The Billionaire Boss Next Door Read online

  When I hear my Trent say something in return, I freeze on the spot so that I don’t interrupt their conversation.

  “You’re doing a good job here, Trent,” Senior says, and I can’t help but smile. I know how rocky their relationship has been and what doing a good job means to Trent. Hearing praise from his dad has to make him feel so good. “The staff respects you. I can tell you’ve won them over and they’re working hard. You’re keeping the timeline tight, and the jobsite looks good and clean. All in all, I’m impressed with what you’ve done down here.”

  I bite my lip to stop myself from squealing for my guy. He has worked hard, and he deserves to hear it from his father.

  “Thanks, Dad. It’s really been a team effort.”

  “I’m sure it has,” Senior confirms. “Hotels always are.”

  Trent hums his agreement, and I go from ecstatic to impatient. Okay, boys, enough back-patting. Let’s move this thing along.

  I’m about to come out of hiding to give them a reason to wrap it up when Senior speaks again.

  “As for the design…”

  Ooh, that’s me. My ears perk up, and I lean in to listen harder.

  “She’s missing the mark.”

  What?

  “I don’t say this often, but I think my initial instinct about her was wrong.”

  My chest pounds and my ears roar, and oh my God, I think I might throw up.

  “What?” Trent asks, and I’m nodding like a fucking lunatic over here, even though no one can see me.

  Which, now that I think about it, thank God no one can see me.

  “Some of her design is okay, but she’s too eccentric. Too wordy. She makes everything more complicated than it needs to be.”

  There’s a pause. Just long enough to make me stop breathing.

  “You should let her go,” Senior orders simply, and a crack forms, right down the middle of me. It’s all I can do to hold it together. But Trent’s going to defend me; I know it.

  Sure, that probably won’t change Senior’s opinion of me, and it probably won’t even save my job, but at least it’ll save my soul.

  I’m practically clawing at the walls in the moments it takes Trent to answer, but when he does, I hold my breath completely to make sure I don’t miss anything.

  “I respect you, Dad. Always have, always will. In the past, you’ve pretty much always been right. In fact, I don’t think I can even remember a time when you’ve been wrong.”

  Senior hums.

  “So, there’s no reason to think you wouldn’t be now.”

  No reason to think you wouldn’t be now.

  He’s agreeing with him?

  Tears sting my nose, and my gut feels like I’ve been punched in it.

  The crack that Senior made is gone, and in its place, everything shatters.

  I don’t wait to hear anything else.

  I can’t.

  Instead, I run.

  Far and fast, I get the fuck out of there as quickly as my legs will take me, and I don’t look back.

  I had it all right before—before stupid Trent Turner and his stupid green eyes pounded on my door and broke in to my heart.

  Trent

  “No reason, except the only one that matters.”

  My father’s eyebrows go up in challenge, but I hold my ground. There’s no way I’m going to let him come in here, and after one day of being with everyone, presume he knows what’s best for the team. He doesn’t know the dynamic, he doesn’t know the details, he doesn’t know Greer.

  “You’re smart and successful, and you built this business on your back,” I continue. “Your legacy is a strong one, so you have to know I wouldn’t disagree with you on this if I didn’t believe so strongly that I should.”

  He nods. “I’m listening.”

  “Greer is the heart of this place. She’s had brilliant ideas, unbelievable work ethic, and is the reason this team is running so smoothly.”

  I swallow, knowing I’m going to have to take another bite of humility and give it to him straight if I have any chance of convincing him. “It was a rocky start. I was headstrong and authoritative and going about it all wrong. Without her steady advice and mediation with the team, we wouldn’t be anywhere near on schedule.”

  I run a hand through my hair, stand up from my chair, and look directly at my father. “Let go of her, and we might as well let go of the progress we’ve made on the hotel.”

  He considers me for a moment, his face stoic and his stance impassive. His hands rest casually in his pockets, and he purses his lips in consideration. Finally, he comes to a decision.

  “Fine. If you feel that passionately about her presence, I’m not going to overrule you. But you’re the point man. If you do this, you’re taking responsibility for any and all mistakes she may make.”

  I nod. Greer isn’t making any mistakes, and I know she won’t going forward. But that’s not the point. The point is that, for the first time ever, Senior believes in me enough to let me win.

  “Understood.”

  He nods his head, just once, and then sticks out a hand for me to shake. “All right, then. I’ve seen all I need to. I’m impressed with the change in you, Trent. You’re finally learning that your team is there for a reason. Lean into them, and don’t lose this humility. I’ll see you at the opening at the end of September.”

  And just as quick as he came, he’s gone.

  I glance at my watch after he steps outside, and I curse.

  Greer is waiting on me at Coastal Crepes to have lunch, and I’m late.

  I gather my shit in a hurry and jog outside to catch a cab. Luckily, it’s the busy tourist season, and the options are plentiful.

  I make it to the restaurant in record time, but when I walk inside and look around, it looks like I might be too late.

  I take a second scan, but I still don’t find Greer anywhere.

  Instead of wasting any more time, I go up to the counter to ask.

  After all, her brother owns the place. Someone’s bound to know if she was here and left.

  I wait in line so that I don’t anger the other patrons, and when I get to the front, the kid I now know is her nephew greets me. “Can I help you?”

  “Uh, yeah, actually.”

  He raises his eyebrows as if to say Get on with it, then.

  I laugh at how stupid I must look, and he grows even more skeptical.

  I speak quickly to get ahead of myself before they call the cops. “I’m looking for Greer. Your…aunt. We…” I pause, unsure of what she wants her family to know at this point, and then finish with the safest option. “…work together.”

  “Right,” he says. “She came in before and said she wasn’t feeling well. Said to tell Trent she said that. You Trent?”

  I nod. “Yep. I am.”

  “Cool. She also said to give you the Kevorkian special. Any idea what she means by that?”

  The fact that this kid has no idea who Kevorkian is scares me; the fact that Greer used that name and mine in the same sentence scares me more.

  I knock on the door for close to a minute before Greer finally answers.

  She’s in her pajamas and a robe, and her face is an absolute mess.

  I know I shouldn’t say that. I know I should say she looks beautiful no matter what, but I can’t.

  There’s snot and mascara mixed together to make a brownish goo on both sides of her nose, and her hair looks like it’s been pulled out at the roots. Her eyes are bloodshot, and her skin looks so puffy, it seems like she’s had an allergic reaction.

  Clearly, when she told her nephew she wasn’t feeling well, she meant it.

  “Oh my God, are you okay?” I ask, shoving her back with a gentle hand to her stomach and stepping into the apartment.

  “Yes, of course,” she says sarcastically. “Do I look like something’s wrong?”

  I laugh at her obvious joke, and she glares at me.

  “I’m so sorry you don’t feel well.”

  �
��Yeah,” she scoffs. “Me too.”

  “Why don’t you take the rest of the day off—”

  “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” she mutters under her breath, dragging her slippered feet into the kitchen and grabbing a package of Oreos.

  “No, I wouldn’t,” I say with a laugh. “But you’re clearly under the weather—”

  “Clearly.”

  “So, you should take the time to get better before you come back to work.”

  “I still have a job?” she asks, and I tilt my head to the side in confusion.

  “Of course you still have a job.” I nearly want to laugh at the ridiculousness of her question. “Being sick isn’t a fireable offense, Greer. Which is why you should take the day off and come back to work when you’re feeling better.”

  “Maybe your dad will be gone by then.”

  I draw my eyebrows together at the subject change, but I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s got a fever and is delusional. I decide just to go with it. “He’s already gone, actually. Just left.”

  “He is?” she asks, spinning around so fast, a piece of cookie comes flying out of her mouth.

  “Yeah.”

  She shuffles to the fridge and takes out a glass of milk. I cringe.

  “Milk? Do you really think that’s the best choice if you’re feeling sick?”

  She skewers me with a glare so sharp, I put up my hands and chuckle. “Okay. Cookies and milk, it is.”

  She moves around the kitchen manically, not meeting my eyes, and I take a shot in the dark to try to make it better. “Kevorkian special, huh?”

  She grunts.

  “I’m sorry I was late,” I say with a smile. “I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”

  She stares into a cabinet, her hand on the knob, before closing it and turning to face me. Her face might be the most serious I’ve ever seen it.

  “It’s fine. I just…don’t feel well. It’s gonna take me a couple of days to feel better probably, and then I might work at my office to avoid contaminating the crew.”

  I pull my eyebrows together.

  “Maybe it’s a quick bug. You might feel better tomorrow.”

  She shakes her head. “Doesn’t feel like it.”

  “Well, okay… I’ll come back after work with some soup, and we can—”

  “No.”

  I jerk my head back. I step toward her, and she holds up a hand. Something I don’t like but can’t explain takes hold in my chest.

  “Greer—”

  “Trent, you’re in contact with everyone on the job. If I infect you, I infect them all. No. You’ll stay away too. I’ll see you next week.”

  “Can I go on record and say I don’t like this?”

  “Sure,” she allows. “But it won’t change it.”

  “Okay. But I’m unwilling to compromise on one thing.”

  I start forward and she backs up, panicked eyes all the way until her ass runs into the counter behind her.

  I keep going and box her in, looking into her snotty, goopy eyes and telling it to her like it is.

  “You’re a mess,” I say, and she frowns. “But there’s still no one I’d rather be looking at.”

  I press a kiss to her lips and then another to her forehead before doing as she asks.

  I close her door behind me with a quiet click and tell myself she’s just sick. It’s been a weird, long day already, and she’s exhausted.

  Greer’s been on her own for most of her life, and that’s how she functions best. If I give her the space to sort it all out, she will.

  Yeah, that’s it. It has to be. Everything will be better when she is.

  Greer

  Apparently, I do still have a job with Turner Properties and, even though Trent Senior appeared convinced I wasn’t the right woman for the NOLA job, no one’s canned me yet.

  It’s taken a lot of irrational inner monologue and talking myself off the proverbial ledge not to do something stupid like quit because of my pride.

  At first, I really fucking wanted to, but this hotel means something to me. I’ve put my heart and soul into it, and dammit, I want to see it become the beautiful, blossoming, thriving hotel I know it will be.

  Not to mention, I need the financial stability a job of this magnitude provides more than I need to protect my sometimes thick-as-steel pride.

  So, after two weeks of faking the flu and avoiding the hotel—and Trent—by working out of my office and my apartment, I decide it’s time to end the charade.

  I mean, it was a nice reprieve and all, not worrying about how I looked and put myself together and getting all sorts of get well wishes from everyone I know, but you can only pretend to be sick for so long before people start threatening things like “taking you to the doctor” and “giving you tips for better management of your immune system.”

  Plus, I’ve spent way too much of my time trapped in an endless loop of tortured thinking about Trent Turner.

  The good, the bad, and especially, the complicated.

  I thought if I could just spend enough time working out the shrill, nonsensical way I wanted to react to his talk with his dad—and his take on my work—in my head, I’d eventually be able to put it behind me.

  And it worked. At least, for the most part.

  But even when I work my way past this one thing, I’ll never be naïve enough to believe there won’t be another. Something—some, stupid thing—will always be there, in the day-to-day of our work, that makes me unable to separate the lines of our professional and personal relationships.

  It’ll bleed into the work, and before I know it, I’ll be back here, pretending to be sick and throwing away parts and pieces of an opportunity I may never get again, just to save face and heartache.

  No, working with Trent and being with him at the same time is never going to work out.

  I’m struggling with accepting the news, trust me, but perhaps the hardest part of this realization is figuring out how to tell him.

  Because for the past two weeks, Trent hasn’t exactly gone away.

  He’s texted, he’s called, he’s stopped by on numerous occasions. And in return, I’ve been a one-woman show full of excuses.

  My office has better lighting.

  The internet says I might have bird flu.

  I’m secreting unknown fluids.

  You name it, and I’ve said it to my sharp-suited, green-eyed neighbor.

  In the end, the only solution I’ve been able to come up with is to KISS. Keep it simple, stupid.

  Literally. I have to get in there, avoid all eye contact if possible, lay out the facts without going into the gory details, and cut and run.

  Maybe then we’ll be able to finish the job together and move on with our lives.

  With so many months left to go, I don’t think getting into the nitty-gritty of what changed my mind will be good for either of us.

  I know cornering him at work is entirely unprofessional, but I’m completely out of options.

  With us living next door to each other, it’s better that I break the news to him here, on neutral ground. Where beds don’t yet exist, and neither of us can make a scene because of the many ears around us.

  At least, that’s the best theory I’ve been able to come up with.

  It’s somewhat ridiculous and probably irrational, but I’m hurt.

  I don’t know what happened between him and Senior after I left that meant I got to keep my job, but I know what I heard. Hours after waking up in bed together—weeks of doing everything I could to help him succeed—Trent didn’t defend me at all.

  I know I should be able to separate professional and personal feelings and actions like Trent apparently can, but work has been my personal life for the past five years.

  I’ve given my firm everything I can, and an attack on my work feels like an attack on me.

  We’ll be here again, I’m sure of it, and I don’t know that I can keep squashing down the way it makes me feel, which, ironically, is small.
r />   I’m a block from the hotel when my phone rings with an incoming call. I dig it out of my sixty-five-pound purse by the very end of Paula Abdul’s “Straight Up”—my ringtone—and don’t even get a chance to check the ID before answering.

  “Well, helloooo, avoiding whore formerly known as my friend.”

  “Emory—”

  “Wow, I’m surprised you even remember my name.”

  “I’ve been busy!”

  “Busy avoiding me,” she sneers.

  “To be fair, I’ve been avoiding everyone.”

  “I know. Your brother told me you haven’t had dinner with them since January.”

  “You talked to my brother about me?”

  “I’ve talked to five Catholic priests, two strangers, and a shop clerk at Bergdorf’s about you. Of course, I’ve talked to your brother.”

  “Look, now isn’t a good time. I’m about to walk into the hotel—”

  “Oh, good. At least you’re done avoiding that.”

  Emory’s attitude rubs, and I get fed up. “You know what? You don’t even know what’s going on. Maybe I’m avoiding everything for a reason, ever think of that?”

  “Duh,” she snaps. “Maybe your best friend can tell something is going on with you, and I don’t know, thought you would come to her with your problems instead of trying to deal with them yourself like a douchecanoe.” She laughs derisively. “Maybe. Just a thought.”

  “Emory…”

  “Yeah?”

  I close my eyes tight and say words I’m not very good at saying. I don’t like to apologize for how I am—for who I am—and a lot of the time, that means I avoid the practice altogether. But sometimes, you wrong someone, maybe someone you love, and you’ve got to make it right. “I’m sorry.”

  She huffs. “You should be. But also, it’s okay. I love you, and I’m well aware you have issues.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  We’re both silent for several moments, and then she heaves a heavy sigh. “I guess your silence means you’re still not ready to share with me?”

  “I will. I promise. I just…can’t get into it now. I just have to focus on moving forward.”