The Billionaire Boss Next Door(89)

She is missing.

Greer Hudson might be determined to have space, but I’m determined to be with her.

Still.

If anything, the time apart has only deepened my need and want for her further.

When I see my future with Turner Properties, running the company and creating new hotels throughout the world, I can’t picture it without Greer.

It’s time.

It’s time for me to get my girl.





Greer



It’s been a long road finishing the Vanderturn New Orleans, but I can finally say it’s over, and I’m proud of what I’ve done.

The finished product is immaculate and special, and I’ve grown as both a designer and as a person.

And I mean that literally. All the carb-loading working so closely with the guy I’m most likely in love with but will never be romantically involved with means I’m six pounds heavier.

I’ve eaten three decades worth of feelings in five-and-a-half months, and I don’t even regret it.

The fluffiness has gone mostly to my breasts, and watching Trent—and every other man in a fifteen-mile radius—try not to stare at them while talking to me is like attending a stand-up comedy special every day.

Uh, uh, they stammer. Blah, uh, blah, uh, blah.

The only real bummer about the hotel completion is that someone—I’m betting I know who—thought the motherfucking masks would be a good idea for the grand opening party.

Like, really?

We’re doing this shit again?

I didn’t even bother getting a different one. I was Beyoncé once, and I am Beyoncé again—if only that meant I also had her wealth and celebrity status.

Emory’s obnoxious laugh clues me in to her location despite the fact that she and the Q man have chosen to go with a new schtick completely. They are no longer TSwift and Kanye. Today, they are Lucy and Ricky.

And let me tell you, it’s a good thing I love Lucy because Ricky, the fuck, has some splainin’ to do.

I come up behind Quincy somewhat aggressively and take out the support of one of his knees. He almost crumples, and many another man would be upset, but not Quince.

He laughs even before he sees it’s me.

Of course, when he sees it is me, he laughs even harder and pulls me in for a hug. I’ve been their little adoptee for the last five months, clinging to the two of them like a leech without the health benefits. Somehow, even after everything I’ve put him through in that time—and there’s been a lot—Daddy Quincy still treats me like the daughter he’s too young to have.

“I suppose you’re the one to blame for these shit-tastic masks again, Big Q?”

He chuckles. “I might have had something to do with them. Isn’t it fun?”

“No, Quince. No,” I say with a scowl he can’t see. “It’s not fucking fun.”

“Come on,” he cajoles. “Sure, it is! You might be yelling at me, but it’s like Beyoncé is yelling at me, and that makes it a lot more enjoyable.”

“You’re way too positive for me tonight. I don’t think we can hang out.”

“Good,” Emory jumps in, hugging Quincy’s waist tightly. “We wanted time alone anyway.”

“Gonna bang in the coat closet?” I ask, and she smacks me in the tit. “Ow.” I rub at it to make it better, and Quincy’s line of sight drops right on cue.

Men. They’re all like moths to a flame.

Though, to be fair, this black satin dress is so low-cut, I had to tape my nipples to the inside of it to keep them from showing.

Something about it being the last time I’d be forced to see Trent in an official capacity made me want to go all out. Time to quit, here’s my tit. Or something like that.

I didn’t really think it through. I just put on the dress, and my breasts did the rest.

Okay, I’m done rhyming, I swear.

Time to drink instead.

I make my way to the other end of the King Van Lounge, a beautiful space we’ve managed to create on the sixth floor with a view overlooking Bourbon Street on one side, and the pool and courtyard on the other. Floor-to-ceiling windows on each side open up the space, and twinkling dots of prismatic light on the accent wall reflect in the glass.

It makes the space feel otherworldly and warm, and if I weren’t in such an awkward spot with the owner of the hotel, I could gladly park my butt in one of the spacious chairs here for the rest of my life.

The bar juts up and out of the floor as though it’s a part of it, the white-and-gray marble of the top and waterfall matching the tile of the floor. It’s elegant and unique, and I’m so proud to say it came from a place in my head.

Preoccupied with the design, I pay no attention to the bartender, and for the first time on record, the whole exchange goes off without a hitch.

I get my Chardonnay, and he goes about his business, no bitchy blacklist in sight.

Hmm. Maybe I was just putting too much pressure on myself before.

I pick up the glass from its spot on the countertop and turn, tripping on the overly long train of my dress and dropping that shit straight to the floor.

It shatters and spreads, and every masked head in the room turns to stare at me.

“Hah,” I laugh nervously. “Whoops.”

A quick glance back at the bartender shows all goodwill has disappeared and confirms that I got ahead of myself.