The Billionaire Boss Next Door

by Max Monroe

  I feel like I’ve been ridden hard and put away in one of Nelly’s water tanks.

  Simply put, my mood is shit.

  My business is failing. I’ve had zero sleep. And I’m headed to New York for the biggest interview of my life.

  But I put on a smile for Nelly’s sake. It’s not one hundred percent her fault I’m such a bitch today. I mean, she could’ve not been such a shitty driver or asked me so many questions or told me her whole life story, but still, she is just a woman trying to earn a living and keep her horses hydrated.

  “Thank you for the ride,” I say and grip the handle to my luggage with my right hand. Thank you for not killing me.

  “Have fun in New York, Gree-ware! And good luck with Hudson Designs!” She offers a little wave and a big ole grin before hopping back into her SUV.

  And not even a minute later, she sloshes her way back toward the highway.

  Good luck with Hudson Designs, her words repeat in my mind.

  Yeah. Pretty sure I need a hell of a lot more than luck, Nelly.

  Hudson Designs is my baby. The company I birthed from my proverbial womb. It is my pride. My passion. And the biggest reason my shoulders feel like I’m walking around with Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson hanging on, piggyback-style.

  Normally, I have nothing against The Rock.

  He’s big. He’s handsome. And if I had to smell what he was cooking, I’d venture to guess it would have an aroma of success and a multimillion-dollar bank account.

  But his weight perched on my shoulders is no fucking joke, and everything I’ve ever worked for is at risk of crashing into the fiery pits of hell if I crumble under it.

  It’s almost hard to believe it all went so wrong.

  When I graduated college, I was practically high off excitement over the possibility of future success. I mean, I had landed a huge internship turned full-time employment with Clarise Beaumont, one of the foremost interior designers on the Gulf Coast.

  It was a big fucking deal, and in my naïve eyes, success skyrockets were already in flight.

  After a few years working under her, I realized how impressive her work ethic and accomplishments were—and how much better they could be if I’d done them my way.

  Eventually, I opened my own firm, motivated and hopeful about what opportunities being in business for myself could bring. And for the first couple of years, I chalked any and all hard times up to getting started. I had a client base to build, infrastructure to get in place. A few bumps in the road were more than understandable—they were expected.

  Unfortunately, the next few years didn’t improve.

  The design business isn’t the same as it was ten years ago, and everyone in the industry has taken a hit.

  But when you’re a one-woman show like me, there’s a lot more overhead involved in making suppliers happy by taking sample stock at wholesale cost and keeping the daily operations of the office running.

  Other than my assistant, Rosaline—who I had to let go three months ago—I couldn’t afford to keep a staff for the work I couldn’t spend my time doing personally. As a result, I had to outsource most of it, and the markup on the cost doubled.

  And the bottom line of my books this morning confirms what I already knew—without a miracle, the last five years of my life might as well have been for nothing.

  I haven’t dated, I haven’t traveled. I haven’t even been to the Cheesecake Factory they built at the mall. All I’ve done is work, desperate to build something I’m proud of, and now it could be over.

  My lip quivers unexpectedly, and I grind the gears in my mind straight into reverse.

  Do not cry, Greer. Breaking down on the sidewalk of the New Orleans airport is not acceptable.

  Besides, other than the whole my business is failing thing, today isn’t all bad.

  For one, I didn’t die in Nelly’s Equinox, and secondly, New Orleans is playing its most impressive hand of cards on what should be a cold winter day. The sun is surprisingly strong, and it makes my skin feel crisp, like I could crease it down the middle to match my slacks.

  It feels good. Warm. Cozy.

  This is my favorite city. The place I grew up. The place I started my business. My home.

  And today, I’m minutes away from seeing my best friend Emory and flying first class to New York with her, courtesy of her family’s money. They have old money, new money—all the fucking money—and Emory never flies anywhere in the back of the plane.

  Luckily for me, she also doesn’t like to fly alone, and her boyfriend is already there.

  The loose wheel on my bargain luggage clatters behind me as I drag it up the ramp to the automatic door and inside the bright lights of the ticket area of Louis Armstrong International Airport.

  People scurry back and forth around me in varying states of distress, but it’s there, in the center of the chaos, that I find Emory, waving wildly from her spot in front of a pile of Louis Vuitton luggage.

  Her red hair is so big, it’s got to be full of something—I’m guessing money—and her signature blood-red lips pop against her ivory skin. She’s got a look all her own, and each detail is centered around making her light blue eyes look misty gray.

  I know this ridiculous information because she told me one night when we were a bottle deep in wine.

  “Greeeeer!” she yells, obnoxiously enough that everyone in the vicinity turns to look.

  My cheeks burn and sting as I make my way toward her reluctantly, avoiding any and all eye contact from the curious gazes she’s garnered due to her big fat mouth.

  I am a people person who kind of hates people. A conundrum in any country, on any day, in any language, but all the more complicated when you do what I do for a living.

  But the work is what I love. The art, the creativity—the chance to do something different with each and every design.

  It’s what gives me life.

  “Hello, hello,” I greet as I pull my bag to a stop next to her five, and I smooth a hand down my wrinkled blouse and slacks. “Have you been here long?”

  Automatically, her eyes engage, sliding into their default setting whenever I am around—an intensely obvious roll. And I can’t even really blame her.

  Her palate is refined, her heart is endlessly open, her workweek consists of occasionally going into the office to do god only knows what at one of her family’s successful marketing firms, and her idea of discount shopping is a sale at Bergdorf’s. I eat ramen at least two times a week, avoid men at nearly all costs, spend eighty hours a week in my office, and splurge at Target. But when it comes to personality, I am, without a doubt, the high-maintenance one of the two of us.

  “You know I have. You’re twenty minutes late.”

  “Well,” I respond. “I think we should both just be happy I didn’t drown.”

  She scrunches up her nose. “What?”

  “It’s a long story,” I say. “And I’m twenty minutes late from the time you told me. Which is exactly what I always am. You know this, you’ve known this for years, and you should totally be able to factor that into your arrival time. So, really, it’s like you’re early.”

  She guffaws, and I transition my smirk into a smile. “You only have yourself to blame.”

  “Sometimes I really hate you.”

  I wave off the comment as if it is no more than a buzzing fly. “Yes, but that’s nothing new either. And yet, you keep coming back for more.”

  Emory and I have been friends for what seems like forever—we’re talking since tutus and closet costumes and an innocence the world had yet to crush. With only the all-male influence of my grandfather and my brother to guide me after my parents died, I clung to Emory like a female beacon of hope.

  “Must be brainwashed.”

  “Hmm…” I pause for a moment and grin at her. “Pretty sure if I were going to brainwash you, I’d definitely use it for something other than this. Like convincing you to give me all of your money.”

  She rolls her “misty gr
ay” eyes. “Why is it I wanted you to fly with me again?”

  “My wit and charm, mostly.”

  “No. It’s definitely not that.”

  I pretend to purse my lips thoughtfully. “My delicately angelic good looks?”

  “No.”

  “My—”

  “Oh, right. I have no other friends. That’s why.”

  “I wonder why that is. Maybe you need to reevaluate how demanding you are,” I say sarcastically. Sarcastic or not, Emory’s glare is hotter than a thousand suns. “I’m joking, E. Geez. You’re a gem. The purest form of—”

  “Shut up, Greer.”

  “Fine,” I say with a laugh. “Go on, lecture me. I know that’s what you’ve been waiting on.”

  “I’m not going to lecture you.”

  I scoff. “Sure, you’re not.”

  “Well, if you don’t want me to lecture you, you could at least show up in clothes that don’t look like you slept in them. Did you even shower this morning?”

  In an effort to avoid getting sucked into a steaming crater of pity and despair, I decide it’s best not to tell her just how accurate she is and focus on complaining instead.

  “Why do I have to go to New York for an interview for a job in New Orleans anyway?”

  “Because your potential boss is a busy guy, and that’s where he’s going to be. I used my connections to get you this thing for a reason. Turner Properties is the real deal. A Vanderturn hotel in New Orleans is a big deal, especially if you get to design it,” she says with a little smile, but that quickly vanishes when she continues her train of thought. “And have to? You act like you’re going to war. It’s New Year’s Eve in New York, for shit’s sake. You should be excited!”

  “You’re right. New York does sound amazing.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I’m just—”

  “I know.” Her eyes turn soft and understanding. “I know what’s riding on this, and I know it’s weighing you down a bit.”

  Weighing me down a bit? If the stress of my financial situation gets any heavier, I might actually become my own gravitational force.

  “If this doesn’t go well,” I say on a near whisper, “I’m not really sure what I’m going to do.”

  Because I don’t. If this job interview isn’t a success, I honestly have no idea what my next move will be. And that is terrifying.

  “It’s going to go well! You’re the right person for the job. There’s no way he won’t see that.”

  I chew my lip.

  “As long as you bring sweet Greer and leave the bitch at home…”

  I feign a gasp.

  Emory’s lips crest up into a smile. “Oh, come on, put a smile on that pretty face. This is going to be the best trip of your life! Everything is about to come up roses! I can feel it!”

  I just stare at her.

  “Smile, Greer.”

  I half-ass an attempt at a smile, but it’s brittle and forced and probably looks like Chandler Bing’s engagement photos.

  “Repeat after me,” she says. “I am a brilliant designer.”

  I furrow my brow, and Emory nudges my arm with one of her pointy fucking elbows.

  “Ow.” I rub at my arm, but she ignores her assault completely.

  “Say it, Greer. Say, I am a brilliant designer.”

  “I am a brilliant designer.” The words come out monotone and unconvinced, but my newfound motivational speaker isn’t deterred.

  “Say, I am going to nail this interview.”

  “I am going to nail this interview.”

  “But before I go to said interview, I’m going to remove this resting bitch face and put on my strong, confident woman face.”

  I can’t not smirk at that. “That is incredibly specific.”

  “Just say it.”

  I oblige and silently pray that Tony Robbins will leave my best friend’s body so I can attempt to enjoy this first-class trip to New York.

  “Who’s the best interior designer in New Orleans?”

  I stare at her, but she threatens to dig one of her pointy elbows into my skin again.

  My eyes roll heavenward. “Me.”

  “Who’s the best woman for this job?”

  “Me.”

  “Who is going to flaunt her perfect tits around New York and land herself a kick-ass job and nail a hot guy all in one weekend?”

  “Me…wait…what?”

  “Don’t you worry, sweet cheeks, no one at Turner Properties will be able to resist you.” Emory winks. “Now, let’s go catch our flight to your future success!”

  Minus the nailing a hot guy part, I hope she’s right.

  Because, fuck, I need this job.

  Greer

  After two-and-a-half hours on a plane, an hour-long slog in a death taxi—without mention of horses, mind you—a long line to check in at the Vanderturn Manhattan hotel, and eleventy-billion interview pep talks from Emory, I’m on the very brink of insanity.

  My skin feels tight, my hair hurts, and my eyeballs seem to be operating independently from each other.

  Apparently, I’m not the only one to notice.

  When the bellman leaves to head up to our rooms with our luggage, Emory gets bossy and points in my face.

  “Go work out. You need some Elle Woods thinking in your life. Exercise gives you endorphins. Endorphins make you happy. Happy people don’t murder their husbands.”

  I scoff and tilt my head to escape the virtual laser beam shooting out of her finger. “Grumpy people without husbands don’t murder their husbands either.”

  “You’re going to have one someday, I’m telling you. So, you should start training now.”

  “Training? To be happy?” I frown. “Isn’t that the sort of thing that should come naturally?”

  “For you?” She snorts. “Probably not. You have a nasty habit of being a miserable shrew, and habits are hard to break.”

  My sigh is heavy as I grab the tops of her slender arms and squeeze affectionately. “You really say the nicest things.”

  She ignores me and shoves me in the shoulder.

  “Go. Change out of last night’s clothes—”

  I grin contemptuously.

  “And sweat out all of that toxic energy you’re carrying around. I’m going to need you to be in a better mood when I introduce you to Quincy.”

  “Ah, the boyfriend,” I hum. “You’re finally done hiding him?”

  My best friend has been dating the illustrious Quincy for a few months, and this is the first time she’s even mentioned introducing us. The guy also lives in New Orleans, yet she’s waited until we’re in New York for the big meet-and-greet. It’s like she’s afraid I’m going to do something crazy and doesn’t want me on my home turf or something.

  “I haven’t been hiding him,” she corrects. “Just making sure he’s good and hooked before you scare him off.”

  I plaster a sugary-sweet smile onto my lips. “I resent your insinuation that I’m anything but pleasant and easy to get along with.”

  “If by resent you mean accept and acknowledge its validity, okay.”

  “Hmm…” I pause and tap my chin pointedly. “Webster’s must have come out with a new version I’m unaware of, but I’ll go with it for your sake.”

  She subtly applies a sheer shade of imaginary lipstick with her middle finger.

  “Quince and I will meet you at the party at nine.”

  Son of a bitch. The New Year’s Eve “Mask-erade.” Obviously, I’d blocked out the fact that this trip includes a social engagement where an actual grown-ass human decided it would be a good time to take a traditional masquerade-themed party and sleaze it up by making the masks be made out of rubber and celebrity likenesses instead of exquisite lace and beading. But Emory’s reminder ensures I can’t ignore it now.

  It takes every ounce of willpower not to dive into a long-winded, snarky rant about it.

  But I suck it up and remind myself of the silver lining.

  A New Year�
��s Eve party equals alcohol, Greer.

  “Be on time, please,” Emory adds, but the please completely contradicts the stern, motherlike tone in which she delivers it.

  “As if I’m ever anything else.”

  Her responding scoff echoes around us.

  “Just enjoy yourself,” she says. “Have a positive attitude for once. If you do, I guarantee it’ll be great.”

  “You got it, Mom.”

  “Hey,” she says, and her eyes turn soft as she steps forward to wrap me up in a hug. “You’re my best friend, and all I want is for you to be happy. I know I’m pushy, but it’s only because I love you.”

  I hug her back. “Love you too, E. Even when you sound like you’re gearing up for a career in direct sales.”

  She snorts and lets me go with amusement shining in her eyes.

  “Working out before a party gets results, people! Four out of five farm animals can’t be wrong!” I use a far too high-pitched voice to mimic hers. “Happy people make happy choices, and this tea is the answer to happiness at least once a day! Your tits will be perky and your energy rejuvenated! Try the gel pads under your eyes for a fresh day feel!” I finish off my little act with a set of a jazz hands and a cheeky grin.

  “I feel like you might have exaggerated a bit there…”

  “Nah.” I grin and shake my head. “I’m pretty sure that’s what you said.”

  Emory rolls her eyes and laughs at the same time. “I’ll see you tonight at the party.”

  She departs without another word—probably in an effort to avoid another smartass comeback or impromptu jazz hands—and leaves me to my own devices.

  Once she’s gone, the interior designer in me kicks in, and my surroundings become my companion.

  And let me tell you, she’s a real bitch.

  The lobby is ostentatious in its design, and I’m practically offended by the maroon and green color scheme. Honestly, even Santa Claus would be offended, and that jolly mothershucker is all about the green and red.

  The décor is more pretentious confusion than anything else. And if I have to come face-to-face with one more gilded sailboat painting or ornate statue, I swear on everything, I might puke.