The Billionaire Boss Next Door(11)

Her scowl is scary, but I’m not leaving without my Chardonnay. I tap my fingernails on the counter as she prepares it, and I watch with an eagle eye for spit or poison.

Thankfully, the open setup of her workspace makes it hard to achieve either form of sabotage, and she slides the half-full glass toward me.

Her intense loathing of me won’t make getting another drink easy, but maybe I can sweet-talk Emory into switching masks with me in the bathroom before I need more.

I turn to leave the bar and smack right into a hard wall.

“Excuse me,” a tuxedo-wearing Albert Einstein says. I can’t see his face, obviously, but the fit of his formal wear is superb. I can feel the hot muscle of his chest through the expensive fabric as I force myself to step away.

I smile flirtatiously on instinct, but it’s not until he speaks again that I realize he can’t see a goddamn thing thanks to Beyoncé.

“Are you okay?” The mask does a good job of muffling his words, but it does nothing to disguise the deep, rich, masculine edge of his timbre.

“Oh, sure, sure. Just a little elementary particle interaction,” I tease flirtatiously. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

“What?”

Jesus. Don’t tell me my eyes have failed me again.

I squint through the tiny holes in Beyoncé’s rubber skin. “Aren’t you supposed to be Albert Einstein?”

“Yeah.”

I frown under my mask. “I was referencing the theory of relativity. Albert’s kind of famous for it…”

“Oh. Yeah, I just went with the first mask I found.”

Wow. Note to self: don’t be lured into the trap of svelte physique, Greer. He may be pretty, but some people really are all looks and no brains.

Not even bothering to formally excuse myself, I turn and head for the darkest corner I can find. Luckily, it also happens to be right outside of the kitchen—perfect for getting first selection of hors d’oeuvres as the servers bring them out on shiny silver trays.

When I’ve had almost more than my dress was built to accommodate and the waiters start to subtly shield the trays with their arms upon exit, I mosey back toward the dance floor and try to find Emory and Quince.

I’m due for a new drink anyway.

Thanks to Quincy’s size and Emory’s blue tulle gown, I locate them effortlessly. They’re swaying in the center of the room with champagne glasses tucked close to each other’s backs, and interrupting them in the name of alcohol suddenly doesn’t seem like such a good idea.

Emory’s been searching for a man of worth for nearly as long as I have, and in the process, she’s dated some real dogs.

With a parade of cheaters, gamblers, drinkers, and a few money-hungry clingers, she’s sampled from quite the mixed bag. She even married one in Vegas for, like, fifty-five hours just like good ole Britney Spears, but her parents’ lawyers got it annulled before he could ruin her life.

From what I can tell, Quincy seems different. A little goofy, sure, but altogether a really good guy.

She deserves to have a romantic New Year’s Eve with her long-awaited Prince Charming.

Even if it means I have to suffer through the rest of this party sober…fucking hell.

“Excuse me,” a man says as he runs into my back thanks to my decision to reroute midstride. Flashbacks of Ignorant Einstein turn the corners of my mouth down into a grimace as I turn to face him, but upon inspection, I’m thankful to find a different scientist entirely—Walter White of Breaking Bad.

He’s tall. Fit. His shoulders are the perfect kind of broad beneath his well-fitted and dapper tuxedo. Even though I have no idea what his face looks like beneath the mask, the rest is a welcome sight for my eyes.

“My bad, Walt,” I apologize. “I’m the one who switched directions.”

He laughs and rubs a tanned, long-fingered hand across the black-and-white material at his chest. “Well, in that case, I Better Call Saul.”

I smile at that, Beyoncé and her rubber-masked cockblocking be damned, and look to the ground self-consciously.

My feet feel like they’re bleeding, my dress might as well be painted on, and I’m starting to sweat under this stupid mask, but finally, the evening seems to be looking up.

“Would you like to get a drink?” Walt asks, and I can’t contain the fervor in my nod.

“God, yes.”

He holds out a hand to indicate I should lead the way when I remember my little mishap with the bartender and the possibility of, you know, poison.

“Ah, hell.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Oh. Well, see, I didn’t make the best impression on Karen earlier, and I don’t really think she’s going to do cartwheels at the idea of serving me again.”

“She’s an employee of the hotel. It’s her job.”

“Yeah.” I laugh. “I guess you haven’t seen the movie Waiting.”

He’s silent for a moment, perhaps considering the absolutely disgusting subject matter of that movie, before changing his tune. “Okay. You wait here. I’ll get the drinks. What do you like?”

“Tropical vacations. Reruns of The Office. New Kids on the Block. Kittens—”

“To drink.” I swear I can hear a soft chuckle escape his lips, but I can’t be sure over the music pounding from the speakers. “What do you like to drink?”