The Billionaire Boss Next Door(6)

“Just say it.”

I oblige and silently pray that Tony Robbins will leave my best friend’s body so I can attempt to enjoy this first-class trip to New York.

“Who’s the best interior designer in New Orleans?”

I stare at her, but she threatens to dig one of her pointy elbows into my skin again.

My eyes roll heavenward. “Me.”

“Who’s the best woman for this job?”

“Me.”

“Who is going to flaunt her perfect tits around New York and land herself a kick-ass job and nail a hot guy all in one weekend?”

“Me…wait…what?”

“Don’t you worry, sweet cheeks, no one at Turner Properties will be able to resist you.” Emory winks. “Now, let’s go catch our flight to your future success!”

Minus the nailing a hot guy part, I hope she’s right.

Because, fuck, I need this job.





Greer



After two-and-a-half hours on a plane, an hour-long slog in a death taxi—without mention of horses, mind you—a long line to check in at the Vanderturn Manhattan hotel, and eleventy-billion interview pep talks from Emory, I’m on the very brink of insanity.

My skin feels tight, my hair hurts, and my eyeballs seem to be operating independently from each other.

Apparently, I’m not the only one to notice.

When the bellman leaves to head up to our rooms with our luggage, Emory gets bossy and points in my face.

“Go work out. You need some Elle Woods thinking in your life. Exercise gives you endorphins. Endorphins make you happy. Happy people don’t murder their husbands.”

I scoff and tilt my head to escape the virtual laser beam shooting out of her finger. “Grumpy people without husbands don’t murder their husbands either.”

“You’re going to have one someday, I’m telling you. So, you should start training now.”

“Training? To be happy?” I frown. “Isn’t that the sort of thing that should come naturally?”

“For you?” She snorts. “Probably not. You have a nasty habit of being a miserable shrew, and habits are hard to break.”

My sigh is heavy as I grab the tops of her slender arms and squeeze affectionately. “You really say the nicest things.”

She ignores me and shoves me in the shoulder.

“Go. Change out of last night’s clothes—”

I grin contemptuously.

“And sweat out all of that toxic energy you’re carrying around. I’m going to need you to be in a better mood when I introduce you to Quincy.”

“Ah, the boyfriend,” I hum. “You’re finally done hiding him?”

My best friend has been dating the illustrious Quincy for a few months, and this is the first time she’s even mentioned introducing us. The guy also lives in New Orleans, yet she’s waited until we’re in New York for the big meet-and-greet. It’s like she’s afraid I’m going to do something crazy and doesn’t want me on my home turf or something.

“I haven’t been hiding him,” she corrects. “Just making sure he’s good and hooked before you scare him off.”

I plaster a sugary-sweet smile onto my lips. “I resent your insinuation that I’m anything but pleasant and easy to get along with.”

“If by resent you mean accept and acknowledge its validity, okay.”

“Hmm…” I pause and tap my chin pointedly. “Webster’s must have come out with a new version I’m unaware of, but I’ll go with it for your sake.”

She subtly applies a sheer shade of imaginary lipstick with her middle finger.

“Quince and I will meet you at the party at nine.”

Son of a bitch. The New Year’s Eve “Mask-erade.” Obviously, I’d blocked out the fact that this trip includes a social engagement where an actual grown-ass human decided it would be a good time to take a traditional masquerade-themed party and sleaze it up by making the masks be made out of rubber and celebrity likenesses instead of exquisite lace and beading. But Emory’s reminder ensures I can’t ignore it now.

It takes every ounce of willpower not to dive into a long-winded, snarky rant about it.

But I suck it up and remind myself of the silver lining.

A New Year’s Eve party equals alcohol, Greer.

“Be on time, please,” Emory adds, but the please completely contradicts the stern, motherlike tone in which she delivers it.

“As if I’m ever anything else.”

Her responding scoff echoes around us.

“Just enjoy yourself,” she says. “Have a positive attitude for once. If you do, I guarantee it’ll be great.”

“You got it, Mom.”

“Hey,” she says, and her eyes turn soft as she steps forward to wrap me up in a hug. “You’re my best friend, and all I want is for you to be happy. I know I’m pushy, but it’s only because I love you.”

I hug her back. “Love you too, E. Even when you sound like you’re gearing up for a career in direct sales.”

She snorts and lets me go with amusement shining in her eyes.

“Working out before a party gets results, people! Four out of five farm animals can’t be wrong!” I use a far too high-pitched voice to mimic hers. “Happy people make happy choices, and this tea is the answer to happiness at least once a day! Your tits will be perky and your energy rejuvenated! Try the gel pads under your eyes for a fresh day feel!” I finish off my little act with a set of a jazz hands and a cheeky grin.