The Billionaire Boss Next Door

by Max Monroe

It’s out of my mouth in an instant, and surprisingly, I don’t want to take it back.

  Trent and I always have a good time together, and he’s friends with Emory’s boyfriend anyway. It works out perfectly. Plus, he seems to enjoy my penchant for snark. Not once does he ever ask me to tone it down.

  Unlike some people I know…cough, cough…Emory…cough…

  “Goddammit, can you do nothing in a timely fashion, woman?” my best friend questions with a high-pitched, incredibly annoyed squeal to her voice.

  Trent uncrosses his arms to reveal his sculpted, white-button-down-covered chest as I break free from Emory and approach him again.

  “You want me to come?” he asks, looking down at me from his place way up higher in the air. I don’t know that I’ve ever paid attention to exactly how tall he is before now, but he’s got to be six two. “Are you sure?”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, I was going to head back to work. And I am your boss. I might cramp your style.”

  “Pshh,” I say with a wave of my hand. “Take the rest of the night off, you workaholic. And you’re not just the boss. You’re the billionaire boss next door, and…” I laugh as it hits me that what I’m about to say is true. “My friend.” Who knows when it happened, but Trent is one of my friends.

  A friend you keep thinking about kissing…

  I shake off that annoying thought and focus on the facts. Trent laughs at my jokes, keeps up with my tangents, and doesn’t flip out when I act like myself. All in all, I’d say he’s one of the friendiest-friends I’ve ever had.

  “All right,” he agrees then. “Should I change?”

  I’m just about to tell him he looks perfect when Emory butts in. “No. For the love of God, you should not change.”

  In the end, it’s probably better that she answered first.

  I smile, and Trent does the same.

  “I’ll just grab my wallet,” he says, and I grab his arm with an evil smile before turning back to Emory.

  “Don’t bother. Emory says drinks are on her tonight.”

  Trent laughs. Em glares. I grin.

  It’s safe to say this is turning out to be a fantastic night.

  Trent

  Quincy’s eyebrows are so high as the three of us walk into the party at Bourbon Bar, one of the busiest places on Bourbon Street, they make it look like he’s got an actual hairline. And trust me, he hasn’t had one of those in years.

  Lights flash, music pounds, and a belly dancer prances by, followed by a college-aged girl with no bra and a neck full of beads. The crowd is a mix of working professionals and partying twentysomethings, and a few tourists snap pictures of everything neon like a cop at a crime scene.

  Carnival is one of the busiest times of the year in this city, and from what I’ve seen, the most colorful. I’ve never been here during it as an adult, but thanks to the strange and unusual shit I’ve witnessed in New York, the learning curve when it comes to ignoring things is quick. Especially with Greer’s ass swaying from side to side in front of me.

  “Trent,” Quince says after giving Emory a kiss and tucking her under his arm. “Funny how you said you were working when I invited you to this originally, and now, here you are. What in the world could have changed?”

  Greer’s gone straight to the bar with Emory’s credit card without saying hello to Quince or anything to the rest of us, and I take the opportunity to be at least partially candid. I’m not going to go into any details, but I’m not in the mood to bullshit either.

  “I got a better invitation.”

  Quince’s eyes lock on to Greer at the bar, and he laughs. She’s wearing skintight jeans, a tight, low-cut blush-colored top, and little heeled boots. Her hair is down, her eyes are light, and I want to fuck her so badly, my cock hasn’t softened since she asked me if I wanted to sleep with her at my door.

  “I’ll bet,” he says, clearly seeing exactly what I see—one of the most beautiful, smartass women either one of us has ever met.

  “I never thought we’d make it here,” Emory interjects. “I could feel myself aging. I think I have new wrinkles.”

  Quincy is amused but wisely opposed. “Nope. No new wrinkles, baby. You’re perfect.”

  “What a romantic,” a voice I recognize says from behind me. I spin quickly, and I’m right, my ears are not deceiving me. “And by romantic,” he adds, “I mean schmuck.”

  “Cap?” I question, “What the hell are you doing here?”

  “Turn!” he yells, clearly already enjoying himself immensely. He claps my hand and pulls me in for a bro-hug before backing away again.

  “I didn’t get to mention,” Quince interjects. “While I was waiting for you guys, I found another surprise guest.”

  “Oh my God,” Emory says, her voice an unconcealed bucket of deep disappointment. “Why is this night turning into torture?”

  Quincy laughs, obviously thinking her disgust for Cap is in jest. I’m pretty sure he’s wrong, but I’m not going to be the one to let him in on it.

  “What are you doing here?” I ask Caplin again, watching in my periphery as Greer weaves her way back toward us through the crowd.

  “I had an emergency client meeting. Figured I’d stick around to have a little Carnival fun.” He waggles his eyebrows, and the possibilities of what he might mean by that activates my gag reflex.

  “Please,” I say. “Spare me the details.”

  “Don’t worry, my prudish friend,” he says with an obnoxious laugh. “The details have yet to commence.” His attention pulls away from me and to the side, and his voice turns into the one that makes him sound like a creepy, horny bastard. “Though, it might be changing verrry soon.”

  I follow his gaze, and unfortunately, land right on Greer.

  She looks up at me and smiles, and Cap steps right in between us. “Hello,” he says, reaching out to help her with carrying her drinks. She’s got three in her hand, presumably one for herself, one for me, and one for Emory, as Quincy was already working on a beer when we got here.

  She laughs as he swipes two of them into each of his hands and still manages to touch her arm flirtatiously. “That looked like a heavy load for a pretty girl like you,” he comments, and I roll my eyes.

  I step around him to intervene, but Greer doesn’t need me to. No, she’s got him handled all on her own.

  “Oh yeah?” she says.

  “Yeah,” he agrees.

  Her eyes narrow. “Is this where you transition into offering to grace me with an altogether different heavy load? One you’ll proudly dispense on my tits or right across my face?”

  Quincy chokes on his beer and sprays it all over his girlfriend—who shrieks—while I step up to take the two drinks from Cap’s hands. He’s still standing there staring at Greer, his mouth gulping like a fish on land as he, most likely, falls in love.

  “Woman, what is your name, and where have you been all my life?” he asks with a hand to his chest. I elbow him out of the way and discreetly shuffle Greer to my side as she answers.

  “Greer Hudson, and I’ve lived in New Orleans since the day I was born.”

  Seemingly waking up from his spell, he does a double take, looking from her to me and back again as he confirms, “Greer Hudson?”

  “That’s me.” She smiles. “My grandfather named me after Greer Garson, his absolute favorite actress.”

  “You’re even better than expected,” Cap says while I’m busy pondering the little nugget of information about herself she’s just given so freely.

  “I’m sorry,” Greer responds. “It seems you know me, but I have no idea who you are.”

  Caplin offers a hand and a beaming smile. “Caplin Hawkins. Lawyer and friend to both of these bozos.”

  He jerks a thumb back and forth between Quincy and me, and Emory jumps in with a comment of her own. “And the most annoying human being on earth.”

  Greer laughs. “I thought that was me?”

  Emory shakes her head and grabs the drink c
learly meant for her out of my hand. “I know. So did I. Apparently, the world is full of all kinds of surprises.”

  I’m left with a beer, and though it’s not my preferred drink, it’s a hell of a lot better than most of the other options she could have chosen at random. Including the mystery wine Greer is taking sips of and the fruity-looking cocktail Emory just procured.

  The conversation only devolves from there.

  On the one hand, it’s extremely disappointing not to have the alone time with Greer I was expecting. But on the other, it’s really great to have a night out with her and my friends.

  I haven’t done anything like this since before my mom was diagnosed, and it feels good to kick back and have a good time with people who know me.

  As an added bonus, Greer and Caplin’s banter is among the best I’ve ever witnessed.

  I was jealous at first. Almost wildly so, but the more the night’s gone on, the more and more obvious it is what a disaster they’d be if they ever tried to get together.

  “No!” Greer yells now, bouncing on the seat next to me and climbing up onto her knees to make herself seem bigger. I’m not sure if she thinks it’ll make her argument more convincing or what, but it’s fucking adorable. “Married at First Sight is the one where they get married without knowing the other person. 90 Day Fiancé is where they mail-order brides and grooms.”

  Clearly, they’re arguing over groundbreakingly important things.

  “What’s the difference?” Caplin snorts. “Neither one of them knows anything about the person they’re marrying. And for what? Just so they can say they have some shitty piece of paper?”

  “Ha!” Greer shrieks. “It’s obvious you don’t watch them. You’re just another man who’s cynical about marriage. How motherfucking original.”

  I wince at her volume, putting a hand over my ear closest to her to protect my hearing, but I laugh at her impassioned debate about reality TV.

  Caplin sits back, officially frustrated. “I give up.”

  “Thank God,” Emory mutters, dropping her head into her hands while Greer does a victory dance beside me. “Please, baby Jesus, can we have some fun now?”

  Greer nods and Caplin shrugs. Quincy throws both of his hands up in the air to shout “Hallelujah!”

  I hold out a hand to help Greer up, and she takes it without hesitation. Caplin takes notice, raising an eyebrow at me in question, but I ignore him completely.

  There’s no fucking way I’m getting into the convoluted details of all this shit with him now. I’ve already wasted enough of my time with Greer tonight listening to him talk.

  As we leave the party and walk down Bourbon Street, the excitement of Carnival dances on all around us. It’s still a little while until actual Mardi Gras, but it’s safe to say the partying that comes along with it is in full swing.

  People hang out on balconies and toss beads down to passersby, and the music booms loudly from every restaurant and bar we pass.

  Confetti from the parade earlier today litters the streets, and you can’t go five feet without bumping into another body.

  The crowds and chaos are everything I hate about being in New Orleans, and yet, I’m having the time of my life.

  And I have a feeling it’s mostly because Greer is walking next to me, holding my hand.

  I take the opportunity as we stroll along to get in some private conversation with her. Her eyes are everywhere, taking in everything like a kid in a candy store for the first time.

  “Have you ever celebrated Mardi Gras on Bourbon Street before?”

  She shakes her head and laughs. “Nope. Thirty-three years in this city, and I’ve never done it.”

  “Why not?”

  She shrugs. “I don’t know. I guess it was just never the right time. It wasn’t my grandfather’s thing, and it’s certainly not my brother’s. We usually do low-key dinners together, and that’s about it. His idea of excitement is changing up his usual brand of socks.”

  My chuckle echoes off the building next to us and lingers. “People could probably say the same about me.”

  She laughs. “You like a certain kind of sock, huh?”

  “Doesn’t everyone?”

  She shakes her head and laughs. “I put on whatever socks come out of the drawer first. I usually don’t even take the time to match them when I pull them out of the laundry.”

  “Blasphemy,” I breathe dramatically.

  We’re both silent for a minute before she speaks again. This time, her voice is soft, and I have to listen harder to hear all the words. “You know, if you wanted to ask me about my parents now…I’d tell you.”

  I smile and squeeze her hand. “And I figured when you were ready to tell me, I wouldn’t have to ask.”

  We walk almost another block in silence, our friends running, bouncing, and clowning loudly in front of us before she speaks again. “They died in a car accident. One last date night before they had another kid to take care of. My brother was home with a babysitter, and my mom was eight months pregnant with me. Apparently, they saved me, but they couldn’t do anything for them.”

  “Greer,” I whisper.

  She shakes her head and shrugs. “I never met them. I wish I had, but in a way, it helps. I don’t really know what I’m missing, you know?”

  I nod because it’s all I can do. I can’t speak, and I can’t change it, no matter how much I wish I could.

  “My grandfather and my brother raised me.”

  “Is your grandfather still alive?”

  She shakes her head. “He passed away ten years ago.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “So am I. But it doesn’t matter how much we want them to, no one lives forever. I’m just lucky to have had him be such a big part of my life while he was here.”

  “Thanks for sharing with me,” I say. “I feel privileged.”

  She smiles then, and my heart swells two sizes. “You listened to what I said, and you put in the effort. You more than earned it.”

  In this moment, I’m certain that the effort I’m willing to put in when it comes to Greer is both effortless and infinite in its supply. And God do I want to be the kind of man who not only earns her trust and her time and her laughs and her smiles and all of the good, amazing things that are Greer, but I want to be the kind of man who is deserving of her, too.

  Greer

  My hand shakes as I apply the lipstick Emory lent me. My hair is professionally blown out, my dress may as well be shrink-wrapped, and my toes are crammed into a pair of wholly uncomfortable but fabulous shoes.

  And my stomach feels like its contents might make a reappearance and ruin it all at any moment.

  When Trent first invited me to the Mardi Gras ball for the city, I assumed I was an easy plus one for a mandatory function. Ever since the fiasco with the permits, he’s done his best to stay on the good side of the city—especially the mayor.

  Even though the inspector found everything in order when he came out to the site and the decision was reversed, the whole ordeal put the entire project on the city’s radar. The city council even started to make rumblings that the Vanderturn New Orleans is a cookie-cutter establishment being developed by money-hungry billionaires with no real interest in the city or its history.

  But Trent has gone out of his way to prove their assumptions false, including accepting an invitation to the Mardi Gras ball with enthusiasm and grace.

  Secretly, I’m impressed by the way he’s handled it all.

  And after nearly two full months of hating me, then getting to know me, and then, forming a friendship, Trent and I have reached a level of comfort we both enjoy. On Tuesdays, he comes over to watch Game of Games with me, and at least three nights a week, we have dinner together.

  We’ve fallen into a routine of sorts, and while it’s not exactly noteworthy stuff, I thought we’d both come to enjoy it.

  But as I found out a week ago when he was asking me to attend the ball with him, that’s not entirely the case.<
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  Trent, it seems, had been biding his time, waiting for something.

  Something, if I’m honest, I’ve thought a lot about too but have been way too scared to even consider.

  “The thing is, I want this to be a real date,” he said after I agreed to go.

  “Trent—”

  “I want a chance, Greer. One chance to show you what it could be like if you let it happen. If you’re still convinced it’s not a good idea afterward, I’ll leave it alone. You have my word.”

  Obviously, right or wrong, I agreed.

  And now I’m so scared, I think I might pass out. Though, part of that might be the python-like fit of my dress. Black velvet with a V neck, a scoop back, and a built-in corset, it’s everything I’d imagine a Mardi Gras dress should be.

  But there’s a lot more to this than good formal wear, an expensive dinner, and a good time with the most attractive man I’ve ever known.

  He’s my boss.

  The hotel is my livelihood.

  And like some kind of miracle, we’ve found an amazing rhythm that suits us. We collaborate, we compromise, and maybe most importantly, we treat one another with respect.

  In fact, Trent treats the entire team that way now, and everyone is happy and healthy.

  Sarah’s been able to stop taking Xanax, and George got his scoliosis diagnosis reversed.

  I’m kidding, obviously, but, all in all, it’s been a month of milestones, and I’m terrified that if Trent and I take this to the next level and don’t work out, the backslide will be more than any of us can handle.

  Fed up with my overanalyzing, I shut off the light to my bathroom without looking into the mirror again and head straight for my living room.

  I look to the wall we share one last time, ready to get this show on the road by just meeting him at his door, when music starts to play from his apartment—for the first time ever.

  I swear, even after all this time, and the acquisition of a TV, Trent Turner makes about the same noise as a church mouse.

  But this…this is loud.

  I walk closer, slowly, listening as the song builds and builds and then bleeds into the chorus.