The Billionaire Boss Next Door

by Max Monroe

  It’s time.

  It’s time for me to get my girl.

  Greer

  It’s been a long road finishing the Vanderturn New Orleans, but I can finally say it’s over, and I’m proud of what I’ve done.

  The finished product is immaculate and special, and I’ve grown as both a designer and as a person.

  And I mean that literally. All the carb-loading working so closely with the guy I’m most likely in love with but will never be romantically involved with means I’m six pounds heavier.

  I’ve eaten three decades worth of feelings in five-and-a-half months, and I don’t even regret it.

  The fluffiness has gone mostly to my breasts, and watching Trent—and every other man in a fifteen-mile radius—try not to stare at them while talking to me is like attending a stand-up comedy special every day.

  Uh, uh, they stammer. Blah, uh, blah, uh, blah.

  The only real bummer about the hotel completion is that someone—I’m betting I know who—thought the motherfucking masks would be a good idea for the grand opening party.

  Like, really?

  We’re doing this shit again?

  I didn’t even bother getting a different one. I was Beyoncé once, and I am Beyoncé again—if only that meant I also had her wealth and celebrity status.

  Emory’s obnoxious laugh clues me in to her location despite the fact that she and the Q man have chosen to go with a new schtick completely. They are no longer TSwift and Kanye. Today, they are Lucy and Ricky.

  And let me tell you, it’s a good thing I love Lucy because Ricky, the fuck, has some splainin’ to do.

  I come up behind Quincy somewhat aggressively and take out the support of one of his knees. He almost crumples, and many another man would be upset, but not Quince.

  He laughs even before he sees it’s me.

  Of course, when he sees it is me, he laughs even harder and pulls me in for a hug. I’ve been their little adoptee for the last five months, clinging to the two of them like a leech without the health benefits. Somehow, even after everything I’ve put him through in that time—and there’s been a lot—Daddy Quincy still treats me like the daughter he’s too young to have.

  “I suppose you’re the one to blame for these shit-tastic masks again, Big Q?”

  He chuckles. “I might have had something to do with them. Isn’t it fun?”

  “No, Quince. No,” I say with a scowl he can’t see. “It’s not fucking fun.”

  “Come on,” he cajoles. “Sure, it is! You might be yelling at me, but it’s like Beyoncé is yelling at me, and that makes it a lot more enjoyable.”

  “You’re way too positive for me tonight. I don’t think we can hang out.”

  “Good,” Emory jumps in, hugging Quincy’s waist tightly. “We wanted time alone anyway.”

  “Gonna bang in the coat closet?” I ask, and she smacks me in the tit. “Ow.” I rub at it to make it better, and Quincy’s line of sight drops right on cue.

  Men. They’re all like moths to a flame.

  Though, to be fair, this black satin dress is so low-cut, I had to tape my nipples to the inside of it to keep them from showing.

  Something about it being the last time I’d be forced to see Trent in an official capacity made me want to go all out. Time to quit, here’s my tit. Or something like that.

  I didn’t really think it through. I just put on the dress, and my breasts did the rest.

  Okay, I’m done rhyming, I swear.

  Time to drink instead.

  I make my way to the other end of the King Van Lounge, a beautiful space we’ve managed to create on the sixth floor with a view overlooking Bourbon Street on one side, and the pool and courtyard on the other. Floor-to-ceiling windows on each side open up the space, and twinkling dots of prismatic light on the accent wall reflect in the glass.

  It makes the space feel otherworldly and warm, and if I weren’t in such an awkward spot with the owner of the hotel, I could gladly park my butt in one of the spacious chairs here for the rest of my life.

  The bar juts up and out of the floor as though it’s a part of it, the white-and-gray marble of the top and waterfall matching the tile of the floor. It’s elegant and unique, and I’m so proud to say it came from a place in my head.

  Preoccupied with the design, I pay no attention to the bartender, and for the first time on record, the whole exchange goes off without a hitch.

  I get my Chardonnay, and he goes about his business, no bitchy blacklist in sight.

  Hmm. Maybe I was just putting too much pressure on myself before.

  I pick up the glass from its spot on the countertop and turn, tripping on the overly long train of my dress and dropping that shit straight to the floor.

  It shatters and spreads, and every masked head in the room turns to stare at me.

  “Hah,” I laugh nervously. “Whoops.”

  A quick glance back at the bartender shows all goodwill has disappeared and confirms that I got ahead of myself.

  I’m ostensibly doomed with bartenders until the day I die.

  I’m about to leave drinkless when Trent Turner Senior steps up to the bar, maskless, and taps his fingertips on the surface.

  “Another Chardonnay for Ms. Hudson, please.”

  The bartender doesn’t even attempt to give him a side-eye. “Yes, sir.”

  I don’t know how he knew it was me, but I feel like it’s better that I don’t ask.

  Lord only knows what the man would say.

  I fidget nervously, rubbing the satin between the tips of two fingers on one hand while we wait for the drink in silence.

  I’m not sure what to say, given the whole sordid history. He doesn’t like me, but he doesn’t know that I know he doesn’t like me…and yeah, it’s a messy, fucked-up thing.

  Still, somehow, it seems genuine as he compliments, “The hotel is beautiful, Greer.”

  I’m thankful for the mask for the first time tonight as my cheeks warm with a small blush. “Thank you, sir.”

  “I’m impressed with what you’ve put together here. I have to say, I wasn’t convinced initially.”

  My chest tightens at his honesty. The truth makes the memory of hearing him say it more vivid, and I’m surprised by how acute the pain is.

  I have no clue what to say to it, but he doesn’t make me figure it out.

  “I thought the lines were too modern for this part of the city, and the cultural touches too literal.”

  I swallow thickly as he laughs.

  “But what do I know? I also think these fucking masks are ridiculous, but people seem to be enjoying them.”

  I snort, and he seems to understand what I mean by it, despite the wide array of possibilities.

  “I know,” he says good-naturedly. “But Trent insisted they were a good idea, and it looks like, mostly, he was right.”

  My breath catches in my throat, and I have to pound a fist to my chest to force the air out of the way so I can speak. “The masks were Trent’s idea?”

  “Yep,” Senior confirms, handing me my new glass of Chardonnay. I take it as carefully as I can and grip it tightly.

  And it’s a good thing because the next thing he says flips my world upside down.

  “His idea to keep you, too,” he adds nonchalantly. “Really fought for you. Said you were the heart of this place.”

  He…

  My breathing slows, and my eyes hover between open and closed as I come dangerously close to passing out.

  He fought for me?

  “Turns out he was right.”

  My heart pounds in my chest, and I suddenly feel like my mask has no air in it.

  I grab for it indiscriminately, trying to latch on to any goddamn part of it that will help me get it off.

  The speed of my breathing grows and grows as the rubber sticks to me in my panic.

  I’m half ready to hulk out and rip that shit off Avengers-style when “In Your Eyes” by Peter Gabriel starts playing over the sound system.
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  It’s completely out of context for the soundtrack they’ve been playing during this soiree and makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up.

  Forcing myself to take three deep breaths, I finally peel the death mask off of my face and look up at Senior.

  He’s looking behind me with a genuine smile—though, slightly mocking—on his face, and it’s all I can do to keep my shit in check as I turn.

  There, in the middle of the dance floor, with a boombox over his head, is Walter White.

  My mystery kisser.

  I shake my head and clap my hands over my mouth and nose.

  I know those legs and those abs and those arms.

  And, as it turns out, there’s more than one reason I know those lips.

  All of it, including the kiss with a stranger on New Year’s Eve, belongs to the boss next door.

  Trent

  Saliva pools in my mouth as the weight of an entire lounge full of people’s stares bears down on me.

  It’s intense and off-putting, and the only person I have to blame is myself.

  Still, Greer is one of the two hundred people staring, and that at least makes it worth it.

  She’s taken off her mask, a part of this plan I hadn’t even considered was a possibility, and what’s left on her face is a complicated mix of hope, shock, and muddled affection.

  She’s likely wondering how long I’ve known about our kiss on New Year’s Eve, and how much of what I’ve said to her has been based on a lie. I just have to hope that there’s also a little part of her that feels like a missing piece of her heart has been made whole.

  The crowd starts to chatter the longer I stand here, boombox overhead, and I’m wondering if she’s ever going to put me out of my misery.

  The song is almost over, the lyrics coming to a close, when she finally takes her first step.

  I watch entranced, her beauty unmatched by anyone in the room or otherwise. She’s everything I never knew I needed and more, and I know for a fact that, if by some miracle I can convince her to give me a shot, she’ll keep me on my toes for the rest of my life.

  When she stops three feet in front of me, I set the boombox on the floor and peel my mask off my face.

  She raises a single eyebrow in challenge, but there’s not even a hint of a smile.

  My throat drops into my stomach.

  “Using the same trick twice?” she tsks. “I would have expected more from you.”

  The humor in her insult gives me just enough confidence to speak my truth, and to do it without caution or censoring.

  “What are we talking about here? The mask or the song? Because I thought the mask was a necessary touch.”

  “Yeah, I get the mask, Walt. I’m just surprised you have such a big crush on John Cusack.” She rolls her eyes. “Like, get a room already.”

  “It was symbolic, just like in the movie. It’s the song that was playing the night we—”

  She shushes me and puts a hand over my mouth. “I know what night it was.”

  I smile a little, and for the first time, she seems to notice just how many people are watching us right now. I feel a little bad for doing this so publicly, but it was the only way. If I’d tried to confront her in private, she would have weaseled her way out, one way or another—even if it meant kicking me in the balls.

  But that doesn’t mean I can’t rectify the situation now. “Do you want to go somewhere and talk?”

  “Other than here, in the fishbowl of human condition?”

  I smirk and nod.

  “Yes.”

  “Then, yes. Make that happen quickly, and I’ll give you a bonus point toward your score on whatever argument you’re gearing up to make.”

  I put a gentle hand to her back and lead her out of the crowd and toward one of the storage rooms. My mom winks at me from across the room, and I blush like I’m five years old.

  Ideally, I’d be taking Greer somewhere more romantic than a closet full of shampoos and table linens, but with this being opening weekend, it’s about the only unoccupied ten square feet on the entirety of the property. And at this point, privacy is more important than show quality.

  I step aside to let her in first and then follow her in and let the door click shut behind us. The silence is almost startling.

  With a mind to that and how she must be feeling, I give her a minute to get her bearings. She looks at everything possible except me. And she doesn’t make eye contact with me even once. I’m actually impressed with the talent it must take to pull that off, seeing as I’m the net in the middle of her eyes’ game of ping-pong.

  “Greer.”

  “Hmm?” she asks, still taking inventory almost compulsively. I imagine this is the fifth time she’s counted the rows of shampoo on the shelf.

  “Greer, look at me, please.”

  When our eyes finally make contact, it’s like the spark her questions needed to explode all over the place and out of her mouth. I do my best to keep up—which, I guess, is all I ever really do with her anyway.

  “How long have you known we kissed on New Year’s Eve?” she asks.

  “Since shortly after you told me we were over.”

  “How did you find out?”

  “Cap and Quincy told me.”

  “They knew?!” she shouts inside the small space, and I nearly laugh at the relief in hearing her so unfiltered, so Greer. It feels like it’s been an eternity since I’ve seen her. All of her. Like this.

  “Yes. As did Emory. They set us up to live next door to each other.”

  That answer stops the questions briefly, but only because I have to pin her to the door to keep her from tearing out of this place and committing triple homicide in the middle of the party.

  “I know,” I console. “They’re assholes. But they’re our assholes, and without them, I never would have realized how perfect you are.”

  She sags in my arms, closes her eyes, and lowers her voice to the barest hint of a whisper.

  “You think I’m perfect?”

  “I know you’re perfect. For me.”

  “Even when I’m saying ‘motherfucker’ in public?”

  “Even then.”

  She loosens my hold with a squeeze of her own and lets her head fall back into the door. “Why? Why on earth do you find me attractive?”

  “Because you are. You’re witty and funny and smart and beautiful. You have one of the best minds I’ve ever had the pleasure of exploring.”

  “I’m sarcastic. And mouthy. And highly unprofessional fifty percent of the time.”

  I shrug. “I guess I find all of that charming, then. Is that a problem?”

  She laughs, just one sharp bark before shaking her head with a smile. “Yes. I think there’s something seriously wrong with you.”

  “Only if you leave me here by myself. With you, it just means we go together better than ever.”

  “Trent—”

  “What? You said it would never work while we were working together, and we’re not. As of tonight, you are officially off the payroll.”

  “And jobless,” she remarks sardonically.

  I shake my head and lean in to press my lips to hers. She’s a smartass and she’s apathetic, but she can’t be either of those things to this.

  Her eyes flutter closed as I run my tongue across her lips to open them, and then I touch the tip to hers.

  When we pull away, there’s only one thing to say.

  “There’s magic in the two of us. And we both know it.”

  My voice is soft, but my words are loud. There’s no way she can’t hear what I’m saying.

  “I love you, Greer.”

  Her crystal-blue eyes widen, and a shaky hand touches her mouth.

  “I didn’t plan it, but our lives…and our friends…did.”

  She laughs. I smile.

  “We both had a lot at stake when we started this job, but in my opinion, life handed me a lot more than I bargained for.”

  Finally, she nods. “Me t
oo, Trent. And you know what?”

  “What?”

  She leans forward and presses her perfect lips to mine. “I love you too.”

  Trent

  “No way,” I argue, tossing a piece of popcorn into my mouth with amazing accuracy. “It’s five at most.”

  “Pshh. Are you kidding? Have you seen her face?” Greer argues. “We’re definitely in transition. Seven. I’m calling it.”

  Emory glares, nostrils flared, while she finishes breathing through a contraction. “If you guys don’t stop making bets on the size of my cervix, I’m going to climb out of this bed, baby motherfucking hanging out if I have to, and drag you out of the room myself.”

  Greer pulls her lips inside her mouth and pretends to shake in fear. I fall a little more in love.

  “I thought she’d at least threaten something serious,” I whisper. “Mass murder. Mutilation of our genitals. Something.”

  “Don’t tempt me!” Emory yells through her clenched teeth as another contraction hits her.

  “Wow,” Greer remarks. “You’re going to want to remember that childbirth obviously allows superhuman hearing. For future reference.”

  Goddamn, this woman. She makes my life.

  A year and half ago, I dressed up like Walter White—for a second time—and convinced Greer to give me another chance, and I’m certain no one has ever loved this woman like I do.

  I have memorized all of her smiles. All of her laughs. I know her annoyed sighs and her sassy glares. I know what makes her wet, and I know what makes her come.

  I know her. All of her. And I’ve never been happier in my entire life.

  My smile is unstoppable as I cuddle into her on the hospital couch and bump her with my shoulder. “You want to have kids with me?”

  She giggles. “Yeah. Someday.”

  “Like, how someday someday? Should we start trying now? I think I saw an empty room down the hall.”

  “Easy, Walt,” Greer says with a laugh. “You’re going to have to give me time to heal from the trauma of watching Emory give birth first.”

  “You’re not watching me give birth!” Emory yells. “Quince, you better get them out of here before I ki—”