The Billionaire Boss Next Door(37)

“Sorry, dude.”

“You don’t sound all that sorry.”

He doesn’t. If anything, he sounds amused. The bastard.

“That’s because it’s not my fault,” he retorts, but his voice never strays from his familiar, calm Quincy tone. “Why would I waste time apologizing for something I’m not responsible for?”

“Take your rationality and shove it. There’s no place for it here.”

He chuckles. “Why don’t you stay at your dad’s place? Doesn’t he have a penthouse in the city?”

I force a fake laugh from my lungs. “I’m sorry, you must be mistaking me for someone my father likes.”

“Oh, come on. Senior likes you. It’s just…tough love.”

I snort. “Hah. Well. Whatever it is means I’m not staying in his penthouse.”

“Then fucking buy a house of your own. It’s not like you’re a pauper, for shit’s sake. Why are you living in an apartment anyway?”

“Because.” I shrug. “I don’t know if I’m staying in New Orleans after the hotel is done. New York is my home base, you know that.”

Cash to spare or not, I’m not a fan of wasting money on uncertainties. And because of everything going on with my mom, my future living situation is one big fat unknown.

“New York is also where your father is.” He kindly reminds me of shit I don’t feel like thinking about right now. “Maybe it’d do you some good to get some distance.”

“Distance from my father means distance from more than just him, Quince, and you know it.”

I grew up in New York. It’s what I know, what I love, what I’m used to. New Orleans is an entirely different animal, and beyond that, it’s not where my mom is.

I know it sounds ridiculous for a thirty-three-year-old man, but being close to her is important. Especially since her diagnosis. Who knows how many good years she has left?

“Sounds like you’re stuck, then. If I were you, I’d just make the best of it.”

“Make the best of it?” I repeat on a sigh. “Why does everyone keep saying shit like that?”

“Maybe because it’s good advice.”

I snort. “Okay, Dr. Phil.”

“Yeah, yeah. My hair is thinning, and I have a mustache. Real original.”

“I don’t give a shit about your bald spot, Quince. I’m talking about your holy-Kumbaya style words of wisdom.”

“That’s right, Turn. Wisdom. Even your insults know I’m right.”

“Come on, Q.” I refuse to believe this is my reality. “Surely, they have another apartment available in the building? Or even another building with an apartment that doesn’t put me right next door to a crazy, obnoxious woman?”

“Are you saying you would actually move to another apartment, that you don’t even know if you’re going to stay in for longer than nine months, just to get fifty feet farther away from her?”

I don’t even have to think about my answer.

“Yes.”

“Wow.”

“So, another apartment?”

“Nope,” he responds way too quickly. “At least not another apartment rented from Emory’s family. This is probably it, dude. When you signed your lease, there were only two apartments available. The one you moved in to and the one next door to yours. This is the kind of building that locals would practically sell a limb to live in. It’s rare for spots to become available. Not to mention, the whole reason you wanted it was because of its prime location to the hotel.”

Everything he says is right. I rented this apartment for a reason. And I don’t have any damn time to go searching for a new place. Not with the NOLA project demanding all of my time and energy. Losing even one day could end in delays I can’t afford.

“Great,” I grumble, smashing a piece of my chocolate croissant in between two fingers.

I stare out toward the road, my mind racing with all sorts of irrational thoughts. But when I see a Prius with an Uber sticker in the back window pull up to the curb, I throw some money on the table and pick up what’s left of my newspaper.

“I’ve got to go,” I say to Quince. “My car’s here.”

“Okay, dear. Have a good day at work. Kisses.”

“Blow me,” I say in return.

He’s still laughing when I hang up the call and cruise across the sidewalk.

I’ve got a hand on the door handle of the black car when a different hand, one with red fingernails and owned by the devil, smacks the back of it away.

“Whoops. Sorry, neighbor. This Uber’s mine.”

And there, as if I channeled her evil spirit, is Greer Hudson, smirking so hard one of her perfectly shaped eyebrows lifts.

“Excuse me?”

She clears her throat and nods to the driver. “Check your information, dear. You’ll have to wait for the next eco-friendly hatchback.”

She shoves me out of the way, pops the door open, and jumps inside.

And I’m left with the confirmation that she’s right as I open the app and compare the license plate as it putters away.

When you’re unwilling to share your Uber with your new boss on your first day of work, you’re either asking for trouble or you have a few screws loose.