The Billionaire Boss Next Door(71)

“Good,” I say. “I’d much rather my barrel have one goddamn superfish than a bunch of stupid ones.”

Emory’s smile is a little wonky, almost like she’s proud of me in some profound way.

I’ve never felt the love of a mother’s touch, but as Emory smooths a gentle hand across my cheek, I imagine that’s what it must be like.

“All right, you superfish hussy. Finish getting ready. I promised Quincy we wouldn’t be late.”

She smacks my ass as she leaves the bathroom, and I wink. It’s so cute that she thinks I give a shit about being on time for Quincy. The only people I answer to in a timely manner are my boss and the IRS.

I swipe on some eyeshadow and mascara and run a clear lip gloss over my lips with the tip of my finger.

After one last glance in the mirror, I flick off the light and walk back out through the bedroom, down the hall, and into the living room where Emory is waiting on the sofa, tapping her high-heeled foot pointedly.

“Jesus Christ, it’s about time!” she says, jumping up from the couch and grabbing her purse.

I purse my lips and roll my eyes. “All I did was put on eyeshadow and mascara, you freak.”

“Greer, you were in there for thirty minutes!” she shrieks.

Really?

I glance at the clock over my refrigerator, and it confirms she is, indeed, correct.

Jesus. What is wrong with me? How do I waste so much time?

I’m still considering the complexities of my time management when she grabs me by the hand and drags me to the door like a rag doll with only my keys and cell phone in tow.

“Wait!” I snap. “I don’t even have my purse.”

“Leave it,” she says. “If it means getting out of this apartment right this minute, I’ll buy all your drinks for the night!”

Wow. I should play it this way more often.

“What if they ID me?” I argue as she’s closing my door and locking it with what I guess is her parents’ key.

“Hate to break it to you, but no one will question that you’re over twenty-one.”

I flip her off for the insult, and a memory hits me right in the chest and makes me glance to Trent’s door.

“Some people think I look younger than I am, you know. They’ve told me so.”

She hoots. “Was it a guy?”

I frown. “Maybe.”

“He probably just wanted to sleep with you.”

I pull my eyebrows together, and my grateful, wistful expression at Trent’s door turns into a glare.

It’s not even fifteen seconds before I’m heading in that direction and pounding on it.

Emory’s not pleased. “Greer! Fucking hell! We don’t have time to visit your damn neighbors!”

Trent answers in under a minute, right when I’m winding up to kick the door with my foot.

His eyebrows jump to his hairline at my raised ankle-boot-covered foot, and immediately, he covers his nuts.

Man, our relationship is weird.

I put my foot down to lower the threat level but deepen my glare.

“Um, hello?” he says. “Have I done something wrong?”

“Do you want to sleep with me?” I ask without preamble or context.

His eyes nearly bug out of his head, and Emory smacks me in the arm with her purse.

“Uh…well…wait…what?” Trent stumbles as Emory yells, “What the hell is wrong with you?”

I gesture wildly, pointing to each of us like none of us knows who the other is. “He,” I yell, “is the one who says I look younger than I am.” I swing my finger over to Emory. “You are the one who says that means he wants to sleep with me.”

I swing my finger back over to Trent and then wave it between his body and my own like a lunatic. “So, I’m asking. Do you want to sleep with me?”

Emory jumps between us like a referee and gets directly in Trent’s face. “I’m begging you…do not answer that.”

“Why the hell not?” I shout.

“Because if he says yes, you’re going to flip out. And if he says no, you’re going to slip into a depression for the rest of the night, thinking you’re not attractive or something. And I’d really like to go to the party with the absolute sanest version of you possible, though that’s really not saying much.”

I flip her off again, and she shrugs.

I look back at Trent, and he lifts his shoulders too. Clearly, he’s been convinced not to answer.

Emory thanks him and grabs my hand again, dragging me down the hall as he watches us go.

He even steps out of the doorway and crosses his arms over his chest, like he plans to keep watching until we’re out of sight. It’s not until we’re almost to the stairwell that the urge overwhelms me.

“Why don’t you come with us?”

It’s out of my mouth in an instant, and surprisingly, I don’t want to take it back.

Trent and I always have a good time together, and he’s friends with Emory’s boyfriend anyway. It works out perfectly. Plus, he seems to enjoy my penchant for snark. Not once does he ever ask me to tone it down.

Unlike some people I know…cough, cough…Emory…cough…

“Goddammit, can you do nothing in a timely fashion, woman?” my best friend questions with a high-pitched, incredibly annoyed squeal to her voice.