite of bread, c
ompletely unaffected by my words or the fact that he is ruining my dinner date with my boyfriend.
My eyes widen as I implore Quincy to do something. He just grins like his gal and his pal are getting along better than he ever could have imagined.
“Maybe you should introduce me to one of your female friends who hasn’t managed to meet your standards,” he suggests with an ease that makes my blood boil a bit. “Although, that might be a big ask, huh? I mean, you probably don’t allow those kinds of people in your inner circle. Gotta keep up the right appearances and shit like that.”
“Don’t be an ass.” I roll my eyes. “Anyway, the only friend of mine who might possibly understand your current attire isn’t looking for love. Especially with a New Yorker. Greer made that clear at lunch today.”
“I’m not looking for love either—wait. Did you say Greer? Her last name wouldn’t happen to be Hudson, would it?”
How the fuck does he know her full name?
Immediately, I stiffen my defenses. “Yes. Why?”
His chuckle is big enough that he actually has to stop inhaling the free bread basket for a second and a half. “Oh, nothing.” He smirks.