The Billionaire Boss Next Door(54)

“I know the plumbing is already roughed in, but I can’t stop thinking that the sink should be on this side of the shower,” Trent says, and the whole room tenses. And then he adds, “What do you think, Greer?”

Just like that. Easy. Direct. Like…like he actually cares. I don’t know about everyone else, but suddenly I’m feeling all Taylor Swifty—Greer can’t come to the phone right now…because she’s dead.

Unfortunately, the delay my excitement causes kind of makes it seem like I might be suffering from a brain injury.

“Greer?”

When I wake from my trance, everyone in the room is staring at me.

Good God, get it together, woman.

“Uh, yes. Yeah. Normally, I would agree with you because I understand your perspective. Most hotels, if not all, are going to set this up the way you describe. But I think doing it this way instead is going to give so much more space and functionality, and isn’t that what people staying in suites are really looking for?”

You could hear a pin drop as Marcus, Tony, George, and Sarah wait to hear what Trent says. There is some serious bated breath going on here, and Trent’s pause is so long, it’s doing a mighty good impression of me and my penchant for fucking around and losing track of time.

“You’re right,” he finally says, and I faint.

Okay, I don’t really faint, but I could have if I ever waited long enough to eat to let my blood sugar get low.

As it is, I just perform a super slow blink.

“Great.”

And the day moves on from there.

Trent isn’t barking orders. He remains direct and to the point, but calm.

George doesn’t look like he’s one second away from getting in his truck and driving away and never coming back.

Even Sarah smiles. Actually smiles with teeth and all.

It’s like we’re all just one big happy, working family. Sunshine and rainbows and fucking leprechauns with pots of gold show up to the hotel construction site and shit.

And there’s actually a glimmer of hope blooming inside my chest.

Maybe there’s been a change in Trent’s normally abrasive tune?

Fingers and toes and pretty much everything crossed that he sticks with the new music.

Basically, it’s all gravy, baby.

For all of three hours.

Until the familiar asshole-voice reaches my ears.

“George!” he shouts, and I look up from the linen samples I’m currently rummaging through and find our poor contractor in the cross hairs…again.

“Sir?”

“Why didn’t I know about the delayed deliveries for the indoor pool and spa?” Mr. Boss questions, and I swear to God, a vein makes itself known on his forehead and waves to everyone. All five fingers and an open palm. Hell, even his little veiny fingernails are painted blue.

George is terrified. “I didn’t know they were delayed, sir.”

Oh no.

“You’re the contractor on this job, and you didn’t know about delayed shipments?”

“I-I’m sorry, sir,” he stutters out in response. “I’ve been assisting Dick and Beaver with the elevator installations since six this morning.”

Trent shakes his head, runs a hand through his hair, and continues to channel his rediscovered rage toward George and the construction team.

The sunshine disappears. The rainbows fade away. Even the leprechauns pack up their shit and hightail it the fuck out of here.

So much for hope.

And I have to bite my tongue to keep from saying something snarky and sarcastic and getting-fired-kind-of-risky so hard I probably draw blood.

God, it’s more apparent now than ever that something with Mr. Asshole Boss has to change.

And I think I have just the idea what to do about it.




The AT&T store is busy but manageable as I step inside during my lunch hour.

As a loyal Verizon customer, I’ve stepped outside of bounds by coming here, but clandestine acts sometimes call for desperate measures. Trent surely knows how to buy off the people at Verizon into giving him the name and information of the woman on camera in their store when they match my ID to my existing account.

Or something like that. I don’t know the exact details, but deciding to go to another carrier seemed imperative at the time.

“Can I help you?” the young man behind the counter—Henry, if his name tag is anything to go by—greets me, approaching me with his iPad to check me in.

I’m immediately defensive, declaring, “No names.”

He doesn’t understand, but I wouldn’t expect him to. We’re in the middle of the mall, not a top-level-clearance CIA operation.

Still, my mission is already in motion, and my behavior can’t be stopped. I’m going to get some advice to Trent Turner on how to be a better boss and keep my job safe at the same time, one way or another.

“I need a burner phone. Untraceable. I have cash.”

Henry’s eyebrows shoot up, and I nod.

“This is serious business, Henry. Can you help me, or do I need to take my business next door to Sprint?”

Henry, the chap, comes over to the dark side with surprisingly little persuasion.

“No way, ma’am,” he affirms. “You’ve come to the right place.”

“Fantastic,” I say with a secret smile and give my new AT&T pal a pat to his polo-covered shoulder. “I have a feeling you and I are going to be great friends.”