The Billionaire Boss Next Door(72)

Trent uncrosses his arms to reveal his sculpted, white-button-down-covered chest as I break free from Emory and approach him again.

“You want me to come?” he asks, looking down at me from his place way up higher in the air. I don’t know that I’ve ever paid attention to exactly how tall he is before now, but he’s got to be six two. “Are you sure?”

“Why not?”

“Well, I was going to head back to work. And I am your boss. I might cramp your style.”

“Pshh,” I say with a wave of my hand. “Take the rest of the night off, you workaholic. And you’re not just the boss. You’re the billionaire boss next door, and…” I laugh as it hits me that what I’m about to say is true. “My friend.” Who knows when it happened, but Trent is one of my friends.

A friend you keep thinking about kissing…

I shake off that annoying thought and focus on the facts. Trent laughs at my jokes, keeps up with my tangents, and doesn’t flip out when I act like myself. All in all, I’d say he’s one of the friendiest-friends I’ve ever had.

“All right,” he agrees then. “Should I change?”

I’m just about to tell him he looks perfect when Emory butts in. “No. For the love of God, you should not change.”

In the end, it’s probably better that she answered first.

I smile, and Trent does the same.

“I’ll just grab my wallet,” he says, and I grab his arm with an evil smile before turning back to Emory.

“Don’t bother. Emory says drinks are on her tonight.”

Trent laughs. Em glares. I grin.

It’s safe to say this is turning out to be a fantastic night.





Trent



Quincy’s eyebrows are so high as the three of us walk into the party at Bourbon Bar, one of the busiest places on Bourbon Street, they make it look like he’s got an actual hairline. And trust me, he hasn’t had one of those in years.

Lights flash, music pounds, and a belly dancer prances by, followed by a college-aged girl with no bra and a neck full of beads. The crowd is a mix of working professionals and partying twentysomethings, and a few tourists snap pictures of everything neon like a cop at a crime scene.

Carnival is one of the busiest times of the year in this city, and from what I’ve seen, the most colorful. I’ve never been here during it as an adult, but thanks to the strange and unusual shit I’ve witnessed in New York, the learning curve when it comes to ignoring things is quick. Especially with Greer’s ass swaying from side to side in front of me.

“Trent,” Quince says after giving Emory a kiss and tucking her under his arm. “Funny how you said you were working when I invited you to this originally, and now, here you are. What in the world could have changed?”

Greer’s gone straight to the bar with Emory’s credit card without saying hello to Quince or anything to the rest of us, and I take the opportunity to be at least partially candid. I’m not going to go into any details, but I’m not in the mood to bullshit either.

“I got a better invitation.”

Quince’s eyes lock on to Greer at the bar, and he laughs. She’s wearing skintight jeans, a tight, low-cut blush-colored top, and little heeled boots. Her hair is down, her eyes are light, and I want to fuck her so badly, my cock hasn’t softened since she asked me if I wanted to sleep with her at my door.

“I’ll bet,” he says, clearly seeing exactly what I see—one of the most beautiful, smartass women either one of us has ever met.

“I never thought we’d make it here,” Emory interjects. “I could feel myself aging. I think I have new wrinkles.”

Quincy is amused but wisely opposed. “Nope. No new wrinkles, baby. You’re perfect.”

“What a romantic,” a voice I recognize says from behind me. I spin quickly, and I’m right, my ears are not deceiving me. “And by romantic,” he adds, “I mean schmuck.”

“Cap?” I question, “What the hell are you doing here?”

“Turn!” he yells, clearly already enjoying himself immensely. He claps my hand and pulls me in for a bro-hug before backing away again.

“I didn’t get to mention,” Quince interjects. “While I was waiting for you guys, I found another surprise guest.”

“Oh my God,” Emory says, her voice an unconcealed bucket of deep disappointment. “Why is this night turning into torture?”

Quincy laughs, obviously thinking her disgust for Cap is in jest. I’m pretty sure he’s wrong, but I’m not going to be the one to let him in on it.

“What are you doing here?” I ask Caplin again, watching in my periphery as Greer weaves her way back toward us through the crowd.

“I had an emergency client meeting. Figured I’d stick around to have a little Carnival fun.” He waggles his eyebrows, and the possibilities of what he might mean by that activates my gag reflex.

“Please,” I say. “Spare me the details.”

“Don’t worry, my prudish friend,” he says with an obnoxious laugh. “The details have yet to commence.” His attention pulls away from me and to the side, and his voice turns into the one that makes him sound like a creepy, horny bastard. “Though, it might be changing verrry soon.”