The Billionaire Boss Next Door(48)

Yeahhhh. The thing is…my brother has no idea how much trouble my business was in before I got this job or how little of a choice I had in moving out of my house.

He worked so hard to make sure I had all the things I dreamed of, and to tell him just how close I’ve come to losing it all… Well, I can’t even stomach the thought of it.

I’d much rather soak in the bitter truth of it all by myself.

Luckily, I don’t have to lie about the quality of the apartment. Emory’s parents own one hell of a classy place.

“It’s great. Spacious and modern,” I say, trying to give him at least a morsel of something to cling to. “And yes, Dad, I got renters insurance.”

He smiles at my jab at his smothering worry and points to his shirt.

I didn’t even notice it before, but I’m pretty sure it’s the only thing I’ll notice now.

Dad Body is the new Hot Toddy.

Gah, that’s terrible.

It’s like a dad joke from hell, and the only thing remotely creative about it is that it rhymes.

I smile and nod anyway, just to humor him, but not before reaching to grab the wine bottle and pouring myself another enormously healthy glass.

If I’m going to make it through the rest of family dinner with the Corny Dad, Mute Teenager, and Tina Turtleneck—aka my lovely witch-in-law—without saying something I shouldn’t, I’m going to need a little lubrication, if you know what I’m saying.

Liquid courage.

Hooch.

The sauce.

A little vino for my—

Alcohol. I need alcohol.




By the time I leave The Last Supper, I’m what a college frat boy might refer to as smashed, bro. And three large glasses of wine are all it took to get me here.

My tolerance for drinking is on the low end of the spectrum because I don’t really drink that much.

Other than a glass of wine here or there, the most I ever drink is at dinner with my brother and his family.

It’s not that they’re that terrible or anything; I think I’m just…comfortable. Or I need the intoxication to tolerate my sister-in-law’s stink eye. Honestly, it’s a toss-up.

But I know my brother would never judge me or jump to conclusions, and even though Rhonda doesn’t talk to me, she doesn’t talk to anyone else either. They see me for who I am and accept it.

Hell, my brother drove me home in his minivan and waved from the curb like a proud father when I finally got the outside door to my building open.

I’m a lucky woman, having such a positive, supportive guy in my life—even if he’s got corny dad jokes and doesn’t contribute to my bank account at all.

Hah.

Truth is, Heath is such a good guy, he probably would give me money if I asked him to.

But I’d never do that to him. He has his own business to run and family to feed.

My head swims as I force myself to climb the stairs rather than taking the elevator as some form of pseudo-punishment, and I’m only slightly disappointed when I make it to the top without falling down and acquiring a head laceration.

I’m kidding. Well, sort of. I mean, I’m currently in a phase of life where a two-to-four-day hospital stay sounds like a trip to the spa.

Basically, a life has many seasons.

My door seems nice and very door-like as I sidle up to it and give it a hug. For all my joking, I’m glad to have a home, and that seems like a good reason to give it a hug.

I get a little too cuddly, though, and the door bites back, smacking me right in the forehead.

Well, that wasn’t very nice.

“Ow!” I yell at my wooden friend. “Our relationship is never going to work if you can’t get past your intimacy issues. My other friends might start telling me to leave if you’re not careful.”

He doesn’t laugh, but I do enough for the both of us. I’m just getting ready to take the flirting to the next level with some keyhole penetration when my friend moves away on his own, swinging open…and right into my nemesis’s apartment.

Except, holy cotton balls, does he always look this good?

“Well, if it isn’t Trent Turner! Juney Junior! Turn the Burn! The Term-i-nator!” I greet him, reaching out with my hand and poking his bare chest with my index finger just to make sure he’s not some sort of mirage.

He’s real.

“Holy shit. You’re real,” I mutter, and I can’t stop my gaze from moving down his body.

He is in nothing but a towel, his hair is wet, beads of water roll down his perfect chest, and dear God…I might pass out.

I’m pretty sure I just saw the outline of my boss’s penis.

No skin action, no actual visual of the amount of purple power that thing gets when fully locked and loaded, but a penis blueprint, if you will.

And, apparently, the architect who drew up those penis plans didn’t hesitate to put in some serious square footage.

Immediately, I start thinking about what Trent’s boner would look like, and I giggle.

God, that’s such a funny word. Boner. The bones. Boneville. Boner Time.

“What about bones?” he asks, and my giggling comes to an abrupt halt.

Oh my God, WHAT? Did I just say that aloud?

“Did you just say something about bones?”

Oh, holy shit, I did. Someone. Help. Me.