The Billionaire Boss Next Door(67)

He laughs and lifts his shoulders toward the ceiling. “It’s close enough.”

“So, um…” I mumble when the conversation gives way to silence. We’re both heavily involved in consuming our chicken fingers—which he’s right about being delicious—but I don’t feel comfortable enough with him yet to sit in silence. “You seem to know New Orleans pretty well. Have you ever lived here?”

He finishes chewing his bite and wipes his mouth before answering. His manners far exceed my own.

“No. But my mom loves it here. We used to visit when I was a kid, often.”

Wow. He has a mother. That he talks about.

I don’t know why that’s so surprising given he’s a human and that’s biology, but I’d kind of been picturing him as some kind of immaculate spawn of Trent Turner Senior and Mother Earth.

“That’s cool. Do you think your parents will relocate down here when the hotel is done?”

“I doubt it.” He shakes his head and leans forward into his forearms, dropping what’s left of his chicken finger into the basket and sighing. “My mom…” He clears his throat. “She’s got pretty progressive Parkinson’s. All of her doctors are in New York, and…well, my dad is pretty set on keeping her there.”

Wow. I wasn’t expecting that at all. I’m not sure why I always assume rich people can’t get sick—because obviously, they can—but it still comes as a shock when I hear this kind of news.

“I’m sorry,” I say simply, and it’s enough.

Trent nods. “Me too. And thank you. That’s the reason I didn’t come down here when I should have.” He shakes his head. “The reason the schedule is so tight. I just wasn’t ready to leave her.”

My chest constricts and warms, and boy oh boy, am I in trouble.

Not only is Trent incredibly attractive and intelligent…he’s also human and vulnerable and…dare I say it, likable.

The only thing I can think to say that isn’t Make babies with me is about work.

“The schedule is tight, but we’ll make it. I’m confident. It’s a good team, and you’re a good leader.”

“Really?” He raises a skeptical eyebrow, and I laugh.

“Okay. Look. You have a tendency to be despotic…”

He groans pathetically and covers his eyes. I reach out and pull away his hand to uncover them as I keep talking.

“But I can see now that you mean no harm. And you’ve been trying. I can tell, and so can everyone else. Keep it up, and I’m telling you, everything is going to click.”

“I hope so.”

“Hope is a good thing,” I say. “Maybe the best of things, and no good thing ever dies.”

He shakes his head, but both corners of his lips curve up enough to form a real smile. Not a little grin or a halfhearted smirk. But a real, honest-to-God, motherfucking beautiful smile.

“Okay, Andy,” he agrees, showing me that he knows I’m quoting The Shawshank Redemption without saying anything else.

“Just getting you used to the idea of prison, Red.”

He laughs and reaches out to grab my basket. “Are you done?”

I’m a little disappointed, not knowing if there’s anything else to look forward to tonight after we leave here, but I can’t even pretend to still be working on it. All that’s left in my basket is a teaspoon of honey mustard and my dirty napkin.

I nod.

He grabs both of our baskets and walks them over to the trash before coming back to the table.

I follow him with my eyes the whole way, wondering how things could have changed this much in this amount of time.

After donning his jacket again, he takes my hand, helps me from the booth, and doesn’t let go as we walk to the door.

I’m so lost in my butterflies, I don’t even bother asking where we’re going.




Jackson Square is nearly deserted as we stroll through the park and stop by an artist right in front of Saint Louis Cathedral. In the coming weeks, Carnival and Mardi Gras will take over, but for now, it’s relatively peaceful.

We’re still holding hands.

I haven’t uttered a word since we left the restaurant, nervous that my normal smartass chatter will ruin the mood.

Trent hasn’t spoken either, but he doesn’t seem nearly as anxious as me.

He holds up a finger to ask if I can hang out for a minute, and when I nod, he lets go of my hand.

I’m immediately disappointed in myself for not being argumentative.

Nevertheless, I wait silently as he goes up to the artist and asks him a question I can’t hear. There’s an exchange, the artist nods, and Trent comes back to me.

“Come on,” he says. “Come over here.”

I do as he says, but not without some questions. The fact that he arranged whatever this is without me is a red flag.

The artist is rearranging his display and getting out a new canvas, and before I know it, Trent is pushing me down onto a little red stool.

I shake my head and try to stand up, but he nods and holds me down.

“Greer, this is Ben. And he’s going to paint you.”

“Me? Why? Why not you?”

“Because.”

“No, no, I think I’m good. I really have one of those faces that’s better in real life than in a still shot.”