The Billionaire Boss Next Door(2)

Greer



It’s the end of December—otherwise known as the Bermuda Triangle of the calendar—and still, I find myself outside of my bed, wearing business attire rather than pajamas, and acting as a functioning member of society.

Insanity, I tell you.

A notification pings on my phone, and I snag it from my kitchen counter to glance at the screen. After spending the entire night in my office—with the door locked because, you know, weirdos—and then rushing home with exactly one hour to pack a suitcase, I’m praying the news from Uber isn’t grim.

“Don’t say known for great conversation, don’t say known for great conversation, don’t say known for great conversation,” I chant to myself.

After a night of going over my company’s books, there’s nothing I want to do less than make up stories to entertain some stranger with a lot of questions this early in the morning.



Nelly in a silver Chevrolet Equinox is here.



The Uber notification thankfully says nothing about Nelly’s conversational skills, but I have no idea what an Equinox is. The last time I had a car was never, and the last time I was interested in them was sometime before that.

I’ve lived in New Orleans all my life, and most everything I’ve done has been possible on foot, on public transportation, or via taxi.

And now that ride services are a thing, I just pretend I’m rich enough to have personalized chauffeurs all the time.

Which, after what Hudson Designs’ accounting records had to say last night, I am not. If those fuckers get any redder, the New Orleans homicide division will be confiscating them as evidence.

Thankfully, though, when I open my front door and drag my suitcase over the threshold, my driver is out of her vehicle and introducing herself.

“Gree Hudson, right? I’m Nelly.” She flashes a toothy grin my way and crosses her arms below her chest, revealing a giant, sparkly-silver horse head on her white t-shirt.

“Nice to meet you, Nelly,” I say and pull the cheap suitcase I bought off Groupon for fifty bucks toward the sidewalk. “But it’s actually Greer.”

“What is?” She raises one of her bushy gray eyebrows.

“My name,” I explain in the friendliest voice I can manage. “It’s pronounced Greer.”

At a whopping five letters, it’s one of the simplest names in the greater New Orleans area. Thanks to a heavy Creole influence, I went to school with a Fabienne and an Adelaida and a Eulalie, and Nelly’s having trouble with Greer.

She must be new to the area.

“Oh, sorry about that,” she responds, and her smile turns apologetic. “Greer-er.”

“Greer.”

“Gree-ware,” she tries again.

Screw it. As long as she gets me to the airport in time for my flight, Nelly can call me whatever she can get past her tongue.

“You got it.” I force a smile and stop beside the hatch to the cargo area, but she gestures me toward the back-passenger door.

“Sorry, but the back is filled with stuff for my horses.”

I blink three times as if that simple movement might help me hear better.

Did she just say stuff for horses?

Living inside the city that hosts Mardi Gras, it’s safe to say I’ve experienced some pretty insane Uber rides, but I can’t deny this is the first time horses and stuff for horses have ever been an obstacle.

“So, if you don’t mind,” Nelly continues. “You can put your suitcase in the back seat and sit in the front.” She takes my bag from my hands. “I mean, you’re a petite little thing and could probably fit in the back with your luggage, but I figure you’ll be more comfortable up front.”

To be honest, I might be most comfortable if I called a new Uber, but I’m already running significantly behind schedule and have zero time to question the contents of her trunk.

Anyway, as long as it’s not an actual horse or a dead body or a dead horse body, we’re all set.

Once my suitcase is securely in her back seat and we’re both seat-belted into the front, Nelly pulls away from my place and out onto the main road.

Instantly, our drive has a soundtrack that includes the sounds of swishing and swashing coming from the cargo area. It’s like a sound machine, only it’s not raindrops or the ocean but some mysterious fluid.

And whatever it is, there’s a lot of it.

There’re not, like, jugs of gasoline back there, are there?

No way. That’d be ridiculous. She said it was for her horses. I’m no veterinarian, but I’m pretty certain they’re powered by hoofs and hearts. Not fossil fuels.

“Beautiful day, right?” Nelly asks, her eyes not on the road and staring directly at me.

I mutter a simple uh-huh and bury my face in my phone, hopeful that’ll encourage her to keep her eyes focused on driving and possibly save me from hearing about the history of the hoof or something similar.

But it’s hard to scroll through Amy Schumer’s Instagram page when my driver is speed-racing through yellow lights and fucking up the flow of traffic.

I look up to find my driver glancing around at the scenery like it’s a fucking Sunday morning walk.

“Oh! Look! It’s the new Target!” she exclaims and takes one hand off the wheel to point toward the right side of the road. “If you haven’t had a chance to check it out, you definitely should, Greer-ware! They even have a Starbucks inside.”