The Billionaire Boss Next Door(10)

Since when is making out more important than saving a damsel in distress? Gotham City would be ashamed.

I’m just about to knock myself out by slamming my body into the doors in a feat of sheer self-preservation when a Kanye-masked mountain of a man appears and pushes the button to call the cart.

Within seconds, the ding of arrival sings, and the doors pop open to free me.

Why didn’t I think of that?

“Jesus,” I mutter more to myself than anyone else and put a hand to my chest to calm my racing heart. “Thank you, Kanye. I’m certain Beyoncé wouldn’t have wanted to go out that way.”

“No worries.” The man’s responding chuckles fill my ears. “Beyoncé had one of the best videos of all time!”

I smile at his use of Kanye’s exact words to Taylor Swift, when the blond-headed singer herself steps forward and takes his arm in hers.

“I guess it’s a good thing we were standing near the elevator, waiting on your notoriously late arrival,” the girl on Kanye’s arm says, and instantly, I know it’s Emory, dressed like Taylor Swift. “You okay, friend?” she asks, and I nod.

“Quince, this is Greer,” she says, and I smile, but it’s useless behind the rubber Beyoncé mask covering my face.

Seriously. Whoever thought wearing rubber celebrity masks to a fucking party like this would make it a good time is a total moron.

“I like your mask, Greer,” Quincy says behind his Kanye mask. “Isn’t it fun?”

“The masks were Quince’s idea,” Emory moons, and the ironic timing of my thinking almost makes me choke.

“Wait…are you Greer Hudson?” Quince asks suddenly, turning to look at Emory and then me, like somehow staring into the eyes of my Beyoncé mask is going to uncover the truth.

“Uh, yes. Should I already know you?”

“No, no, I’m just a fan of your work.”

“Seriously?”

“Definitely,” he says, and his voice vibrates with honesty. It warms my cold heart, but unfortunately for him, it also leaves me one hell of an opening.

“Well, this is embarrassing,” I respond with feigned nervous giggles. “I honestly thought none of those tapes were circulating anymore…”

“What?” he questions.

“I swear, I only did it briefly,” I add. “After college. To pay rent.”

“Oh God.” Panicked, his eyes dart between Emory and me like a ping-pong ball. “No, I… I don’t… I—” He clears his throat. “I haven’t seen any tapes of you. I don’t watch tapes. Well, I mean, not since high school anyway. I—”

Emory spears me with a glare and takes her flustered boyfriend’s bicep in hand.

“Relax, Quince. She’s kidding. Greer never had a porn career. Only a sick sense of humor.”

I smile and stick out a conciliatory hand. “Nice to meet you, Quince. And now I’m one-hundred-percent interested to know which tapes you watched in high school. Hefty Jugs? Tight Taints? Bangin’ Blondes, perhaps?”

“I’m sorry,” Quince mumbles. “I think I just swallowed my tongue.”

“Jesus Christ, Greer,” Emory grumbles. “Can I not take you anywhere?”

“What?” I shrug. “I’m just making friendly conversation.”

“It’s fine, Em,” Quince says. “I’m kind of in love with her now.”

I can’t exactly see Emory’s face clearly under her Taylor Swift mask, but I don’t have to. She is undoubtedly ordering a voodoo doll of me from an Etsy shop tonight and stabbing it right in the vagina.

“No, no, she’s right, Quince. You guys are adorable together, and it really is nice to meet you. I’m surprised but honored that you’ve heard of Hudson Designs, and I appreciate the excitement about my work. I’m also digging the Kanye, Taylor Swift couple irony you have going on here.”

“That was Em’s idea,” he says admiringly and tucks her closer to his side. The two of them lock gazes and sway toward each other with fairy-tale precision.

And I officially need a drink.

I excuse myself pretty easily since they’re ensconced in their canoodling and slink toward the long marble bar along the windows on the far side of the ballroom. Free drinks are one of the bright spots of attending this party, and I fully intend to enjoy the opportunity to consume them.

The line is long and the people are chatty, so I take the time to retreat deeper into myself. The bartender works the crowd and smiles readily with everyone, and he seems like the kind of easygoing guy I could get along with.

His name tag glints in the light, and I ready myself to regale him with charm by studying his name.

When I finally belly up to the cold gray stone, I lean my elbows into the counter and announce cheekily, “Chardonnay me, Kevin.”

Kevin’s eyebrows pinch together, and his fun-loving demeanor suddenly seems a lot less fun. “My name’s not Kevin.”

What?

I glance back to the name tag I was so sure had set me up for success and read it again.

Karen. Her name is Karen, and Karen is a girl.

Dear God, I need to get my eyes checked.

“Heh. Whoops.” I laugh nervously. “I have…uh…cataracts. And you look lovely tonight, Karen.”