The Billionaire Boss Next Door(46)

Alone. With Greer.

Shit.

She’s still standing in the center, Dick long gone with George, and I watch as she moves to the corner of the room to grab one of the brand-new, plastic-covered office chairs.

Her fingers grip the back cushion as she rolls it across the floor until she stops just below one of the newly installed sample light fixtures.

With a lightbulb in her hand, she uses the armrest to steady herself, and I watch in absolute horror as she goes to step onto the chair.

The chair on fucking wheels, mind you.

“Uh…what are you doing?”

“I just want to see how the lighting would look if it were a bit softer.”

“You’re going to hurt yourself,” I say. “Get down and let one of George’s guys do it.”

“It’s fine,” she says, too fucking determined. “I do this all the time.”

“Greer—”

“It’s fine,” she cuts me off.

Her heels dig into the plastic covering the seat cushion, and she focuses her eyes on the ceiling.

She lengthens her slim body, stretching her hands toward the fixture, and the chair does not appreciate the movement. It wobbles and wiggles, and I know she’s exactly ten seconds away from disaster.

“Oh shit,” she mutters, and I’m already moving toward her, quick as my feet can take me.

In a matter of seconds, the chair and her feet slip out from under her, and she free-falls from standing and heads straight for the floor.

But I jump toward her just in time.

Arms flexed outward and my hands braced, I catch her in midair—before her fall turns tragic—with my hands directly on her ass.

On instinct, she leans forward to catch her balance on the back of the chair, and that abrupt movement only lifts her ass more toward my face and pushes the plush, perfect flesh deeper into my hands.

Her ass is literally in my hands.

What the fuck is happening?

“Uh…” she mutters through a shocked breath. “I’m so sorry… I… Shit… Just…”

Her stuttered words tell me she’s just as confused as I am.

I’m utterly speechless. Probably, I presume, as a means of defense while I’m trying not to focus on just how good her ass feels in my hands.

And it does feel good. Better than I imagined.

Now would be a good time to stop gripping her ass…

Shit.

Quickly, I move one hand to her stomach, and with a firm grip around her waist, I lift her body away from her complicated situation with the office chair.

Once her heels hit the ground, I put a good ten feet of distance between us.

“Are you okay?” I heave, forcibly pushing the words past my lips.

“Uh… Yeah… Thanks,” she says, and with those big blue eyes of hers, she moves her uncertain gaze from the floor and looks at me. “I’m okay.”

“Okay…well…” I pause and run a hand through my hair. “I’m…uh…glad you’re all right.”

“Yeah. I’m all right.”

“You’re all right. Good. That’s good.”

Fuck, this is awkward.

“So, I’m just going to get one of George’s guys to help me with that…” She pauses, and I nod like a moron.

“Okay. Yeah. That sounds good.”

“Okay, good.”

Certain we’ve met our quote for okays and goods and all rights for the next two years, I do the only thing I can do in this situation. I turn on my heels and walk right out of the conference room.

If someone had told me Greer Hudson’s ass would end up in my hands by the end of today, I would have bet my entire share of Turner Properties on the contrary.

Yet, somehow, some-fucking-way, that is exactly what just happened.

And I thought seeing her naked spurred some seriously dirty thoughts.

Touching her…feeling something I’ve been imagining vividly…was the last thing I needed.





Greer



Coastal Crepes is one of the best breakfast, brunch, and lunch restaurants in the French Quarter, and has a convenient location smack-dab in between my office and the hotel.

And it also just so happens to be owned by my brother.

My grandfather opened it in the sixties, passed it on to my father, and then, when my parents died in the car accident when my mom was pregnant with me, he took over running operations again—along with raising his grandchildren.

We spent so much time here when I was a kid, I often wonder if that’s what made my brother the passionate chef he is today. When my grandfather died, it only made sense for him to leave Coastal Crepes to my brother rather than to me.

In fact, I’m pretty sure it would be about out of business if it were up to me. I’ve almost lost my design firm, and I actually know stuff about design. The only thing I know about the food business is how to eat.

The wrought-iron-and-glass door is heavy as I swing it open onto the stone sidewalk and duck inside. Dark compared to outside but lighter than much of the masculine design in the French Quarter, the restaurant settles my soul with everything familiar.

Years of coming here—years of growing up in the seats of the wooden benches of each booth.

It’s Saturday night family dinner and the restaurant is closed, so the only people inside are the ones I’m expecting to find—my brother, Heath, his son, Brooks, and his wife, Rhonda.