The Billionaire Boss Next Door(4)

Good luck with Hudson Designs, her words repeat in my mind.

Yeah. Pretty sure I need a hell of a lot more than luck, Nelly.

Hudson Designs is my baby. The company I birthed from my proverbial womb. It is my pride. My passion. And the biggest reason my shoulders feel like I’m walking around with Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson hanging on, piggyback-style.

Normally, I have nothing against The Rock.

He’s big. He’s handsome. And if I had to smell what he was cooking, I’d venture to guess it would have an aroma of success and a multimillion-dollar bank account.

But his weight perched on my shoulders is no fucking joke, and everything I’ve ever worked for is at risk of crashing into the fiery pits of hell if I crumble under it.

It’s almost hard to believe it all went so wrong.

When I graduated college, I was practically high off excitement over the possibility of future success. I mean, I had landed a huge internship turned full-time employment with Clarise Beaumont, one of the foremost interior designers on the Gulf Coast.

It was a big fucking deal, and in my na?ve eyes, success skyrockets were already in flight.

After a few years working under her, I realized how impressive her work ethic and accomplishments were—and how much better they could be if I’d done them my way.

Eventually, I opened my own firm, motivated and hopeful about what opportunities being in business for myself could bring. And for the first couple of years, I chalked any and all hard times up to getting started. I had a client base to build, infrastructure to get in place. A few bumps in the road were more than understandable—they were expected.

Unfortunately, the next few years didn’t improve.

The design business isn’t the same as it was ten years ago, and everyone in the industry has taken a hit.

But when you’re a one-woman show like me, there’s a lot more overhead involved in making suppliers happy by taking sample stock at wholesale cost and keeping the daily operations of the office running.

Other than my assistant, Rosaline—who I had to let go three months ago—I couldn’t afford to keep a staff for the work I couldn’t spend my time doing personally. As a result, I had to outsource most of it, and the markup on the cost doubled.

And the bottom line of my books this morning confirms what I already knew—without a miracle, the last five years of my life might as well have been for nothing.

I haven’t dated, I haven’t traveled. I haven’t even been to the Cheesecake Factory they built at the mall. All I’ve done is work, desperate to build something I’m proud of, and now it could be over.

My lip quivers unexpectedly, and I grind the gears in my mind straight into reverse.

Do not cry, Greer. Breaking down on the sidewalk of the New Orleans airport is not acceptable.

Besides, other than the whole my business is failing thing, today isn’t all bad.

For one, I didn’t die in Nelly’s Equinox, and secondly, New Orleans is playing its most impressive hand of cards on what should be a cold winter day. The sun is surprisingly strong, and it makes my skin feel crisp, like I could crease it down the middle to match my slacks.

It feels good. Warm. Cozy.

This is my favorite city. The place I grew up. The place I started my business. My home.

And today, I’m minutes away from seeing my best friend Emory and flying first class to New York with her, courtesy of her family’s money. They have old money, new money—all the fucking money—and Emory never flies anywhere in the back of the plane.

Luckily for me, she also doesn’t like to fly alone, and her boyfriend is already there.

The loose wheel on my bargain luggage clatters behind me as I drag it up the ramp to the automatic door and inside the bright lights of the ticket area of Louis Armstrong International Airport.

People scurry back and forth around me in varying states of distress, but it’s there, in the center of the chaos, that I find Emory, waving wildly from her spot in front of a pile of Louis Vuitton luggage.

Her red hair is so big, it’s got to be full of something—I’m guessing money—and her signature blood-red lips pop against her ivory skin. She’s got a look all her own, and each detail is centered around making her light blue eyes look misty gray.

I know this ridiculous information because she told me one night when we were a bottle deep in wine.

“Greeeeer!” she yells, obnoxiously enough that everyone in the vicinity turns to look.

My cheeks burn and sting as I make my way toward her reluctantly, avoiding any and all eye contact from the curious gazes she’s garnered due to her big fat mouth.

I am a people person who kind of hates people. A conundrum in any country, on any day, in any language, but all the more complicated when you do what I do for a living.

But the work is what I love. The art, the creativity—the chance to do something different with each and every design.

It’s what gives me life.

“Hello, hello,” I greet as I pull my bag to a stop next to her five, and I smooth a hand down my wrinkled blouse and slacks. “Have you been here long?”

Automatically, her eyes engage, sliding into their default setting whenever I am around—an intensely obvious roll. And I can’t even really blame her.

Her palate is refined, her heart is endlessly open, her workweek consists of occasionally going into the office to do god only knows what at one of her family’s successful marketing firms, and her idea of discount shopping is a sale at Bergdorf’s. I eat ramen at least two times a week, avoid men at nearly all costs, spend eighty hours a week in my office, and splurge at Target. But when it comes to personality, I am, without a doubt, the high-maintenance one of the two of us.