The Billionaire Boss Next Door(5)

“You know I have. You’re twenty minutes late.”

“Well,” I respond. “I think we should both just be happy I didn’t drown.”

She scrunches up her nose. “What?”

“It’s a long story,” I say. “And I’m twenty minutes late from the time you told me. Which is exactly what I always am. You know this, you’ve known this for years, and you should totally be able to factor that into your arrival time. So, really, it’s like you’re early.”

She guffaws, and I transition my smirk into a smile. “You only have yourself to blame.”

“Sometimes I really hate you.”

I wave off the comment as if it is no more than a buzzing fly. “Yes, but that’s nothing new either. And yet, you keep coming back for more.”

Emory and I have been friends for what seems like forever—we’re talking since tutus and closet costumes and an innocence the world had yet to crush. With only the all-male influence of my grandfather and my brother to guide me after my parents died, I clung to Emory like a female beacon of hope.

“Must be brainwashed.”

“Hmm…” I pause for a moment and grin at her. “Pretty sure if I were going to brainwash you, I’d definitely use it for something other than this. Like convincing you to give me all of your money.”

She rolls her “misty gray” eyes. “Why is it I wanted you to fly with me again?”

“My wit and charm, mostly.”

“No. It’s definitely not that.”

I pretend to purse my lips thoughtfully. “My delicately angelic good looks?”

“No.”

“My—”

“Oh, right. I have no other friends. That’s why.”

“I wonder why that is. Maybe you need to reevaluate how demanding you are,” I say sarcastically. Sarcastic or not, Emory’s glare is hotter than a thousand suns. “I’m joking, E. Geez. You’re a gem. The purest form of—”

“Shut up, Greer.”

“Fine,” I say with a laugh. “Go on, lecture me. I know that’s what you’ve been waiting on.”

“I’m not going to lecture you.”

I scoff. “Sure, you’re not.”

“Well, if you don’t want me to lecture you, you could at least show up in clothes that don’t look like you slept in them. Did you even shower this morning?”

In an effort to avoid getting sucked into a steaming crater of pity and despair, I decide it’s best not to tell her just how accurate she is and focus on complaining instead.

“Why do I have to go to New York for an interview for a job in New Orleans anyway?”

“Because your potential boss is a busy guy, and that’s where he’s going to be. I used my connections to get you this thing for a reason. Turner Properties is the real deal. A Vanderturn hotel in New Orleans is a big deal, especially if you get to design it,” she says with a little smile, but that quickly vanishes when she continues her train of thought. “And have to? You act like you’re going to war. It’s New Year’s Eve in New York, for shit’s sake. You should be excited!”

“You’re right. New York does sound amazing.”

“Thank you.”

“I’m just—”

“I know.” Her eyes turn soft and understanding. “I know what’s riding on this, and I know it’s weighing you down a bit.”

Weighing me down a bit? If the stress of my financial situation gets any heavier, I might actually become my own gravitational force.

“If this doesn’t go well,” I say on a near whisper, “I’m not really sure what I’m going to do.”

Because I don’t. If this job interview isn’t a success, I honestly have no idea what my next move will be. And that is terrifying.

“It’s going to go well! You’re the right person for the job. There’s no way he won’t see that.”

I chew my lip.

“As long as you bring sweet Greer and leave the bitch at home…”

I feign a gasp.

Emory’s lips crest up into a smile. “Oh, come on, put a smile on that pretty face. This is going to be the best trip of your life! Everything is about to come up roses! I can feel it!”

I just stare at her.

“Smile, Greer.”

I half-ass an attempt at a smile, but it’s brittle and forced and probably looks like Chandler Bing’s engagement photos.

“Repeat after me,” she says. “I am a brilliant designer.”

I furrow my brow, and Emory nudges my arm with one of her pointy fucking elbows.

“Ow.” I rub at my arm, but she ignores her assault completely.

“Say it, Greer. Say, I am a brilliant designer.”

“I am a brilliant designer.” The words come out monotone and unconvinced, but my newfound motivational speaker isn’t deterred.

“Say, I am going to nail this interview.”

“I am going to nail this interview.”

“But before I go to said interview, I’m going to remove this resting bitch face and put on my strong, confident woman face.”

I can’t not smirk at that. “That is incredibly specific.”