The Billionaire Boss Next Door(39)

“No. I’m good, thanks.”

Trent scowls but doesn’t say anything else as he waves us out of the fitness room—ironic that I’m still giving him shit in hotel gyms, I know—and back into the corridor that leads to reception.

Sarah bumps me with her elbow while we walk, like some girl-code form of congratulations on my back-talking to the boss, and I’m instantly back in high school, cackling at the back of the classroom with the other class clowns.

Dear God, how low I’ve sunk.

I need to get control of my impulses. Not only do I need this job, but after seeing the foundation of this place, I want it.

I can practically smell the fresh paint of my choosing as it goes up on the walls and feel the finest of textures and linens under my fingertips.

I can picture the touches of Creole and charm and everything special this place could be, and I could be the one who makes it that way.

What an accomplishment that would be. It would make all of the hard work and the tears and the struggles worth it, and I know it would make my brother proud to see me do something so significant.

With a renewed sense of purpose, I’m on my best behavior for the rest of the morning. I don’t snark when Trent sneers, and I don’t crack jokes at his expense when he isn’t around.

I am a walking, talking goddamn professional, and I expect some Fortune 500 company owner will be designing a course based on my approach any day now.

Sarah and the guys give me funny looks given that they don’t know how a Stepford wife managed to inhabit my body in such a short time, but I don’t let it sway me.

There’s a head honcho in town, and it just so happens he’s the most annoyingly attractive human on earth.

So what?

But I’m alone in my endeavors.

Trent is still officially the most pompous boss I’ve ever worked for, and with the way his sour attitude commandeered the staff’s mood this morning, his grave looks to be about forty feet deep at this point.

And that really brings to mind just one thing…

I wonder if Emory’s parents will let me bust through the wall when he dies.





Trent



I’m halfway through the fourth day of working with the NOLA project team, and it’s been a long fucking morning.

I slept like shit last night and woke up at the ass-crack of dawn, arriving at the hotel a good two hours before everyone else, just so I could avoid one particular person on my team before I’d managed coffee.

A she-devil in heels who believes every idea that’s ever crossed her mind is the most brilliant idea that’s ever been thought.

Greer Hudson is by far the most insufferable woman I’ve ever met in my life. And trust me, my best friend is Cap, therefore I’ve met a lot of fucking women.

At work, she is everywhere I am, a sarcastic, pursed-lipped, thorn in my side, and when I get home, she’s still there. All around me.

There’s something about knowing she’s on the other side of my bedroom wall that is stealing my sanity and turning me into an insomniac.

For a building as expensive as the one we’re both living in, you’d think they’d have better soundproofing.

But they don’t.

I can hear her every step. Her every cackle. Her goddamn reality show preferences buzzing from her television.

Even the sounds of her shower running reach my ears through the walls.

If this isn’t the definition of hell, I don’t know what is.

I’m tired. Grouchy. And a headache the size of the Empire State Building is taking up residence in my skull.

Needless to say, I’m in need of a short break from the stress that is the job site, and there’s only one place that’ll do.

The instant the nostalgic sign for Coastal Crepes fills my vision, relief relaxes my shoulders, and I cross the street and head toward the entrance.

This restaurant holds special memories for me. When I was a kid, my mom used to bring me here whenever we visited New Orleans, and just the smell of it brings the woman I used to know to my mind.

Three years ago, she was diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease, and the progression has been fast. And she’s not the same as she used to be, mostly because of the depression dealing with the disease has driven her to.

She used to be fun and fun-loving and a positive peace-keeper in the tense relationship between my father and me, and while she’s still mostly positive when it comes to me, she’s become ruthlessly unforgiving of herself.

I still see the woman who gave me care and attention, no matter how much success I garnered, and I want her to know I do.

For the last year or so, I’ve spent my weekends taking her on coffee dates and to the movies, shopping for a new outfit to make her feel good, and to the park even if it’s just to feel the sun on her face. And her quiet enjoyment of each outing only motivated me to do more before I left to head the project that is the Vanderturn New Orleans hotel.

Before I knew it, I was delaying my NOLA departure date just so I wouldn’t have to skip out on time with her.

But my desire to be near my mom in New York has only created an even bigger sore spot between my father and me, and when I finally committed to coming down here, she told me she didn’t want me to come back. Not on the weekends to visit, and not when anything else came up.

I was to stay in New Orleans, one of her favorite cities in the world, until I finished the hotel.