The Billionaire Boss Next Door(35)

“You,” we both say and not the least bit kindly.

I look around the hall, but my mind can’t slow down enough to stop on any one object.

It’s like I no longer know where I am or what’s happening or what planet we’re on.

My mind takes off at a gallop, and my mouth follows close behind.

“What the… Did I somehow teleport to the hotel?”

Trent scowls at my ridiculous scenario but answers me anyway. “No.”

Desperate to figure out how in the hell the universe could be doing this to me, I ask him another question. “Are you a mirage?”

His scowl fades into what I can only assess as resignation. “Nope.”

It’s a full-on standoff in the middle of the hallway, and he stares back at me with the exact same irritation I imagine I’m throwing his way.

“Are you a ghost?”

“No.”

“A zombie version of someone who’s already dead but just happens to look like Trent Turner?”

He sighs and slips his hands into the pockets of his dress slacks. “How long are we going to do this?”

“For as long as it takes for me to understand what is happening,” I spit. “Why are you here? In my apartment building?”

“I live here.”

“No, you don’t.”

He can’t, because son of a wench, I refuse to let this be my reality.

“Pretty sure I do,” he responds, and that stupid, smug smile of his grates across my nerves like sandpaper.

“Nope. No way.” I shake my head manically. “That doesn’t work for me. You’re not allowed to live here.”

“Doesn’t work for you?” An annoyed chuckle escapes his full lips. “That’s rich coming from the woman who moved in to an apartment like some kind of gypsy in the middle of the fucking night.”

“Oh God. You’re my boss, and you live next door. You’re the boss next door.” I point up at the ceiling at, you know, Him, and declare, “And Emory says I’m the one with a sick sense of humor.”

“Have you had a psychotic break, or is this something you do regularly?”

I move my gaze back to his. “Huh?”

“Should I get used to waiting for you to finish talking to yourself? It could really stretch out the hours of what will already be a grueling workday.”

“Blah, blah, blah,” I mock with the face of a possessed Martian, shoving past him to make my way to the stairwell. Ever since I read that taking the stairs instead of the elevator is a simple key to maintaining good heart health in Shape magazine, I’ve made sure to implement the practice.

Since working out obviously isn’t my specialty and fried foods give me life, it’s all up to the stairs to make sure I don’t have a heart attack at the age of forty-five.

Trent follows, unfortunately, every inch of his body humming with much the same energy I feel for him.

Annoyance. Loathing. Painful awareness that this is our life now.

How on earth can this be happening? The one person I can’t seem to take in stride is not only my new neighbor but my freaking boss too.

Is the universe trying to kill me?

And, seriously? Why is he here? I know it’s an insanely nice building with apartments that require the kind of rent you need to make well over six figures to afford, but doesn’t he have some Richie Rich mansion in the suburbs he can fill with his toxic-ness instead?

Not only will I have to spend hours upon hours with him every day at work, but I will come home every night and have to deal with the fact that this prick is on the other side of my living room wall.

I will have to see him every-fucking-where, all the flipping time.

When I leave for work.

When I get home from work.

When I get my damn mail.

Jesus Christ, what if I masturbate and he hears me? I won’t survive.

The dramatic thought forces me to a halt in the stairway, and he rams right into the back of me.

I groan as the back of my shoe scrapes a blister on my heel before the day has even started.

“Could you watch where you’re going?” I snap snidely as I turn around to meet his infuriating green eyes.

“I was,” he spits back. “You’re the one who stopped in the middle of the staircase.”

“Yeah, well…”

“Yeah, well?” He raises a challenging brow.

“Just go in front of me,” I grumble when I can’t think of a snappy enough insult.

He smirks like he’s won, and I want to slap the expression right off of his handsome face.

Whoa, whoa, whoa, Greer. Handsome?

No, not handsome face. Just a face. A completely normal, nothing-to-see-here face.

By the time I make it to the bottom of the stairwell, he’s got a head start on me, and I decide to keep it that way.

There’s no upside to walking shoulder to shoulder with him all the way to the hotel.

When he rounds the corner out of sight, I increase my pace to one slightly faster than a tortoise. In what must be a personal record, I’ve given myself plenty of time to make it to the hotel on time, but I really want to stop for a coffee at the shop around the corner first.

Nobody should go into the day without coffee.

My brother always told me that my mom used to say Quick wit is just wit with caffeine.