The Billionaire Boss Next Door(21)

“Hello, everyone,” he greets simply, and we all respond with nods and hellos of our own. At least, everyone else does.

For some reason, I’m having a hard time forcing the civil exchange past my lips, and my hello comes out more like a stuttered “e-low.”

What is it about him that rubs me so wrong? I mean, I barely met the guy the other day. It’s not like we’ve got some long-standing rivalry that dates back to pigtail-pulling and shoves on the playground.

He poked fun at me. Big deal.

It shouldn’t be a big deal.

It is, though. I feel the weight of my agitation toward him deep in my gut, right next to the two mini donuts I shouldn’t have shoved down my throat in the employee break room.

It’s burning and achy, and I don’t recognize it at all. For the greater part of the last five years, my emotions have avoided the extremes. If I were to make a line graph to represent myself, Greer’s numbness would be a great big tick mark right across the middle.

Suddenly, now I can’t seem to stop bouncing off the sides of the scale.

“I’m looking forward to working with you for the next several months to make Vanderturn NOLA our most enjoyable and profitable property yet. The work may get grueling, thanks to the timeline that we’re working with, but I know you’re all up to the challenge.”

He’s barely even begun his speech, and already, I’m rolling my eyes at his management spiel.

He knows I’m up for the challenge?

Besides our altercation in the fitness room, he doesn’t know anything about me. I mean, unless he’s a fucking fortune-teller, he can’t possibly know that I’m up for the challenge.

Hell, I don’t even know if I am.

I’ve never taken on a workload like this, and my previous assistant Rosaline already moved on to another job. If I’m going to find a staff to help me manage it, I’ll have to start from scratch.

But with the schedule we’re on, I might have to go it alone.

“Five days from today, we’ll convene in New Orleans at the property site to get started. I’d like it if we could all go into that day with at least one thing we can contribute to making this the best property in the country. One specific, plan-oriented thing. Take the next few days to consider it, to strategize, and Wednesday, we’ll start implementing.”

His smile is big but completely devoid of warmth as his father steps in front of him in a gesture of dismissal. “Thanks, Trent.”

Junior only hesitates for a second, his features strangely confrontational as he focuses on the back of his dad’s head, before turning to the glass door, heaving it open, and retreating down the hall.

That’s weird.

Fortunately, I don’t have the time to focus on their freaky exchange or my panic attack as chatter fires up once again.

The rest of us stand up from our seats and start to mingle as Senior makes a point to talk to each of us individually.

It’s clear he’s known Marcus and Harold for years, but Brad, Frederick, and Isaac all seem to be new like me.

Still, he treats us all the same, inquiring about our personal backgrounds with a thorough warmth.

Marcus is the only one who’ll actually be on site with us, everyone else’s role centered in the financial and business aspects of the build, but by the time Senior’s done making the rounds, I feel like I know little pieces of everyone’s lives. Their families. Their work experiences. Their personalities.

Everyone but his son and the actual boss of the New Orleans project.

No, other than the bothersome way he makes me feel, that asshole is still a complete mystery to me.




Mr. Turner finishes getting to know everyone just before lunch and dismisses us for the day.

After a quick call to Emory, who’s been shopping all day on Fifth Avenue—the lucky bitch—we decide to meet for lunch at the 51st Street Deli.

It’s no surprise that Emory is waiting for me in a booth at the back of the restaurant—built soundly for a party of eight—when I walk in. Most of the seats are filled with bags from designer brands and boutique shops I could never afford, but she manages to leave just enough space for her ass and mine.

“You’re late,” she accuses as I sit down to a hot pastrami sandwich and a half a dozen pickles—a personal weakness—already waiting for me. I roll my eyes in a secret gesture of appreciation.

I’m the only one who knows the secret, but I’m thankful in my heart, and that’s what really matters, right?

Right.

“And?” I laugh caustically. At some point, she’s got to realize this is never going to change. “If you’re surprised, you should be really disappointed in yourself.”

She huffs, banging her hands on the table and innocuously rearranging her silverware. I smile, amused by my friend’s closet OCD.

“I just don’t understand. You were done when you called me. You were closer. We agreed to meet here as soon as we could. How on earth do you end up taking double the time?”

I shrug. I really don’t know. “I guess I just come by my tardiness naturally.”

I’ve always had a gift for shitting away time. Two hours in front of the TV, an hour and a half in the shower, forty-five minutes on my bed in the middle of the day for no reason—I’m an Olympic-level athlete at all of it.