The Billionaire Boss Next Door(83)

I run a hand through my hair, stand up from my chair, and look directly at my father. “Let go of her, and we might as well let go of the progress we’ve made on the hotel.”

He considers me for a moment, his face stoic and his stance impassive. His hands rest casually in his pockets, and he purses his lips in consideration. Finally, he comes to a decision.

“Fine. If you feel that passionately about her presence, I’m not going to overrule you. But you’re the point man. If you do this, you’re taking responsibility for any and all mistakes she may make.”

I nod. Greer isn’t making any mistakes, and I know she won’t going forward. But that’s not the point. The point is that, for the first time ever, Senior believes in me enough to let me win.

“Understood.”

He nods his head, just once, and then sticks out a hand for me to shake. “All right, then. I’ve seen all I need to. I’m impressed with the change in you, Trent. You’re finally learning that your team is there for a reason. Lean into them, and don’t lose this humility. I’ll see you at the opening at the end of September.”

And just as quick as he came, he’s gone.

I glance at my watch after he steps outside, and I curse.

Greer is waiting on me at Coastal Crepes to have lunch, and I’m late.

I gather my shit in a hurry and jog outside to catch a cab. Luckily, it’s the busy tourist season, and the options are plentiful.

I make it to the restaurant in record time, but when I walk inside and look around, it looks like I might be too late.

I take a second scan, but I still don’t find Greer anywhere.

Instead of wasting any more time, I go up to the counter to ask.

After all, her brother owns the place. Someone’s bound to know if she was here and left.

I wait in line so that I don’t anger the other patrons, and when I get to the front, the kid I now know is her nephew greets me. “Can I help you?”

“Uh, yeah, actually.”

He raises his eyebrows as if to say Get on with it, then.

I laugh at how stupid I must look, and he grows even more skeptical.

I speak quickly to get ahead of myself before they call the cops. “I’m looking for Greer. Your…aunt. We…” I pause, unsure of what she wants her family to know at this point, and then finish with the safest option. “…work together.”

“Right,” he says. “She came in before and said she wasn’t feeling well. Said to tell Trent she said that. You Trent?”

I nod. “Yep. I am.”

“Cool. She also said to give you the Kevorkian special. Any idea what she means by that?”

The fact that this kid has no idea who Kevorkian is scares me; the fact that Greer used that name and mine in the same sentence scares me more.




I knock on the door for close to a minute before Greer finally answers.

She’s in her pajamas and a robe, and her face is an absolute mess.

I know I shouldn’t say that. I know I should say she looks beautiful no matter what, but I can’t.

There’s snot and mascara mixed together to make a brownish goo on both sides of her nose, and her hair looks like it’s been pulled out at the roots. Her eyes are bloodshot, and her skin looks so puffy, it seems like she’s had an allergic reaction.

Clearly, when she told her nephew she wasn’t feeling well, she meant it.

“Oh my God, are you okay?” I ask, shoving her back with a gentle hand to her stomach and stepping into the apartment.

“Yes, of course,” she says sarcastically. “Do I look like something’s wrong?”

I laugh at her obvious joke, and she glares at me.

“I’m so sorry you don’t feel well.”

“Yeah,” she scoffs. “Me too.”

“Why don’t you take the rest of the day off—”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” she mutters under her breath, dragging her slippered feet into the kitchen and grabbing a package of Oreos.

“No, I wouldn’t,” I say with a laugh. “But you’re clearly under the weather—”

“Clearly.”

“So, you should take the time to get better before you come back to work.”

“I still have a job?” she asks, and I tilt my head to the side in confusion.

“Of course you still have a job.” I nearly want to laugh at the ridiculousness of her question. “Being sick isn’t a fireable offense, Greer. Which is why you should take the day off and come back to work when you’re feeling better.”

“Maybe your dad will be gone by then.”

I draw my eyebrows together at the subject change, but I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s got a fever and is delusional. I decide just to go with it. “He’s already gone, actually. Just left.”

“He is?” she asks, spinning around so fast, a piece of cookie comes flying out of her mouth.

“Yeah.”

She shuffles to the fridge and takes out a glass of milk. I cringe.

“Milk? Do you really think that’s the best choice if you’re feeling sick?”

She skewers me with a glare so sharp, I put up my hands and chuckle. “Okay. Cookies and milk, it is.”

She moves around the kitchen manically, not meeting my eyes, and I take a shot in the dark to try to make it better. “Kevorkian special, huh?”