The Billionaire Boss Next Door Page 16

  “Oh, my, my. This is getting interesting now.”

  “She was drunk and thought my door was hers. I helped her into her apartment, and when I went back, the door was locked.”

  “Mm-hmm. And what else happened?”

  “Nothing,” I stress. This whole teasing tour is all in good fun, but jokes about something happening when Greer clearly couldn’t consent are not.

  Quincy steps forward and holds out the key, and I take it swiftly before he has a chance to play any other games.

  “Goodnight?” he prompts as I head for the stairs. “Thank you?”

  “Fucking goodnight,” I say over my shoulder.

  “Did you know it’s customary to be nice to the person who’s done you a favor?” he calls. “Just a little information to tuck away for later.”

  “Fucking thank you and goodnight,” I toss back just as the doors to the elevator open.

  He smiles and pinches his fingers together. “Close. You’ll get it eventually. Keep practicing.”

  The elevator doors close, and I breathe a sigh of relief.

  The only thing I’m going to be practicing is common sense—first thing tomorrow, I’m hiding a spare key.

  I need to make sure the only person I have to call for help in the future is myself.

  Trent

  Waking up at five a.m. to avoid going to work at the same time as Greer is brutal. My eyes are always about as easy to peel open as an apple without something sharp, and I almost always smash my toe on the corner of my bed on the way to my bathroom.

  Hell, waking up that early is the worst part of every day, which is probably why this particular Monday morning, I don’t.

  My sleep schedule is all screwed up, alternating between insomnia and sleeping so deeply I don’t hear the world.

  So, when my alarm goes off, I’m apparently in the comatose phase of my REM cycle.

  I sleep and sleep until almost seven, and now, not only am I not extremely early, I’m running behind schedule.

  My tie is in some form of a knot, but I’m almost positive it’s more Clove Hitch than Half Windsor, and my shirt is only ironed on the front.

  With a half-baked plan to keep my jacket on the entire day to hide that fact, I scoop my keys and phone off the kitchen island and head for the door.

  I have the knob half turned when I hear activity in the hall and freeze.

  Greer and I haven’t seen each other since I put her in her bed Saturday night.

  I know it’s a better idea to get that interaction over with rather than having to live out any awkwardness in front of everyone on the job site, but at least there, we have roles to hide behind.

  I’m the boss and she’s the designer, and there are plenty of things to talk about that don’t include the way she looked at me and my only-a-towel-covered cock, or the fact that I saw way too much of her creamy thighs, or that I’d just finished masturbating before her drunken, adorable ass started assaulting my front door.

  Adorable? Really, Trent?

  Hell. I don’t have time to think about this kind of shit.

  I shake off those insane thoughts in an attempt to gain some sanity, but apparently, I’m all out today. Instead of simply manning the fuck up and walking out of my apartment, I press my curious ear to the wood of my door to listen for sounds of her retreat.

  There’s a scuffle and a soft whoosh and then a few clacks, but when they stop, I take away my ear and replace it with my eye at the peephole.

  And, instantly, I’m faced with a giant eyeball staring back at me.

  Shit. I jump back a little. What the…?

  Without even thinking, I engage the peephole again, and this time, instead of an eyeball, Greer’s entire face and one raised hand consumes my microscopic view.

  She pauses, squinting a little, but she just kind of stands there, hand frozen in the air and her gaze locked on my door like she’s trying to attempt X-ray vision or something.

  I have to step away, you know, before I do something rational like open my door and ask her what she’s doing.

  Because, yeah, that’d be too easy, right?

  When no knock comes after ten seconds, I tiptoe my way to the door to peek again.

  She’s gone.

  Ironically, I find myself disappointed.

  Boy oh boy, do I love the New Orleans version of myself.

  Crazy. Indecisive. Needlessly pithy and combative. Hiding behind doors and peering through peepholes. The list goes on and on.

  I need to get this hotel finished and get back to New York before I’m a complete fucking disaster.

  Finally done hiding for the morning—since, you know, she should be gone by now—I turn the knob fully and step outside into an empty hallway.

  The door locks easily, and the spare key I put in the potted plant by the stairwell yesterday is still there.

  I know because I check.

  Obsessive-compulsive. Add that to the list of my Louisiana-enhanced qualities too.

  Making my way down the stairwell and across the lobby, I push open the front door to a bright and sunny January day. It’s warm for winter, but still chilly to say the least.

  Silver lining—I shouldn’t have any trouble keeping my suit jacket on over my half-wrinkled shirt.

  A little homesick and a lot more confused than I’ve ever felt, I take out my phone and call the one person who will make everything feel better.

  My mom.

  She answers on the second ring and does a remarkably good job of acting like I haven’t woken her up.

  “Trent,” she greets. “It’s so good to hear from you.” Her speech is slightly slower than it used to be, and every once in a while, it sounds a little like her words are slurred. But compared to the deterioration of her motor skills, the change is almost imperceptible.

  “I know, Mom. I’m sorry I haven’t called more—”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” she interrupts. “You’re busy down there. The last thing you need to be worrying about is calling boring ole me. Everything’s the same.”

  I laugh and shake my head. If only I could say something similar.

  “Well, nothing is the same here,” I admit.

  “But it’s good, right?” she asks. “I know it must be. Everything is good in New Orleans.”

  Yeah. Not so much.

  I’m considering whether or not to delve into any of the details when I spot Greer up ahead, kneeling down next to a homeless woman and unwinding the scarf from around her neck.

  She speaks softly to the woman before taking her hand and nodding. She winds the scarf around the woman’s neck and then stands, pointing to the coffee shop we evidently both love to frequent.

  “Trent?” my mom calls for my attention.

  I watch as Greer heads inside Easy Roast, but I force myself to put most of my focus back on my mom.

  “Sorry, Mom. I got distracted.”

  “Ah, a pretty girl, perhaps?” she coos, and I laugh.

  “First of all, you’d better hope it’s a pretty woman if you don’t want to read about your son in the paper.”

  “And second of all?” she prompts, way too much wisdom in her sixty-five years.

  “Yes, it was a pretty woman. At least, kind of.”

  Her laugh is a little shaky, but it makes me smile. If all I get out of all this crap is making my mom’s day a little brighter, it’ll be worth it. “Well, that sounds interesting and cryptic. I can’t wait to find out the rest.”

  “Someday,” I deflect.

  She harrumphs.

  “Just think of it like General Hospital,” I tease. “The story will conclude sometime in the next decade.”

  She laughs. “If then. I think the actors who play Sonny and Carly are going to die before their whole sordid tale is done.”

  “I’m not going to lie to you, Mom. I have no idea who you’re talking about.”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  I smile.

  “It’s Jason who really matters an
yway,” she adds.

  I bite my lip to stop myself from laughing. “Listen, Mom, I’ve gotta go. I’m running late this morning, and—”

  “And a pretty woman needs your attention. Say no more.”

  “Mom, that’s not it. I need coffee.”

  “And a pretty woman,” she teases. “Yes, son. Reading you loud and clear.”

  “No. You’re not reading me at all. There’s nothing going on with the woman.”

  “Yet,” she says knowingly. “Of course, I get it. Love you, honey.”

  God, I don’t want to get her hopes up over something that’s not even real.

  “No, Mom, there’s nothing… Mom? Mom?”

  I’m yelling into my phone for my mommy—who’s already hung up on me, by the way—when Greer comes out of Easy Roast holding two coffees and a bag and sees me.

  It’s an intense moment—one that feels like we’d both rather duck and run—but we make brief eye contact before attempting to give each other a smile.

  Weird, pseudo-transaction complete, I head for the coffee shop, tucking my head to give her the space to do as she intended without an audience.

  Once I’m inside and she’s convinced she’s off my radar, I go back to watching her as she crosses the street and kneels down to talk to the woman once again.

  She hands her a coffee and the bag before heading down the street toward the hotel.

  And just like that, everything I thought I knew about Greer Hudson sinks a little further.

  Down low, to the bottom of a barrel filled with all sorts of other things I never expected.

  Greer

  Saturday night, I had a dream that I saw Trent Turner’s penis and it was glorious.

  The penis, not the dream. The dream was unnerving because he’s my boss and my neighbor, and I don’t care how good of dream penis he gives—he is the one guy I should not be thinking about in any sort of sexual nature.

  But yet, here I am, with visuals of Trent’s dream penis still dancing about inside my head.

  Unfortunately, I only have me, myself, and my drunken shenanigans to thank for it.

  Freaking out is an under-description for the little exhibition I put on Sunday morning when I woke up after Trent and his minuscule towel had to help me into my apartment and put me to bed.

  He literally had to put my sloppy, tipsy ass to bed.

  It truly would be great if I could go just one day without putting myself in the worst possible situations with him.

  Luckily, a day later, I think I’ve finally got myself under control.

  I mean, I almost went over to his apartment this morning to talk to him about my party-girl display outside his front door—and quite possibly, apologize for it—but I couldn’t bring myself to actually let my knuckles hit his door and knock.

  And while I normally don’t applaud cowardice, I’m thankful for it today. Aside from our weird little interaction on the sidewalk this morning, he’s been the all too familiar asshole boss Trent.

  Abrasive. Noncommunicative.

  Hell, I kind of thought he was going to give George a wet-willy in our morning meeting when he said the shower tiling crew was delayed by two weeks. But common decency prevailed, and no wet fingers went into other people’s ears.

  All in all, he’s made no mention or behavior that suggests Saturday night actually happened.

  The only explanation is that I did, in fact, have an alcohol-induced dream about my boss and neighbor, and I’m never drinking again.

  Okay, that last part is a lie, but I dreamed about my boss’s penis, for fuck’s sake. That’s the sort of thing that would put anyone in a state of denial.

  “Sarah,” he calls now, making the skittish woman at my side jump. “Do you have the plans for the suite bathrooms?”

  “Uh, yes, sir.” Rolls and rolls of papers fill the space between her arm and her body, and the way she’s searching through them without putting them down means she’s either going to dislocate a hip or go pro in contortionism soon.

  “Let me help you,” I finally offer, pulling the rolls from under her arm and carrying them over to the table in the corner.

  Everyone is in such a hurry to jump to Trent’s commands that they all forget to work smarter, not harder.

  The ends of all the tubes are labeled, so I find the one with the “Suite” sticker on it and unroll it.

  Sarah looks at me like I should expect flowers in the mail.

  Trent comes to stand next to me, just an innocent move to get a look at the plans.

  But harmless or not, the instant the warmth of his body starts to invade my personal space, unbidden thoughts of his penis fill my head, and I nearly trip over my own two feet as I try to put some distance between us.

  Quickly, he places his fingers on my elbow to prevent me from teetering to the floor, and the warmth of his hand spreads through the sleeve of my silk blouse, urging unwanted goose bumps to roll up my arm.

  “You okay, Greer?”

  I choke on spit as I’m trying to answer, and I have to clear my throat three times to stop myself from choking.

  Clumsy. Choking. Undoubtedly, I’ve established myself as extremely ladylike in his eyes.

  “Yep, yep. Just fine,” I finally manage to push past my lips. “I’m good. To. Go.”

  And hell’s bells, my skin still tingles from where his hand barely touched me.

  Is he made of some kind of sexy electricity or something?

  I cringe at my own thoughts. It’s like these Trent Turner penis dreams are stealing my brain cells or something.

  Before he turns back to the blueprints, I see what I think is a hint of a smirk, and I have the momentary—and thankfully fleeting—urge to grab his face and turn it back to mine so I can investigate my correctness.

  “I know the plumbing is already roughed in, but I can’t stop thinking that the sink should be on this side of the shower,” Trent says, and the whole room tenses. And then he adds, “What do you think, Greer?”

  Just like that. Easy. Direct. Like…like he actually cares. I don’t know about everyone else, but suddenly I’m feeling all Taylor Swifty—Greer can’t come to the phone right now…because she’s dead.

  Unfortunately, the delay my excitement causes kind of makes it seem like I might be suffering from a brain injury.

  “Greer?”

  When I wake from my trance, everyone in the room is staring at me.

  Good God, get it together, woman.

  “Uh, yes. Yeah. Normally, I would agree with you because I understand your perspective. Most hotels, if not all, are going to set this up the way you describe. But I think doing it this way instead is going to give so much more space and functionality, and isn’t that what people staying in suites are really looking for?”

  You could hear a pin drop as Marcus, Tony, George, and Sarah wait to hear what Trent says. There is some serious bated breath going on here, and Trent’s pause is so long, it’s doing a mighty good impression of me and my penchant for fucking around and losing track of time.

  “You’re right,” he finally says, and I faint.

  Okay, I don’t really faint, but I could have if I ever waited long enough to eat to let my blood sugar get low.

  As it is, I just perform a super slow blink.

  “Great.”

  And the day moves on from there.

  Trent isn’t barking orders. He remains direct and to the point, but calm.

  George doesn’t look like he’s one second away from getting in his truck and driving away and never coming back.

  Even Sarah smiles. Actually smiles with teeth and all.

  It’s like we’re all just one big happy, working family. Sunshine and rainbows and fucking leprechauns with pots of gold show up to the hotel construction site and shit.

  And there’s actually a glimmer of hope blooming inside my chest.

  Maybe there’s been a change in Trent’s normally abrasive tune?

  Fingers and toes and pretty much everything cr
ossed that he sticks with the new music.

  Basically, it’s all gravy, baby.

  For all of three hours.

  Until the familiar asshole-voice reaches my ears.

  “George!” he shouts, and I look up from the linen samples I’m currently rummaging through and find our poor contractor in the cross hairs…again.

  “Sir?”

  “Why didn’t I know about the delayed deliveries for the indoor pool and spa?” Mr. Boss questions, and I swear to God, a vein makes itself known on his forehead and waves to everyone. All five fingers and an open palm. Hell, even his little veiny fingernails are painted blue.

  George is terrified. “I didn’t know they were delayed, sir.”

  Oh no.

  “You’re the contractor on this job, and you didn’t know about delayed shipments?”

  “I-I’m sorry, sir,” he stutters out in response. “I’ve been assisting Dick and Beaver with the elevator installations since six this morning.”

  Trent shakes his head, runs a hand through his hair, and continues to channel his rediscovered rage toward George and the construction team.

  The sunshine disappears. The rainbows fade away. Even the leprechauns pack up their shit and hightail it the fuck out of here.

  So much for hope.

  And I have to bite my tongue to keep from saying something snarky and sarcastic and getting-fired-kind-of-risky so hard I probably draw blood.

  God, it’s more apparent now than ever that something with Mr. Asshole Boss has to change.

  And I think I have just the idea what to do about it.

  The AT&T store is busy but manageable as I step inside during my lunch hour.

  As a loyal Verizon customer, I’ve stepped outside of bounds by coming here, but clandestine acts sometimes call for desperate measures. Trent surely knows how to buy off the people at Verizon into giving him the name and information of the woman on camera in their store when they match my ID to my existing account.

  Or something like that. I don’t know the exact details, but deciding to go to another carrier seemed imperative at the time.

  “Can I help you?” the young man behind the counter—Henry, if his name tag is anything to go by—greets me, approaching me with his iPad to check me in.