The Billionaire Boss Next Door(64)

“My friend Cap. He’s all but strong-arming me into going on a date with a woman named Susie.”

All of a sudden, I’m not a fan of the name Susie. Like, it kind of sounds like the worst name in the world, honestly.

“Are you going to go?”

He raises a brow. “Are you going to go?”

Am I going to go?

But he doesn’t give me a chance to answer.

“You know what,” he says, standing from the couch so suddenly, I don’t even read Emory’s text when it pings. Instead, I follow him with my eyes as he moves toward the door. I’m not sure, but it kind of feels like my face is turned down into a frown.

“You should go on it, Greer.” He opens my door and steps through it, facing me again so I can see his face when he speaks again. “And who knows? Maybe it’s destiny.”

The door shuts behind him, and I’m left reeling.

Destiny?

Something doesn’t feel right about this. Not agreeing to this date. And definitely not Trent telling me to go on this date.

Is he going on a date too?

He said his friend Cap was trying to set him up. Does that mean he has already set Trent up or still trying?

My mind spins with a million different questions and no fucking answers.

And, of course, Emory’s message is waiting for me when I look down at my phone.



Emory: You are a spinster with a sincere dislike for cats. You are going on this date if I have to drag you there by your nipples.



Nothing feels right about this.

But when faced with the possibility of Trent going on a date and me just sitting at home like a spinster while trying to hear him fuck some tramp through our shared wall, I agree.

And it feels like the exact opposite of destiny.

Honestly, it feels like destiny just up and walked right out my front door.

Are you sure you’re still talking about destiny?





Trent



La Previe is bustling with ambiance and busy staff and tables filled with people chattering and flirting and doing whatever it is people do inside a restaurant on a Tuesday night.

I sit at the table I requested, off the beaten path but still facing the center of the dining room, and I wait. For what exactly, I’m not sure, but my eyes are fixated near the door as I sip on the fresh drink I grabbed at the bar before being seated by the hostess.

Okay, full disclosure. I know explicitly threatening not to show up for my date if Cap didn’t make sure it was at the time and location of my choosing—ahem, the same as Greer’s, specifically—was wrong.

But I couldn’t help myself.

I haven’t felt the kind of jealousy I felt when Emory texted her about her date since high school.

I asked Catherine Gibbs to prom, but she turned me down to go with Harrison Phelps. He was a pompous ass, and I’m pretty sure Catherine turned out to be a stripper, but the point is, at the time, I was blind with envy.

And when Greer read that text aloud, I flashed back to the same exact feeling.

Obviously, I could have agreed with her, told her to stick to her guns about declining, but…something about that didn’t feel right either.

So, even though every cell inside my body was opposed, I told her to go.

If I want her to like me—which, for whatever reason, it seems that’s the way my mind and body are leaning—I need her to do it on her own terms and with all the information.

If she wants to go on a date with someone else, she should. If her best friend thinks she found a guy who is good for Greer, then Greer should go on a date with him and see what he has to offer.

But just in case, in the name of chivalry, I’ll be here to keep an eye on her.

It’s a real fucked-up mind-set, but I’m not the most rational guy in NOLA.

Plus, it’s not my place to tell Greer what to do or not to do when it comes to dating. I might have a track record for being a controlling bastard on the job site, but when it comes to women, I don’t control; I respect. Their opinions. Their feelings. Their desires.

Any man who does otherwise is a real insecure fucking prick and doesn’t deserve shit.

Glasses clink and chatter rolls on at a dull roar as I take a sip of my water and glue my eyes to the door.

My date hasn’t shown, and Greer hasn’t either, but it looks as though her date has.

For the last fifteen minutes, I’ve been watching a guy at a table by himself check the time on his phone and slam back glasses of whiskey like it’s about to be outlawed.

For Greer’s sake, if this is her date, I’m hoping he can handle his liquor.

And then I see her walk in. Blue dress, blue eyes, and the most perfect nervous smile.

She looks like she’s on the very edge of losing her shit, and I can’t help but grin.

It doesn’t matter the day, the time, or the occasion—Greer is always herself. Genuine and quirky, and I don’t think I’ve ever met any woman like her.

I’m staring at her as she walks to the table with the mystery man in the middle of the room, and my heart jumps into my throat as she leans down to give him a kiss on the cheek.

Her dress is low-cut, her breasts are magnificent, and I have to hold myself in my seat to keep from running over to offer my jacket.

I can’t hear what they’re saying, but everything seems stiff and formal enough. I don’t want her to have a bad time, but if I said I don’t enjoy watching whoever this fucker is struggle to win her over a little, I’d be lying.