The Billionaire Boss Next Door(66)

My words infuriate him, and before I know it, his fist is cocked and he’s propelling his body straight toward me.

But I’m not five whiskeys deep, nor am I intimidated by this prick.

He’s inconsequential in this scenario.

The only thing that matters is that I’m leaving this restaurant with Greer.

My Greer.

And I don’t care who the fuck I have to fight to do it.





Greer



My chest pounds as Trent pulls me from the restaurant by a tight grip on my hand. My feet can barely keep up, but seeing as he just hit my would-have-been date in the face and the cops are probably on the way, I don’t complain.

“Holy shit!” I yell, shaking as we round the corner into an alley and fade into the darkness. “You just clocked that guy right in the face!”

He shakes his hand, obviously hurting, and laughs.

Fucking laughs. After committing assault.

Clearly, this motherfucker has lost his mind.

God, he’s so hot right now.

“Yeah, well.” He pauses. “He swung at me first.”

“And missed!” I yell, completely beyond controlling my volume. “But you didn’t. Bam-o! Right in the kisser!”

He shakes his head and pulls me back down the alley toward the street, checking both ways before stepping outside and putting his hand to the small of my back.

We move at a swift pace, and with all of the excitement, it takes me a minute to realize how bad this could be.

“Jesus. Are you going to get arrested?” I question, coming to a complete stop as I do.

He shakes his head and pushes me forward again. “I don’t think so. I know the owner, so I doubt he’ll give my name to the police.”

“My God. This is exhilarating. I’ve never been a part of something like this in my life!”

He laughs, admitting, “Me neither.”

I can’t stop myself from blathering on. “Where are we headed now? To see your bookie? A speakeasy? Do you know someone with connections in the clink?”

“We’re going to eat dinner.”

“Oh, well. That’s anticlimactic,” I say, and then quickly realize that his presence at La Previe wasn’t exactly an expected occurrence. “Wait a minute. How did you even end up there tonight?”

He shrugs. “I just happened to be in the neighborhood.”

I quirk a brow. “And then you what, just so happened to show up on my date?”

He grins. “I guess it was destiny.”

Destiny. There’s that word again.

Consider my mind officially blown.

I start to pace the sidewalk, but he stops me and turns me to face him, and the eye contact is strong. I fade into the power of his sharp green eyes with surprising ease.

“Did you eat anything?”

“No.”

“Well, me neither. And I’m hungry.”

He stays there, silent and stalwart, waiting for me to agree, and it doesn’t take me long to fold.

I barely get the word of agreement, a simple okay, out of my mouth before he jerks me inside the restaurant we’re directly in front of and directs me to a table.

I sit while he goes up to the counter—obviously, we’ve taken the ritziness down a couple of notches from the place we fled—to put in our order.

I take the opportunity to ogle him freely.

With his suit jacket left behind at the booth with me for safekeeping, his ass is delightfully available for viewing. It’s tight and round, and I don’t think they had any other ass in mind when they designed those black wool pants.

He rolls the sleeves of his button-down shirt up to his elbows, and I salivate over his forearms like one of Pavlov’s dogs.

So much so, I grab a napkin from the holder to wipe any excess drool off my chin as he spins on his heel to return.

I’m shoving the evidence into the bowels of my purse when he sets down a red basket lined with red-and-white-checked paper in front of me, and one identical to it in front of himself.

“Chicken fingers?” I ask, completely flabbergasted that a kid who grew up as rich as he did eats chicken fingers as a grown man.

“Yeah.”

I roll my eyes.

“What?”

“It’s just…what are you? Twelve?”

He shrugs. “They’re good. Especially with fries.”

“Oh my God, that’s adorable. You’re a child.”

“I may never be a judge on Top Chef, but I assure you, I’m no little boy.”

I blush, picturing the absolute naughtiest meaning of his statement, and he shrugs.

“When I’m out, I eat this way. At home, I try to eat healthy.”

I smirk. “How often do you eat at home?”

“Lately?” He laughs. “Not often.”

“Eh, well. I’m not one to talk. I eat ramen three nights a week.”

“Ramen? Really? And you’re judging me for chicken fingers? When’s the sick frat party, Toby? Are you gonna invite the hotties we saw down at the quad?”

“Shut up.”

“Well, come on. Don’t throw stones at me if you don’t want me to shatter your glass house.”

“I don’t think that’s how that saying goes.”