The Billionaire Boss Next Door(70)

It’s more than apparent that she’s chosen the right career. It takes a special kind of person to find this much joy in fucking lighting.

“Bathroom faucets, bar faucet, showerheads, and bathroom lighting. I found everything else already, but these few things have been eluding me like a parolee with crack in his pocket.”

I shake my head and grin. She is one of the funniest women—no, one of the funniest people, man or woman—I’ve ever met in my life.

She always has some kind of joke in her back pocket, and it’s always effortless.

I swear, I could sell tickets for following her around for the day to people.

Once word of mouth spread, she’d be sold out well beyond her lifespan.

“Interesting analogy,” I say, but what I really want to do is kiss her.

If I’ve replayed that kiss—our amazing fucking kiss outside my apartment door—in my head ten times, I’ve replayed it a thousand.

Fuck, two months ago, I never would’ve believed not kissing Greer would feel like a near impossible task, but here I am. Constantly wanting to kiss her.

“I don’t go to sleep with a dictionary and thesaurus under my pillow for nothing, Junior,” she teases, and it takes me a minute to even remember what in the fuck we were talking about. “You gotta be quick-witted and prolific if you want to make it in this world.”

“Oh yeah?” I question with a smirk. “How am I doing?”

“Eh,” she squints. “Your projected length of survival tapers off around a decade.”

“Wow,” I bark through a laugh. “That short, huh?”

“Short?” She shakes her head. “A decade is pretty good. Most people I know aren’t likely to make it through the week.”

“Well, then. I guess I’ll take it as a compliment.”

I follow her around the store for another three hours, watching and waiting as she picks through fixture after fixture and rejects ninety percent of them.

It’s mindless and monotonous and loaded with stupid minutia and detail.

But it’s also one of the best afternoons of my life.

I don’t know what I’ll come up with next, but I start plotting immediately. Secret dates with Greer are definitely going to become a regular thing.





Greer



“I feel weird coming with you and Quince. Don’t you guys want to go alone instead of having a rickety—though, otherwise fabulous—third wheel?”

“No way!” Emory says, elbowing me out of the way to use the mirror in my bathroom to apply her fifth coat of mascara. “It’s a party. You won’t be third wheel-like at all. If anything, you might actually get to pick up a wheel of your own.”

“Which perfectly summarizes the other part of this plan I hate. Thank you.”

“Come on.” She rolls her eyes. “You hardly go out. You eat, sleep, and breathe that fucking hotel. Lately, even your weekdays and weekends are suddenly filled with fixture and furniture shopping with your boss. Don’t you want to let loose a little? Have fun?”

She’s right. Recently, I’ve been doing a lot of hotel-focused shopping with Trent.

And the funny thing is, it doesn’t feel like work at all. If anything, it’s become the highlight of my week.

Last weekend, we hit up a flea market just outside of New Orleans so I could scavenge out some interesting vintage items to be used for décor. It rained the entire fucking time, but God, it was a blast.

I mean, I might’ve been fantasizing about kissing him nearly the entire drive there…and while we were there, and when we drove home, and then when we said goodnight outside our apartments, but that’s my cross to bear.

Honestly, when it comes to spending time with Trent, not thinking about kissing him is the only true hardship.

Everything else is simply fun. Enjoyable. Time-of-my-life kind of moments.

But I’d never in a million years tell Emory that.

Because…it’s Emory. The big ole sappy romantic who still cries whenever she watches Dirty Dancing.

“No,” I eventually respond, snarkily. “I hate fun and happiness of any kind. I like to suffer and dwell, and when I’m really energetic, I leave myself little insults on my mirror in the morning.”

“This is why you don’t have a man, you know?”

“Really? I thought all-consuming negativity was attractive.”

She elbows me right in the boob, and I wheeze.

Son of a bitch.

“Not the faux negativity, sasshole,” she growls in my face. “The bitterness that lives in your every word.” One manicured finger touches the tip of my nose to punctuate each syllable. It’s really annoying.

I grab her finger and pull it away, slapping it with my other hand before I release it.

“Isn’t the whole point to find someone who loves you for you?” I question with a raise of my brow. “I can’t go around hiding my sarcasm. That’s what makes me interesting.”

“It’s what makes you intimidating,” she corrects.

“You know what, E? Maybe the world needs a few more intimidating women. Why the hell do I have to be meek to be attractive?”

She considers me for a second before squeezing my cheek like a patronizing grandma. “I guess you’re right.” Then she laughs. “It just means there are a lot fewer fish in the barrel to choose from.”