The Billionaire Boss Next Door(9)

Shit. Emory will absolutely murder me if she finds out I got into some kind of confrontational tête-à-tête with a random Romeo in the hotel gym.

Let’s also not forget this hotel gym is located inside a hotel that is owned by the company you’re about to interview with…

Shit. Yeah. I’d better cut and run while I can.

“I didn’t.” I jump up from the machine with the exact agility I’ve lacked during the rest of my workout and offer a saccharine smile. “But, hey, good news. Machine’s all yours.”

“Aren’t you going to wipe it down?” he asks as I walk toward the door, and I can’t help but turn around for my parting shot.

“Why?” I smirk at the pouty-lipped asshole. “After all, I was just pretending to work out.”

Because you know what dicks can do?

They can go fuck themselves and wipe down their own workout equipment, tight asses and chiseled jaws be damned.

Suck on that, workout Romeo.





Greer



At ten thirty on the dot, I glance at the clock and tell myself it’s time to get a move on. Even though Emory might strangle me for being so damn late, I focus on the fact that I’m starting to feel kind of good.

It’s quite possible Lady Luck has decided to grace me with her presence.

Maybe, just maybe, things are starting to look up.

I’ve only been in New York for half a day, and I’m starting to feel like the Greer I used to know way back when. The Greer who had vigor and a lust for life. The Greer who felt like she could conquer anything.

I’ve showered. Well, showered and most likely scrubbed off a layer or two of skin from my face.

And I’ve made myself look presentable, pretty even. My long brown locks are fixed into gorgeous waves, and the long, snazzy gown I’m wearing is hugging my curves in just the right way.

Simply put, I’m Beyoncé.

Okay, fine, I’m Greer in a rubber Beyoncé mask.

But that’s not the point.

The point is that inside the city that never sleeps, I’m starting to feel like me.

Maybe this is what Billy Joel would call a “New York State of Mind”?

Or was that Sinatra?

Eh, screw it. No matter who said it, I’m feeling it.

Start spreading the news, bitches! Greer is feeling herself!

Figuratively feeling myself, that is. My hands are nowhere near my tits.

With my head held higher than it’s been in months and a hitch in my hard-to-wear-stilettos-clad step, I hurry out of my room and head for the elevators.

From the hallway, I hear the arrival bell ding, and my red satin dress drags on the carpet behind me as I run for the available cart and slide in just before the doors close.

Several partygoers fill the cramped space with an overpowering mix of perfumes and cologne and pompous attitude. It’s obnoxious, but maybe if I’m lucky, the particles will cover my tardiness like a cloak.

I wish I knew what I was getting myself into by attending this insane New Year’s Eve Mask-erade party at the Vanderturn Manhattan hotel, but Emory lives for the element of surprise.

Meet me up there, she said.

It’ll be great, she said.

This party is hosted by the people you’re interviewing for, and I’ll kill you if you mess this up, she said.

Nerves flutter in my stomach as laughter and chatter carry on around me. The people filling the tight space around me are in Emory’s circle. They’re rich and happy, and I can guarantee none of them are faced with looking for a new place to live because their house is being foreclosed on.

Fuck. Instantly, my thoughts send my upbeat mood into a nose dive.

Hold the presses, bitches. It appears there is no news to spread.

Not to mention, Emory has a new boyfriend to take her arm, a man to take her back—a shield to deflect some of the attention.

I am a one-woman Beyoncé show. In a fabulous dress, mind you, but still a lonesome party of one all the same.

The elevator dings its arrival on the top floor, and the people behind me push out with the consideration of a herd of buffalo.

I bob and weave, trying to find my footing in these stupid fucking heels I decided to wear, and I finally make a dash out the doors just as they’re closing.

One deep breath is followed by a second as I take in the room and engage a commanding step forward.

At least, I try.

The train of my red satin dress tugs back violently, and I stumble like a newborn colt.

Sweat breaks out in beads on my brow as I scan the room to see if anyone noticed. All eyes safely averted, I try again, jerking on the material with a demanding hand, only to be denied once more.

What the ever-loving hell?

Now manic and desperate, I follow the satin like a dive line until I reach the end—clamped by the fucking vise of the outer doors of the elevator shaft.

Oh my God. Why is this happening?

I tug and tug with my back to the doors in an attempt to be discreet, but people are starting to look, I can feel it.

The anxiety is intense, pricking at my skin and clamming up my hands and making my throat close in around itself.

Oh my God. I’m going to die, right here, dressed like Beyoncé!

I look to my right and find a rubber-masked Batman, but all hope of the Caped Crusader offering a superhero hand goes out the damn window when I notice he’s tongue-kissing a guy dressed like Robin. My heart drops to my fucking feet.