by Max Monroe
And there, as if I channeled her evil spirit, is Greer Hudson, smirking so hard one of her perfectly shaped eyebrows lifts.
“Excuse me?”
She clears her throat and nods to the driver. “Check your information, dear. You’ll have to wait for the next eco-friendly hatchback.”
She shoves me out of the way, pops the door open, and jumps inside.
And I’m left with the confirmation that she’s right as I open the app and compare the license plate as it putters away.
When you’re unwilling to share your Uber with your new boss on your first day of work, you’re either asking for trouble or you have a few screws loose.
And, I swear to God, when it comes to Greer Hudson, it’s both.
Fine. If this insane woman wants trouble, I am more than willing to oblige.
Greer
It’s been a whirlwind of a morning, and it’s only nine a.m.
I left my boss stranded on the sidewalk to wait for his own Uber, even though we were coming to the same place.
God, why can’t I stop doing things like this!
It’s like I’m trying to poke the billionaire beast.
And ever since then, he’s shown his disdain for me—his new neighbor and employee—through his annoyed glares, heavy sighs, and overall grumpy demeanor.
But yet he’s still managed to run a tight ship. I’m talking spandex-pants-stuck-straight-up-your-ass kind of tight ship.
One hour into our first official work day and we’ve had our morning meeting, toured the majority of the lobby area and what will be the pool and fitness center, and spoken to at least seven subcontractors working on the property.
After all that, there are two things I know without a doubt. The hotel is going to be gorgeous—God and Trent Tucker willing, that is. And my boss is an absolute natural…at being a prick.
“Jesus Christ,” Trent says, his eyebrows furrowing in irritation. “It’s like every time I come here, we have to start over. Is Sergio here? His guys?”
Obviously, the second point proves itself more and more every minute.
“I don’t think he’s scheduled to be here until tomorrow, Mr. Turner,” the lead contractor, George, responds.
“Does anyone other than me realize what kind of a schedule we’re on here? We have nine months—nine—until opening day, and we’re still roughing things in.”
“I’ll try to get him on the phone—” George responds in an attempt to soothe the raging beast.
“No. I’ll call him myself. Give me the number,” Trent demands impatiently.
George’s hands shake as he scrolls through his phone and rattles off the numbers.
Trent dials as he speaks, and then he glances to the rest of us in the room before hitting send.
“Busy yourselves. I know for a fact each and every one of you has something important to be doing.”
Wow. And I thought I made a bad first impression.
Skeptically sour faces litter the room as Trent steps outside to make his phone call, and if I didn’t know how aggravating the man was, I actually might feel bad about how deep his hole is getting with these people.
Doesn’t he know the phrase Kill ’em with kindness?
I decide distraction is the best way to handle the awkward vibe in the room and step up to the plate to take charge. “Hey, Sarah,” I call to the assistant of the general contractor. “Did you say lighting was already laid out, or did decisions still need to be made?”
I wish I’d been brought in on this project from day one, but most people don’t know how deep a designer’s details really go. Lighting placement affects the whole aesthetic of the hotel, and it’ll make a huge difference to know whether I’m working off someone else’s foundation or if I get to establish my own.
“Uh,” she mutters, pulling herself away from the mass interest in the prickish behavior of our new boss, and rolls out the prints on the makeshift sawhorse table. “I think all of the wiring is run, but they still have to cut in the boxes. If there’s something specific you’re looking for, I think there’s still plenty of room to make changes.”
Fan-flipping-tastic.
“Great. I think we really need to focus on having both soft and hard lighting options in each guest room. There’s nothing I hate more in a hotel than too little or too much light. People want options. Edits on the next great American novel require a slightly different ambiance than a night of bow chicka bow wow, if you know what I’m saying.”
Sarah laughs, and the two guys who were surreptitiously observing Trent through the windows turn to me and smile.
Tony is the food and restaurant manager, and Marcus is a hospitality specialist I met in New York. He’s apparently had a hand in every hotel Trent Turner Senior has ever opened and probably knows more than the rest of us combined, but he’s been remarkably quiet the whole day.
It seems like maybe he’s just waiting to watch Junior fall on his face.
I wonder if Trent’s even considered what an asset Marcus would be to have on his side.
Trent comes back into the room and, of course, immediately the light mood takes a nose dive to the depths of hell.
I shoot imaginary darts at his bright-green eyes and imagine him hitting the ground in pain.
It’s almost ridiculously satisfying, and I can’t help the little laugh that bubbles out of my throat because of the mental image.
It doesn’t go unnoticed.
“Something funny?” Mr. Serious Pants asks sternly.
I raise an eyebrow and hold my ground.
It’s honestly like I’m incapable of doing anything else around him.
“Yes.”
“Care to share?”
I consider the riotous laughter the other people in the room would experience if I were to tell the truth and make a cost comparison against the undeniable shit I will earn for saying it.
The chips are stacked against me, so I decide to keep this little ditty to myself.
“No. I’m good, thanks.”
Trent scowls but doesn’t say anything else as he waves us out of the fitness room—ironic that I’m still giving him shit in hotel gyms, I know—and back into the corridor that leads to reception.
Sarah bumps me with her elbow while we walk, like some girl-code form of congratulations on my back-talking to the boss, and I’m instantly back in high school, cackling at the back of the classroom with the other class clowns.
Dear God, how low I’ve sunk.
I need to get control of my impulses. Not only do I need this job, but after seeing the foundation of this place, I want it.
I can practically smell the fresh paint of my choosing as it goes up on the walls and feel the finest of textures and linens under my fingertips.
I can picture the touches of Creole and charm and everything special this place could be, and I could be the one who makes it that way.
What an accomplishment that would be. It would make all of the hard work and the tears and the struggles worth it, and I know it would make my brother proud to see me do something so significant.
With a renewed sense of purpose, I’m on my best behavior for the rest of the morning. I don’t snark when Trent sneers, and I don’t crack jokes at his expense when he isn’t around.
I am a walking, talking goddamn professional, and I expect some Fortune 500 company owner will be designing a course based on my approach any day now.
Sarah and the guys give me funny looks given that they don’t know how a Stepford wife managed to inhabit my body in such a short time, but I don’t let it sway me.
There’s a head honcho in town, and it just so happens he’s the most annoyingly attractive human on earth.
So what?
But I’m alone in my endeavors.
Trent is still officially the most pompous boss I’ve ever worked for, and with the way his sour attitude commandeered the staff’s mood this morning, his grave looks to be about forty feet deep at this point.
And tha
t really brings to mind just one thing…
I wonder if Emory’s parents will let me bust through the wall when he dies.
Trent
I’m halfway through the fourth day of working with the NOLA project team, and it’s been a long fucking morning.
I slept like shit last night and woke up at the ass-crack of dawn, arriving at the hotel a good two hours before everyone else, just so I could avoid one particular person on my team before I’d managed coffee.
A she-devil in heels who believes every idea that’s ever crossed her mind is the most brilliant idea that’s ever been thought.
Greer Hudson is by far the most insufferable woman I’ve ever met in my life. And trust me, my best friend is Cap, therefore I’ve met a lot of fucking women.
At work, she is everywhere I am, a sarcastic, pursed-lipped, thorn in my side, and when I get home, she’s still there. All around me.
There’s something about knowing she’s on the other side of my bedroom wall that is stealing my sanity and turning me into an insomniac.
For a building as expensive as the one we’re both living in, you’d think they’d have better soundproofing.
But they don’t.
I can hear her every step. Her every cackle. Her goddamn reality show preferences buzzing from her television.
Even the sounds of her shower running reach my ears through the walls.
If this isn’t the definition of hell, I don’t know what is.
I’m tired. Grouchy. And a headache the size of the Empire State Building is taking up residence in my skull.
Needless to say, I’m in need of a short break from the stress that is the job site, and there’s only one place that’ll do.
The instant the nostalgic sign for Coastal Crepes fills my vision, relief relaxes my shoulders, and I cross the street and head toward the entrance.
This restaurant holds special memories for me. When I was a kid, my mom used to bring me here whenever we visited New Orleans, and just the smell of it brings the woman I used to know to my mind.
Three years ago, she was diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease, and the progression has been fast. And she’s not the same as she used to be, mostly because of the depression dealing with the disease has driven her to.
She used to be fun and fun-loving and a positive peace-keeper in the tense relationship between my father and me, and while she’s still mostly positive when it comes to me, she’s become ruthlessly unforgiving of herself.
I still see the woman who gave me care and attention, no matter how much success I garnered, and I want her to know I do.
For the last year or so, I’ve spent my weekends taking her on coffee dates and to the movies, shopping for a new outfit to make her feel good, and to the park even if it’s just to feel the sun on her face. And her quiet enjoyment of each outing only motivated me to do more before I left to head the project that is the Vanderturn New Orleans hotel.
Before I knew it, I was delaying my NOLA departure date just so I wouldn’t have to skip out on time with her.
But my desire to be near my mom in New York has only created an even bigger sore spot between my father and me, and when I finally committed to coming down here, she told me she didn’t want me to come back. Not on the weekends to visit, and not when anything else came up.
I was to stay in New Orleans, one of her favorite cities in the world, until I finished the hotel.
I don’t know if her demands were a martyr-like self-sacrifice in the name of my relationship with my father or something else, but any time I try to bring it up, she shuts me down.
Instead of getting sucked into the sadness of what I wish were different about my life, I shift my focus to the things I can control.
The hotel, and currently, the specifics of my lunch crepe.
Peanut butter, Nutella, banana, and just about as much bacon as one man can handle—the actual cure, I’m sure, for a ravaged soul.
The bell above the door rings when I pull it open, and it doesn’t take long before I order my food and sit down at a two-person table in the middle of the restaurant. The great part about this place for workdays is that you can either sit down and a server will take your order, or if you’re in a lunch-hour rush, you can order up at the counter and find a seat on your own.
With this restaurant only five blocks from the hotel construction site, I have a feeling I’ll be a frequent customer over the next several months.
I cut into the edge with my fork, bring the bite to my mouth, and look right into the ass of Greer Hudson at the counter.
Seriously?
I wish I could say my eyes are deceiving me, but they aren’t.
I can tell it’s her, even from the back.
I’m ashamed to admit that when we aren’t fighting, I spend way too much time looking at the round, plush surface of her ass.
It’s perfectly shaped and just the right size, and if we hadn’t gotten off on the wrong foot in the Vanderturn Manhattan gym that day, I might have accidentally told her so.
I stare until she turns around and then jerk my gaze back to my cooling crepe to avoid eye contact.
I make a point not to watch as she leaves the counter with her meal and finds a table of her own, but for some freakish reason, I can sense her anyway.
Back and to the left, her table is in the tiniest corner of the restaurant imaginable. In all of my visits, I’ve never even seen anyone sit there. The space is so tight that I’m pretty sure the restaurant only put it there so they could advertise more seating than actually exists.
But for some unknown reason, she insists on sitting there, in a booth that doesn’t really look like a booth. It’s basically just a miniature table pushed up against a wall, with a bench built for no one bigger than a baby.
And for what must be caused by a minor bout of delirium from lack of sleep or stress or something, I can’t not look in her direction. I’m powerless to my curiosity.
Quickly and as discreetly as possible, I glance over my shoulder and into the nook where I know she’ll be.
She makes a huge fucking effort to slide into the booth, damn near twisting and turning and contorting her slim figure into a pretzel.
Once. Two. Three. Four failed attempts, and I’m practically choking on a piece of banana from the hilarity of it.
It’s like she has a beef with the table itself.
She is so damn determined, so damn stubborn, that I’m silently wondering if she’ll remove a limb just to prove a point to a restaurant table.
When the fight becomes too much, when she finally gives in, she stands and leans over the table, picking on her crepe like a vulture.
God. This woman. She is something else.
With a slight shake of my head, I go back to focusing on my own meal, and I don’t notice immediately when she’s up and on the move again. In fact, I don’t really notice her until the third time she walks in front of my table.
And that’s just the beginning.
Greer uses the strip of floor in front of my table like a goddamn runway, stealing glances at me from behind a veil of hair every time she passes.
The first pass, she’s flipped her jacket backward and slipped on sunglasses.
The second round included a new part to her hair and that jacket tied around her waist.
It’s like she’s trying to trick me into thinking it’s not her or something.
I’m not sure if she thinks I’m legitimately blind or if she thinks she’s somehow engaged a special superpower to make herself invisible, but I’d be lying if I said I’m not getting some kind of amusement out of it.
Not to mention, each time she walks by, that plush ass of hers does too.
It’s not until the tenth time that she makes a pass, and one of the patrons asks her if she’s homeless and in need of money or food, that she drops the act and stops in front of the chair across from me.
She clears her throat, and I smile in greeting.
“Oh, hi, Greer. I didn�
�t realize you were here.”
Right. She did everything but flap her wings and throw a shoe at me. Everyone in the universe knows she’s here.
Her face melts into a sneer as it becomes undeniably clear I’m lying.
When she still doesn’t pipe up but stays rooted to her spot with a blue-eyed glare directed toward me, I have to prompt her.
“Go on,” I say and rest my elbows on the table. “I can tell you want to say something. In fact, it looks like the effort to keep it all in is literally killing you. So, by all means, spill.”
Her face softens a bit. “Respectfully?”
“Is that really possible for you?” I ask, and she rolls her eyes.
“You’d catch a lot more flies with honey than all that vinegar you’ve been pissing all over the place.”
“I’m sorry, what?”
“You’re kidding, right?” she tosses back without hesitance. “You’ve spent the entire day doing an impression of Sideshow Bob. Sarah’s almost worn her teeth down to the nubs.”
“Come on, be real,” I refute and narrow my eyes. “I wasn’t that bad.”
She scoffs. “Yes. You were. Barking orders and chewing out George.”
“George wasn’t doing his job.”
He wasn’t doing his job. And, honestly, it feels like George is never doing his fucking job.
“Look,” she says and lifts both hands in the air. “I’m not trying to start shit. I’m just saying you might want to dial it back a notch if you don’t want an outbreak of stomach ulcers to take down the whole crew.”
Not trying to start shit? This, coming from the woman standing in front of her boss and telling him how to do his job.
It takes everything inside of me to keep my tone calm and neutral. “While I appreciate your attempt at constructive criticism, I think you need to realize, as the head of this project, it’s my job to make sure shit gets done,” I say through a tight jaw.
Apparently, Greer Hudson is an expert at heading up projects and managing people. And here I just thought she was the designer on staff. Go fucking figure.
“I’m not going to hold George’s hand and give him a back rub to boost his confidence because he’s not doing his job. I’m going to tell him he’s fucking up so he gets his shit together and starts doing his job.”
