The Billionaire Boss Next Door(20)

My father is oblivious to our silent showdown. “It’s safe to say the two of you are going to be working very closely together over the next year, so the sooner you can get to know each other, the better.”

Greer’s face is a mirror of what I imagine my own looks like—sheer horror.

When it comes to a hotel, there’s no more important relationship than the one between the project head and the designer. Together, those two roles on the team are building an experience that is supposed to translate to everyone who steps inside. Most of all, they need to be able to work together.

Instantly, the logistics of my new reality become crystal clear.

Me and this woman. Working together. Side by side. For nearly a year.

This is so fucked.

“Come on,” my dad says, somehow unscathed by the singe of our eye lasers. “Let’s meet the rest of the team.”

Greer nods and smiles, which is more than I can say for myself. I’m still locked in a nightmare and struggling to wake up, and my body acts accordingly.

Either that, or I’m having a small stroke.

My dad, of course, notes the lag and files it away as yet another mark against me.

“Jesus, Trent. Did you not sleep last night or something? Look alive.”

I jolt into action, but not before I notice Greer’s smirk. My dad’s castigation of me amuses her.

Something inside me ignites and starts running at high idle.

She might think she’s ready, but she has no idea what she’s getting into with me—how much animosity I’m built to withstand when it comes to working at Turner Properties.

For the first time ever, my father’s criticism of me may serve a greater purpose.

I stay put, giving her and my father a minute to make their way down the hall without me, adjust my tie, and take a deep breath.

Greer, my mind rumbles.

If she wants a battle, I’ll give her a damn war.





Greer



Nerves jump up and down in my stomach like a million chaotic bouncy balls set to work by a bunch of manic kids. I am freaking the fuck out.

The green-eyed, good-bodied, trash-talker from the gym is my boss.

As in, in charge of me at work.

As in, signs my paychecks.

As in, he is the only thing standing between me and a new job at the Stop and Pop gas station where I will have to drown my life’s failures in cheap beer, cigarettes, and cheesy curls.

I don’t even smoke, never even let a cigarette touch my lips, but from where I stand, a life filled with dirty ashtrays and cheese-stained fingertips is a strong contender for my future.

Holy bitchtits. This is bad.

And like a spoiled high schooler who actually has parents who pay for all of their stuff—like a woman who doesn’t have everything on the line—I gave him attitude. I talked back. I dug my fingernails into his hand when he shook it.

What the hell is wrong with me?

My breathing kicks up a notch, and I glance around the conference room to see if anyone has noticed how close I am to hyperventilating. After my altercation with his son and with my heart beating a million miles a minute, Trent Senior led the way down the hall and into this room. I’m sure employees made eye contact with me, but the only thing I could see was my career going up in flames.

Five people other than me circle the large marble table in the center of the room, not a single one of them a woman.

I’m the only hen at this cock party, and that spurs my anxiety further.

The reality of what I’m up against crashes down on me all over again, and my breathing breaks down into uncoordinated gulps.

I study the faces around me, but they’re all ensconced in their own conversations and unconcerned with me.

Desperate for a lifeline, I scour the refreshment cart in the corner, but there’s not one paper bag for hyperventilation purposes in sight. I can only hope I weather this storm on my own.

Breathing may sound instinctive, but I wouldn’t put it past myself to forget to do it. And I do not want to be known as the woman who passed out on her first day for the rest of my employment with Turner Properties.

In a room full of men, I refuse to be the fainting to the floor, fucking damsel in distress.

Especially not when one of those men is that rude, bastard prick from the gym.

Trent Turner. Well, Trent Turner Junior, I guess is his full name.

If I weren’t so amped up on anxiety and dread, I might take the time to laugh silently at the fact that his full name includes Junior. Like he’s a little boy. A fucking kid.

Unfortunately for me, his tight muscles and sexy jawline and piercing green eyes are the exact opposite of what a boy should look like.

No sirree Bob, he is all man, Greer. All-fucking-man.

Pfft. Whatever. The fact remains that he’s a Grade A asshole.

The titter of conversation dims as the green-eyed devil himself steps inside the glass-walled conference room and shuts the door. I didn’t get the chance to really take him in when he bumped into me before, but as a mere member of the crowd, I more than have the chance now.

His suit is pressed and a crisp black in a way that isn’t maintainable without a hefty dry-cleaning bill. Below the edge of his jacket sleeves, the white of his shirt cuffs sticks out ever so slightly, and a shiny silver clip holds the emerald green of his tie in place.

It matches his eyes almost perfectly, and my knees feel weak. I’m almost certain the two are completely unrelated.