The Billionaire Boss Next Door(38)

And, I swear to God, when it comes to Greer Hudson, it’s both.

Fine. If this insane woman wants trouble, I am more than willing to oblige.





Greer



It’s been a whirlwind of a morning, and it’s only nine a.m.

I left my boss stranded on the sidewalk to wait for his own Uber, even though we were coming to the same place.

God, why can’t I stop doing things like this!

It’s like I’m trying to poke the billionaire beast.

And ever since then, he’s shown his disdain for me—his new neighbor and employee—through his annoyed glares, heavy sighs, and overall grumpy demeanor.

But yet he’s still managed to run a tight ship. I’m talking spandex-pants-stuck-straight-up-your-ass kind of tight ship.

One hour into our first official work day and we’ve had our morning meeting, toured the majority of the lobby area and what will be the pool and fitness center, and spoken to at least seven subcontractors working on the property.

After all that, there are two things I know without a doubt. The hotel is going to be gorgeous—God and Trent Tucker willing, that is. And my boss is an absolute natural…at being a prick.

“Jesus Christ,” Trent says, his eyebrows furrowing in irritation. “It’s like every time I come here, we have to start over. Is Sergio here? His guys?”

Obviously, the second point proves itself more and more every minute.

“I don’t think he’s scheduled to be here until tomorrow, Mr. Turner,” the lead contractor, George, responds.

“Does anyone other than me realize what kind of a schedule we’re on here? We have nine months—nine—until opening day, and we’re still roughing things in.”

“I’ll try to get him on the phone—” George responds in an attempt to soothe the raging beast.

“No. I’ll call him myself. Give me the number,” Trent demands impatiently.

George’s hands shake as he scrolls through his phone and rattles off the numbers.

Trent dials as he speaks, and then he glances to the rest of us in the room before hitting send.

“Busy yourselves. I know for a fact each and every one of you has something important to be doing.”

Wow. And I thought I made a bad first impression.

Skeptically sour faces litter the room as Trent steps outside to make his phone call, and if I didn’t know how aggravating the man was, I actually might feel bad about how deep his hole is getting with these people.

Doesn’t he know the phrase Kill ’em with kindness?

I decide distraction is the best way to handle the awkward vibe in the room and step up to the plate to take charge. “Hey, Sarah,” I call to the assistant of the general contractor. “Did you say lighting was already laid out, or did decisions still need to be made?”

I wish I’d been brought in on this project from day one, but most people don’t know how deep a designer’s details really go. Lighting placement affects the whole aesthetic of the hotel, and it’ll make a huge difference to know whether I’m working off someone else’s foundation or if I get to establish my own.

“Uh,” she mutters, pulling herself away from the mass interest in the prickish behavior of our new boss, and rolls out the prints on the makeshift sawhorse table. “I think all of the wiring is run, but they still have to cut in the boxes. If there’s something specific you’re looking for, I think there’s still plenty of room to make changes.”

Fan-flipping-tastic.

“Great. I think we really need to focus on having both soft and hard lighting options in each guest room. There’s nothing I hate more in a hotel than too little or too much light. People want options. Edits on the next great American novel require a slightly different ambiance than a night of bow chicka bow wow, if you know what I’m saying.”

Sarah laughs, and the two guys who were surreptitiously observing Trent through the windows turn to me and smile.

Tony is the food and restaurant manager, and Marcus is a hospitality specialist I met in New York. He’s apparently had a hand in every hotel Trent Turner Senior has ever opened and probably knows more than the rest of us combined, but he’s been remarkably quiet the whole day.

It seems like maybe he’s just waiting to watch Junior fall on his face.

I wonder if Trent’s even considered what an asset Marcus would be to have on his side.

Trent comes back into the room and, of course, immediately the light mood takes a nose dive to the depths of hell.

I shoot imaginary darts at his bright-green eyes and imagine him hitting the ground in pain.

It’s almost ridiculously satisfying, and I can’t help the little laugh that bubbles out of my throat because of the mental image.

It doesn’t go unnoticed.

“Something funny?” Mr. Serious Pants asks sternly.

I raise an eyebrow and hold my ground.

It’s honestly like I’m incapable of doing anything else around him.

“Yes.”

“Care to share?”

I consider the riotous laughter the other people in the room would experience if I were to tell the truth and make a cost comparison against the undeniable shit I will earn for saying it.

The chips are stacked against me, so I decide to keep this little ditty to myself.