The Billionaire Boss Next Door

by Max Monroe

  A week ago, we were enemies. And now, we’re this. We’re speeding past friendship in a rocket designed to break the sound barrier, and it’s all I can do to keep my footing.

  My God, he tastes good.

  Like mint and chocolate, his mouth is the most perfect flavor of ice cream.

  It’s only when I start to moan—loudly—that he pulls away and asks the only question that could bring me back to reality.

  “Do you want to come in for a little while?”

  His eyes are full of longing and persuasion, and I have to look away to get my bearings. The ceiling is just about my only option, and he leans forward to press his lips to the skin of my neck that’s now exposed.

  I quiver, but my survival instinct kicks in and helps me form a rational thought.

  “Did you get a TV?” I ask.

  His no is nothing more than a shake against my neck.

  It takes everything in me—literally every fiber of my being—but I somehow give him a gentle push away.

  He goes without protest, but he pulls his eyebrows together.

  “Greer?”

  “I don’t think I should. Come in, that is.”

  “Why?” he questions bluntly, not pulling any punches.

  I do him the same courtesy. He deserves to know exactly what’s on my mind and why it is.

  Not some frilly excuse that confuses us both.

  “Because you’re my boss, Trent.”

  “You think I’m that kind of guy?” he asks, but his tone isn’t defensive. Just curious and trying to understand. “That I’d hold our relationship against you?”

  “I don’t think you’re any kind of guy, Trent. I don’t even think it’s a kind of guy who does things like that. I think it’s someone who’s hurting and lashing out.” His eyes soften. “But up until about a week ago, I was still convinced I hated you, and I don’t think all that well while experiencing whiplash.”

  He chuckles, the smile it creates sticking to his face long after the laughter leaves.

  “This job means a lot to me. More than a lot. And I’d like to think I’m smart enough not to jeopardize everything I’ve worked for on an outcome I can’t predict.”

  “You can’t see the outcome of this?” he asks. “Really? I’ve got a crystal ball in the closet. We can fire it up—”

  “Trent.”

  “I get it.” My chest releases the tightness, and I’m relieved not to be having a heart attack, but when he takes another step back from me, separating our bodies completely, the emptiness I feel is almost crippling. “I don’t like it…but I get it.”

  “I don’t like it either,” I admit. “But I think it’s for the best.”

  His lips are warm and soft as he presses them to my cheek.

  “Goodnight, Greer.”

  “Goodnight, Trent.”

  I move just enough that he can squeeze inside his door, and I stand there in the hallway long after he’s gone.

  I feel justified in my decision, and my mind says it’s the right one.

  My body disagrees.

  If only it were simple.

  Trent

  My phone buzzes in my pocket and I pull it out to see a text from Cap.

  Cap: What the fuck happened with Susie Gimble the other night? She called me on a tirade, saying you stood her up.

  Me: Something important came up.

  Cap: So, you just didn’t go?

  Me: No, I went. I was there. But, like I said, something important came up.

  Cap: If you tell me it was because of your fucking job, I will personally come down to New Orleans and murder you.

  Me: I had to go see about a girl.

  Cap: You fuck. You know Good Will Hunting makes me emotional.

  Normally, I’d use this opportunity to rile his apparent sensitive ass a bit, but I’m in the middle of something that deserves all of my time and attention. And more than that, something that I want to give all of my time and attention to.

  I don’t make a habit out of taking women on dates to lighting and fixture stores. The atmosphere isn’t exactly romantic, and they don’t let you drink wine while you shop.

  But now that Greer has made it clear that dating is out of the picture, I’ve had to find ways to date her in secret.

  And by “in secret,” I mean without her knowing.

  I know; it’s complicated.

  Still, it means I get to spend time with her—quality time I don’t get when we’re at work with everyone else—and she gets to be comfortable enough to feel secure in both her job and herself.

  Really, it’s a win for everyone. Especially for me.

  “Trent,” she calls now, from up on top of a ladder, head inside of a chandelier. “Are you even listening to me?”

  The answer is no. No, I was not. Actually, I was enjoying the view that is Greer’s mile-long legs and perfectly round ass.

  But she doesn’t need to know that.

  “Yes.”

  “Well then, what do you think of this one?” she asks, her voice echoing inside of the chandelier. “It would be in the elevator lobby area of every floor. I think it goes with the marble inlay we decided to do.”

  On a real date, I’d probably just tell her I like whatever she likes. But since this is technically a work outing, I have to think like the boss. And not, like, a naughty porn type of boss either. A regular, this is an employee type of boss.

  “What’s the price?”

  She pulls her head out of the light, cranes her neck to look directly at me, and makes big puppy-dog eyes.

  I brace for the blow.

  “Two thousand.”

  “Two thousand times twelve floors is twenty-four thousand. On elevator lobby lights.”

  I’m skeptical, and she can tell. She doesn’t hesitate to start rationalizing. Something, I’ve learned, she’s really good at when she wants to get her way.

  “Yeah, but they set the tone. The rest of the floors have boring old recessed lights and sconces. This is your main expense on lighting. You know, except for the main reception chandelier, but let’s not even focus on that now.”

  “How far outside of budget does it put us?”

  “It doesn’t,” she shouts with glee, climbing down from the ladder slowly. I pay particularly close attention to her thighs as her skirt rides up a little. “It’s outside of the lighting budget, specifically, but we came in under budget on the bathroom tiling. So, really, it’s like it’s all even Steven.”

  “How much under budget were we on the tiling?” I muse.

  She frowns, caught. “Okay, so it was only twelve dollars under budget, but I bet we can come under on the furniture budget too. I have some really great contacts who will give us excellent discount pricing.”

  “What are the chances of you leaving this store without these lights?” I ask, cutting to the chase.

  “None. You should give in now.”

  I sigh and look back to the light she’s picked out. It’s timeless and classy and needs to be in the Vanderturn New Orleans.

  “Fine,” I say, wagging a finger to put on a big show about giving in. “But don’t say I never gave you anything.”

  She jumps up and down twice, and then, finally, when the excitement is too much, bounds forward to wrap her arms around me in a hug. I inhale directly from her hair.

  It smells like lavender and citrus.

  When she ends the hug and steps back, putting her professional face back on and moving on to the next line item, I use a little knowledge to balm the sting of the loss.

  Knowledge, you see, that I told her the budget was half of what it was, meaning we really did come in below budget and I got a hug from the woman I now fantasize about endlessly.

  It might make me a spineless prick, but these are desperate times. When I’m trying to play this many roles all at once, I have to be creative.

  “So, what else do we need to look at?” I ask as she wanders the store, her eyes little sparkling saucers of wonder.

&
nbsp; It’s more than apparent that she’s chosen the right career. It takes a special kind of person to find this much joy in fucking lighting.

  “Bathroom faucets, bar faucet, showerheads, and bathroom lighting. I found everything else already, but these few things have been eluding me like a parolee with crack in his pocket.”

  I shake my head and grin. She is one of the funniest women—no, one of the funniest people, man or woman—I’ve ever met in my life.

  She always has some kind of joke in her back pocket, and it’s always effortless.

  I swear, I could sell tickets for following her around for the day to people.

  Once word of mouth spread, she’d be sold out well beyond her lifespan.

  “Interesting analogy,” I say, but what I really want to do is kiss her.

  If I’ve replayed that kiss—our amazing fucking kiss outside my apartment door—in my head ten times, I’ve replayed it a thousand.

  Fuck, two months ago, I never would’ve believed not kissing Greer would feel like a near impossible task, but here I am. Constantly wanting to kiss her.

  “I don’t go to sleep with a dictionary and thesaurus under my pillow for nothing, Junior,” she teases, and it takes me a minute to even remember what in the fuck we were talking about. “You gotta be quick-witted and prolific if you want to make it in this world.”

  “Oh yeah?” I question with a smirk. “How am I doing?”

  “Eh,” she squints. “Your projected length of survival tapers off around a decade.”

  “Wow,” I bark through a laugh. “That short, huh?”

  “Short?” She shakes her head. “A decade is pretty good. Most people I know aren’t likely to make it through the week.”

  “Well, then. I guess I’ll take it as a compliment.”

  I follow her around the store for another three hours, watching and waiting as she picks through fixture after fixture and rejects ninety percent of them.

  It’s mindless and monotonous and loaded with stupid minutia and detail.

  But it’s also one of the best afternoons of my life.

  I don’t know what I’ll come up with next, but I start plotting immediately. Secret dates with Greer are definitely going to become a regular thing.

  Greer

  “I feel weird coming with you and Quince. Don’t you guys want to go alone instead of having a rickety—though, otherwise fabulous—third wheel?”

  “No way!” Emory says, elbowing me out of the way to use the mirror in my bathroom to apply her fifth coat of mascara. “It’s a party. You won’t be third wheel-like at all. If anything, you might actually get to pick up a wheel of your own.”

  “Which perfectly summarizes the other part of this plan I hate. Thank you.”

  “Come on.” She rolls her eyes. “You hardly go out. You eat, sleep, and breathe that fucking hotel. Lately, even your weekdays and weekends are suddenly filled with fixture and furniture shopping with your boss. Don’t you want to let loose a little? Have fun?”

  She’s right. Recently, I’ve been doing a lot of hotel-focused shopping with Trent.

  And the funny thing is, it doesn’t feel like work at all. If anything, it’s become the highlight of my week.

  Last weekend, we hit up a flea market just outside of New Orleans so I could scavenge out some interesting vintage items to be used for décor. It rained the entire fucking time, but God, it was a blast.

  I mean, I might’ve been fantasizing about kissing him nearly the entire drive there…and while we were there, and when we drove home, and then when we said goodnight outside our apartments, but that’s my cross to bear.

  Honestly, when it comes to spending time with Trent, not thinking about kissing him is the only true hardship.

  Everything else is simply fun. Enjoyable. Time-of-my-life kind of moments.

  But I’d never in a million years tell Emory that.

  Because…it’s Emory. The big ole sappy romantic who still cries whenever she watches Dirty Dancing.

  “No,” I eventually respond, snarkily. “I hate fun and happiness of any kind. I like to suffer and dwell, and when I’m really energetic, I leave myself little insults on my mirror in the morning.”

  “This is why you don’t have a man, you know?”

  “Really? I thought all-consuming negativity was attractive.”

  She elbows me right in the boob, and I wheeze.

  Son of a bitch.

  “Not the faux negativity, sasshole,” she growls in my face. “The bitterness that lives in your every word.” One manicured finger touches the tip of my nose to punctuate each syllable. It’s really annoying.

  I grab her finger and pull it away, slapping it with my other hand before I release it.

  “Isn’t the whole point to find someone who loves you for you?” I question with a raise of my brow. “I can’t go around hiding my sarcasm. That’s what makes me interesting.”

  “It’s what makes you intimidating,” she corrects.

  “You know what, E? Maybe the world needs a few more intimidating women. Why the hell do I have to be meek to be attractive?”

  She considers me for a second before squeezing my cheek like a patronizing grandma. “I guess you’re right.” Then she laughs. “It just means there are a lot fewer fish in the barrel to choose from.”

  “Good,” I say. “I’d much rather my barrel have one goddamn superfish than a bunch of stupid ones.”

  Emory’s smile is a little wonky, almost like she’s proud of me in some profound way.

  I’ve never felt the love of a mother’s touch, but as Emory smooths a gentle hand across my cheek, I imagine that’s what it must be like.

  “All right, you superfish hussy. Finish getting ready. I promised Quincy we wouldn’t be late.”

  She smacks my ass as she leaves the bathroom, and I wink. It’s so cute that she thinks I give a shit about being on time for Quincy. The only people I answer to in a timely manner are my boss and the IRS.

  I swipe on some eyeshadow and mascara and run a clear lip gloss over my lips with the tip of my finger.

  After one last glance in the mirror, I flick off the light and walk back out through the bedroom, down the hall, and into the living room where Emory is waiting on the sofa, tapping her high-heeled foot pointedly.

  “Jesus Christ, it’s about time!” she says, jumping up from the couch and grabbing her purse.

  I purse my lips and roll my eyes. “All I did was put on eyeshadow and mascara, you freak.”

  “Greer, you were in there for thirty minutes!” she shrieks.

  Really?

  I glance at the clock over my refrigerator, and it confirms she is, indeed, correct.

  Jesus. What is wrong with me? How do I waste so much time?

  I’m still considering the complexities of my time management when she grabs me by the hand and drags me to the door like a rag doll with only my keys and cell phone in tow.

  “Wait!” I snap. “I don’t even have my purse.”

  “Leave it,” she says. “If it means getting out of this apartment right this minute, I’ll buy all your drinks for the night!”

  Wow. I should play it this way more often.

  “What if they ID me?” I argue as she’s closing my door and locking it with what I guess is her parents’ key.

  “Hate to break it to you, but no one will question that you’re over twenty-one.”

  I flip her off for the insult, and a memory hits me right in the chest and makes me glance to Trent’s door.

  “Some people think I look younger than I am, you know. They’ve told me so.”

  She hoots. “Was it a guy?”

  I frown. “Maybe.”

  “He probably just wanted to sleep with you.”

  I pull my eyebrows together, and my grateful, wistful expression at Trent’s door turns into a glare.

  It’s not even fifteen seconds before I’m heading in that direction and pounding on it.

  Emory’s not pleased. “Greer
! Fucking hell! We don’t have time to visit your damn neighbors!”

  Trent answers in under a minute, right when I’m winding up to kick the door with my foot.

  His eyebrows jump to his hairline at my raised ankle-boot-covered foot, and immediately, he covers his nuts.

  Man, our relationship is weird.

  I put my foot down to lower the threat level but deepen my glare.

  “Um, hello?” he says. “Have I done something wrong?”

  “Do you want to sleep with me?” I ask without preamble or context.

  His eyes nearly bug out of his head, and Emory smacks me in the arm with her purse.

  “Uh…well…wait…what?” Trent stumbles as Emory yells, “What the hell is wrong with you?”

  I gesture wildly, pointing to each of us like none of us knows who the other is. “He,” I yell, “is the one who says I look younger than I am.” I swing my finger over to Emory. “You are the one who says that means he wants to sleep with me.”

  I swing my finger back over to Trent and then wave it between his body and my own like a lunatic. “So, I’m asking. Do you want to sleep with me?”

  Emory jumps between us like a referee and gets directly in Trent’s face. “I’m begging you…do not answer that.”

  “Why the hell not?” I shout.

  “Because if he says yes, you’re going to flip out. And if he says no, you’re going to slip into a depression for the rest of the night, thinking you’re not attractive or something. And I’d really like to go to the party with the absolute sanest version of you possible, though that’s really not saying much.”

  I flip her off again, and she shrugs.

  I look back at Trent, and he lifts his shoulders too. Clearly, he’s been convinced not to answer.

  Emory thanks him and grabs my hand again, dragging me down the hall as he watches us go.

  He even steps out of the doorway and crosses his arms over his chest, like he plans to keep watching until we’re out of sight. It’s not until we’re almost to the stairwell that the urge overwhelms me.

  “Why don’t you come with us?”