The Billionaire Boss Next Door(55)

Trent



For the past week and a half or so, I’ve been getting texts from an unknown number with ridiculous, almost uninterpretable advice.



Never walk by a pigeon coop with an owl in your pocket.



Don’t shit on your own doorstep.



If you swim with a friend, your chances of getting eaten by a shark go down by 50%.



There is no angry way to say bubbles.



Real bear hugs are usually fatal.



Don’t sweat the petty things, and don’t pet the sweaty things.



In case of fire, use the stairs.



And my personal favorite came straight from The Godfather. Leave the gun. Take the cannoli.



At first, I reacted badly. I honestly thought Cap had subscribed me to some fucking text service as a stupid joke. But when the messages kept coming—mostly, at inopportune times while I was busy trying to get an entire hotel off the ground—I kind of lost it. At one point, I even channeled Liam Neeson.



Me: UNSUBSCRIBE.



Me: I’m going to shit on YOUR doorstep.



Me: YOU’RE ABOUT TO SLEEP WITH THE FISHES, MOTHERFUCKER.



Me: I don’t know who you are, but I will look for you, I will find you, and I will kill you.



Needless to say, I’m now in recovery.

I’ve found zen and peace and all that shit.

All that’s left is to be proactive about finding the culprit.

My first, most immediate assumption was Greer. She’s already tried her hand at giving me advice in person, and I wouldn’t put it past her to go to these lengths.

Although, I’m using the word “advice” loosely here. I don’t know what shit like shark attacks and bear hugs have to do with anything.

But the longer it’s gone on, the more that theory seems uncertain.

I’ve tried to catch her several times at work, even jumping out and nearly yelling Hah! one time, and she’s appeared busy doing something else on every occasion.

Sketching.

Conferring with Sarah.

Placing linen and décor samples all over the place and taking pictures.

All in all, she’s been an efficient and mostly pleasant worker.

Because of that, I’ve focused my search back to the only other possibilities I can think of: Caplin and Quincy.

Cap is all the way in New York, and supposedly busy with all sorts of important corporate lawyer things—and women—but he’s yet to outright deny his participation in the text attack.

And if there’s one thing I know about him, it’s not to count him out without proof—ever. In court and in life, he is the kind of adversary who will take you down without your even noticing.

Quincy is still a possibility too, especially with the way he’s been taunting me about Greer ever since he dropped off the key.

But he also has a tendency to take credit for all of his ideas. It’s almost like he can’t physically keep any secrets inside his big, goofy body. If he were at the helm of this ship, he’d be skywriting “Sincerely, Quince” over the hotel.

Basically, I’m back at square one.

And more suspicious than ever. Every person in the hotel, every passerby on the street—they’re all possibilities.

This morning, I even caught myself giving George rogue thoughtful looks as he went through the weekly rundown of progress.

And I don’t even think George really knows how to text.

I’m about to check in on the terrace flooring delivery when my phone goes off with yet another damn text.



Make like a hooker and open your legs to the advice of others.



Once again, it’s quite the gem.

I scan the room, expecting something to jump out and get me any minute, but as always, everyone is ensconced in their work and paying little to no attention to me.

Greer and Sarah are taping out furniture arrangement possibilities, and Marcus and George are in a heated conversation of some kind in the entryway to the men’s restroom in the lobby.

No one, it seems, is clutching a phone like Dr. Evil and rubbing their hands together.

My foot ticks, agitation bleeding into the muscle, but thankfully, the ring of my phone distracts me from doing something about it.

Caplin Calling.

Against my better judgment—and on the off chance that this actually has something to do with legal trouble—I answer.

“Hello?”

“Well, hello, good sir. It’s so lovely to speak with you, Turn. I was just telling Janine how much I missed you.”

“And who’s Janine?” I ask, my voice bland with resignation. Two seconds into it and I can already tell—this isn’t going to be a work call.

Caplin’s work voice is completely different from his normal one. Commandeering and sharp, it’s like the holy “professional” spirit invades his body and turns him into the business version of a television minister.

And he’s not using it today. This is the jesting, often enthusiastic tone of my depraved good friend.

“I met her at the ice rink in Bryant Park.”

“And?”

“And my apartment has been our sex hovel for the last week.”