The Billionaire Boss Next Door(41)

“You’re kidding, right?” she tosses back without hesitance. “You’ve spent the entire day doing an impression of Sideshow Bob. Sarah’s almost worn her teeth down to the nubs.”

“Come on, be real,” I refute and narrow my eyes. “I wasn’t that bad.”

She scoffs. “Yes. You were. Barking orders and chewing out George.”

“George wasn’t doing his job.”

He wasn’t doing his job. And, honestly, it feels like George is never doing his fucking job.

“Look,” she says and lifts both hands in the air. “I’m not trying to start shit. I’m just saying you might want to dial it back a notch if you don’t want an outbreak of stomach ulcers to take down the whole crew.”

Not trying to start shit? This, coming from the woman standing in front of her boss and telling him how to do his job.

It takes everything inside of me to keep my tone calm and neutral. “While I appreciate your attempt at constructive criticism, I think you need to realize, as the head of this project, it’s my job to make sure shit gets done,” I say through a tight jaw.

Apparently, Greer Hudson is an expert at heading up projects and managing people. And here I just thought she was the designer on staff. Go fucking figure.

“I’m not going to hold George’s hand and give him a back rub to boost his confidence because he’s not doing his job. I’m going to tell him he’s fucking up so he gets his shit together and starts doing his job.”

She rolls her eyes. “I’m not saying you should sit us around a campfire and make s’mores. Just back off a bit on how hard you’re riding everyone’s asses. You don’t have to be a tyrant to get people to do their work.”

A tyrant? She’s obviously never worked side by side with my father.

Before I can offer up a retort to her holier-than-thou and completely unwanted and unwarranted advice, a boy with a dark mop of hair cruises by with dirty dishes in his hand, and Greer reaches out and flicks him.

“Yo, gar?on,” she says like a lunatic. “Another pickle for me, and a heart for the Tin Man over here.”

The kid shakes his head and buzzes back to the kitchen.

I fake a horrid excuse for a smile. “Very funny.”

“I thought it was pretty good.”

“For someone who acts like she knows everything about how to treat people, you sure don’t seem to mind the way you treat the busboy.”

“The busboy is my nephew.”

Skepticism makes my head shake. “No way. He has to be eighteen at least. And you’re what? Twenty-six?”

“That’s the nicest thing you’ve said all day. Seriously.” Her responding, albeit sarcastic, smile is too pretty for my liking. “But I’m thirty-three.”

I laugh. There’s no way she’s a day over thirty. “No, you’re not.”

“Yes, I am. Don’t tell me I’m going to have to show you my driver’s license.”

“How?”

“How what?” she asks with a raise of her brow.

“How is he your nephew?”

“Uh, biology? See, when a mommy and daddy really love each other, they do something called sex. Sex is—”

I shove back in my chair. “Funny.”

She snorts. “Well, what are you looking for here? He’s my brother’s son, which makes him my nephew.”

“Your brother must be older.”

She straightens her spine, surprised at how accurate I am. “Ten years. He pretty much raised me after my parents died.”

The unexpected admission makes my chest constrict. One second, we’re tossing insults, and the next, she’s reminding me there’s something human under all that hostility of hers.

“I’m sorry. How did they…”

She looks down at the table, pulls out the chair across from me, and takes a seat. I give her the time to collect herself before she speaks again.

“Their plane went down.”

“God, Greer, I’m—”

“One of their employees wanted to take over the company, so he paid a guy to put a bomb on their plane.”

My jaw drops. “Holy shit.”

“They found it before it went off, though, and threw it out the window. But it clipped the engine, and they went down in the ocean. I was by myself at home—except for the staff, of course—and I had no choice but to take over their company myself. Unfortunately, that made Lawrence even angrier. He wanted the company and the contents of the vault—”

Jesus Christ. I can’t believe I let her sucker me like this.

“You’re just reciting the plot for Richie Rich.”

“Yes. Yes, I am. I thought you’d relate. Being a billionaire and all.”

It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell her I’m not exactly a billionaire. Turner Properties might be a multibillion-dollar empire, but that doesn’t mean my share in the company equates to ten digits in my bank account. My dad is, but I’m not. And he might not even leave the company to me when he’s ready to retire. He’s threatened to leave it to someone else several times.

“Are your parents even really dead?” I ask, and the instant the question leaves my lips, my stomach turns with discomfort. I’m not trying to be a dick; I’m just trying to gauge how far Greer’s snark goes when it comes to conversation. But shit, I might have pushed the envelope a little too far.