The Billionaire Boss Next Door(84)

She grunts.

“I’m sorry I was late,” I say with a smile. “I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”

She stares into a cabinet, her hand on the knob, before closing it and turning to face me. Her face might be the most serious I’ve ever seen it.

“It’s fine. I just…don’t feel well. It’s gonna take me a couple of days to feel better probably, and then I might work at my office to avoid contaminating the crew.”

I pull my eyebrows together.

“Maybe it’s a quick bug. You might feel better tomorrow.”

She shakes her head. “Doesn’t feel like it.”

“Well, okay… I’ll come back after work with some soup, and we can—”

“No.”

I jerk my head back. I step toward her, and she holds up a hand. Something I don’t like but can’t explain takes hold in my chest.

“Greer—”

“Trent, you’re in contact with everyone on the job. If I infect you, I infect them all. No. You’ll stay away too. I’ll see you next week.”

“Can I go on record and say I don’t like this?”

“Sure,” she allows. “But it won’t change it.”

“Okay. But I’m unwilling to compromise on one thing.”

I start forward and she backs up, panicked eyes all the way until her ass runs into the counter behind her.

I keep going and box her in, looking into her snotty, goopy eyes and telling it to her like it is.

“You’re a mess,” I say, and she frowns. “But there’s still no one I’d rather be looking at.”

I press a kiss to her lips and then another to her forehead before doing as she asks.

I close her door behind me with a quiet click and tell myself she’s just sick. It’s been a weird, long day already, and she’s exhausted.

Greer’s been on her own for most of her life, and that’s how she functions best. If I give her the space to sort it all out, she will.

Yeah, that’s it. It has to be. Everything will be better when she is.





Greer



Apparently, I do still have a job with Turner Properties and, even though Trent Senior appeared convinced I wasn’t the right woman for the NOLA job, no one’s canned me yet.

It’s taken a lot of irrational inner monologue and talking myself off the proverbial ledge not to do something stupid like quit because of my pride.

At first, I really fucking wanted to, but this hotel means something to me. I’ve put my heart and soul into it, and dammit, I want to see it become the beautiful, blossoming, thriving hotel I know it will be.

Not to mention, I need the financial stability a job of this magnitude provides more than I need to protect my sometimes thick-as-steel pride.

So, after two weeks of faking the flu and avoiding the hotel—and Trent—by working out of my office and my apartment, I decide it’s time to end the charade.

I mean, it was a nice reprieve and all, not worrying about how I looked and put myself together and getting all sorts of get well wishes from everyone I know, but you can only pretend to be sick for so long before people start threatening things like “taking you to the doctor” and “giving you tips for better management of your immune system.”

Plus, I’ve spent way too much of my time trapped in an endless loop of tortured thinking about Trent Turner.

The good, the bad, and especially, the complicated.

I thought if I could just spend enough time working out the shrill, nonsensical way I wanted to react to his talk with his dad—and his take on my work—in my head, I’d eventually be able to put it behind me.

And it worked. At least, for the most part.

But even when I work my way past this one thing, I’ll never be na?ve enough to believe there won’t be another. Something—some, stupid thing—will always be there, in the day-to-day of our work, that makes me unable to separate the lines of our professional and personal relationships.

It’ll bleed into the work, and before I know it, I’ll be back here, pretending to be sick and throwing away parts and pieces of an opportunity I may never get again, just to save face and heartache.

No, working with Trent and being with him at the same time is never going to work out.

I’m struggling with accepting the news, trust me, but perhaps the hardest part of this realization is figuring out how to tell him.

Because for the past two weeks, Trent hasn’t exactly gone away.

He’s texted, he’s called, he’s stopped by on numerous occasions. And in return, I’ve been a one-woman show full of excuses.

My office has better lighting.

The internet says I might have bird flu.

I’m secreting unknown fluids.

You name it, and I’ve said it to my sharp-suited, green-eyed neighbor.

In the end, the only solution I’ve been able to come up with is to KISS. Keep it simple, stupid.

Literally. I have to get in there, avoid all eye contact if possible, lay out the facts without going into the gory details, and cut and run.

Maybe then we’ll be able to finish the job together and move on with our lives.

With so many months left to go, I don’t think getting into the nitty-gritty of what changed my mind will be good for either of us.