The Billionaire Boss Next Door

by Max Monroe

  I’m immediately defensive, declaring, “No names.”

  He doesn’t understand, but I wouldn’t expect him to. We’re in the middle of the mall, not a top-level-clearance CIA operation.

  Still, my mission is already in motion, and my behavior can’t be stopped. I’m going to get some advice to Trent Turner on how to be a better boss and keep my job safe at the same time, one way or another.

  “I need a burner phone. Untraceable. I have cash.”

  Henry’s eyebrows shoot up, and I nod.

  “This is serious business, Henry. Can you help me, or do I need to take my business next door to Sprint?”

  Henry, the chap, comes over to the dark side with surprisingly little persuasion.

  “No way, ma’am,” he affirms. “You’ve come to the right place.”

  “Fantastic,” I say with a secret smile and give my new AT&T pal a pat to his polo-covered shoulder. “I have a feeling you and I are going to be great friends.”

  Trent

  For the past week and a half or so, I’ve been getting texts from an unknown number with ridiculous, almost uninterpretable advice.

  Never walk by a pigeon coop with an owl in your pocket.

  Don’t shit on your own doorstep.

  If you swim with a friend, your chances of getting eaten by a shark go down by 50%.

  There is no angry way to say bubbles.

  Real bear hugs are usually fatal.

  Don’t sweat the petty things, and don’t pet the sweaty things.

  In case of fire, use the stairs.

  And my personal favorite came straight from The Godfather. Leave the gun. Take the cannoli.

  At first, I reacted badly. I honestly thought Cap had subscribed me to some fucking text service as a stupid joke. But when the messages kept coming—mostly, at inopportune times while I was busy trying to get an entire hotel off the ground—I kind of lost it. At one point, I even channeled Liam Neeson.

  Me: UNSUBSCRIBE.

  Me: I’m going to shit on YOUR doorstep.

  Me: YOU’RE ABOUT TO SLEEP WITH THE FISHES, MOTHERFUCKER.

  Me: I don’t know who you are, but I will look for you, I will find you, and I will kill you.

  Needless to say, I’m now in recovery.

  I’ve found zen and peace and all that shit.

  All that’s left is to be proactive about finding the culprit.

  My first, most immediate assumption was Greer. She’s already tried her hand at giving me advice in person, and I wouldn’t put it past her to go to these lengths.

  Although, I’m using the word “advice” loosely here. I don’t know what shit like shark attacks and bear hugs have to do with anything.

  But the longer it’s gone on, the more that theory seems uncertain.

  I’ve tried to catch her several times at work, even jumping out and nearly yelling Hah! one time, and she’s appeared busy doing something else on every occasion.

  Sketching.

  Conferring with Sarah.

  Placing linen and décor samples all over the place and taking pictures.

  All in all, she’s been an efficient and mostly pleasant worker.

  Because of that, I’ve focused my search back to the only other possibilities I can think of: Caplin and Quincy.

  Cap is all the way in New York, and supposedly busy with all sorts of important corporate lawyer things—and women—but he’s yet to outright deny his participation in the text attack.

  And if there’s one thing I know about him, it’s not to count him out without proof—ever. In court and in life, he is the kind of adversary who will take you down without your even noticing.

  Quincy is still a possibility too, especially with the way he’s been taunting me about Greer ever since he dropped off the key.

  But he also has a tendency to take credit for all of his ideas. It’s almost like he can’t physically keep any secrets inside his big, goofy body. If he were at the helm of this ship, he’d be skywriting “Sincerely, Quince” over the hotel.

  Basically, I’m back at square one.

  And more suspicious than ever. Every person in the hotel, every passerby on the street—they’re all possibilities.

  This morning, I even caught myself giving George rogue thoughtful looks as he went through the weekly rundown of progress.

  And I don’t even think George really knows how to text.

  I’m about to check in on the terrace flooring delivery when my phone goes off with yet another damn text.

  Make like a hooker and open your legs to the advice of others.

  Once again, it’s quite the gem.

  I scan the room, expecting something to jump out and get me any minute, but as always, everyone is ensconced in their work and paying little to no attention to me.

  Greer and Sarah are taping out furniture arrangement possibilities, and Marcus and George are in a heated conversation of some kind in the entryway to the men’s restroom in the lobby.

  No one, it seems, is clutching a phone like Dr. Evil and rubbing their hands together.

  My foot ticks, agitation bleeding into the muscle, but thankfully, the ring of my phone distracts me from doing something about it.

  Caplin Calling.

  Against my better judgment—and on the off chance that this actually has something to do with legal trouble—I answer.

  “Hello?”

  “Well, hello, good sir. It’s so lovely to speak with you, Turn. I was just telling Janine how much I missed you.”

  “And who’s Janine?” I ask, my voice bland with resignation. Two seconds into it and I can already tell—this isn’t going to be a work call.

  Caplin’s work voice is completely different from his normal one. Commandeering and sharp, it’s like the holy “professional” spirit invades his body and turns him into the business version of a television minister.

  And he’s not using it today. This is the jesting, often enthusiastic tone of my depraved good friend.

  “I met her at the ice rink in Bryant Park.”

  “And?”

  “And my apartment has been our sex hovel for the last week.”

  My body jerks, and an unexpected visual makes me gag. “Okay, too much information.”

  “Don’t ask for what you can’t handle, bud.”

  “Ah, sage advice.” The kind of advice I’ve been getting in fucking droves these days. My hackles rise. “So, is it you?”

  “Is what me?” Cap asks innocently. Or at least, faux-innocently. For a guy with a third-degree black belt in one-night stands, he’s got the chops of a successful actor.

  Then again, I guess being a believable liar is something his job requires of him. In my experience, lawyers are all about talking in loops until someone’s ears bleed enough that they give in.

  “Who’s been texting me advice—and I use that term loosely—from an unknown number? If I get one more text about finding my chi, I might kill you.”

  His laugh is uproarious, and the blood in my ears pounds. “Dude, that sounds exactly like something I would do. But no. I’ve been more invested in the sex hovel.”

  I groan. “Stop saying that.”

  “What? Sex hovel? Is sex hovel the phrasing you have a problem with?”

  “You are the biggest pain in my ass.”

  “The biggest?” he clucks. “Wow, Turn. You say the sweetest things.”

  I sigh. “Hey, Cap?”

  “Yeah, buddy?”

  “I implore you…stop talking about your cock’s extracurricular activities.”

  “Okay. But only because I’m imagining you just said cock in the middle of the workplace and people are likely staring at you.”

  I look up, cautiously, and of course, he’s right. Several sets of eyes in the room look up from their work, surveying me with new interest. Greer’s are wide and way too something. Something interesting and interested, and fucking hell, I can’t go there right now.

  Son of a bitch.

  His laughter carr
ies through the phone, and I come damn close to hanging up on him.

  “Wait, wait, wait,” he says, somehow sensing my retreat. “I had a reason for calling. I swear.”

  “Yes,” I agree. “Tormenting me.”

  I cut a stern look through everyone in the room, locking eyes briefly with Greer again, and then step out into the hall.

  “Before I tell you the reason, I need to ask you something first.”

  “And what’s that?”

  “Have you banged out all your pent-up sexual frustration with the hot designer yet?” he asks, and I can actually hear a shit-eating grin in his voice. “I’m just trying to make sure the countdown on my desktop is correct.”

  Obviously, it was too much for me to hope that he forgot about the whole Greer Hudson situation.

  “I told you that’s not happening, you depraved bastard.” I ignore the fact that my chest constricts at my words and focus on ending this call before Cap has time to say anything else. “And now, I’m really hanging up.”

  “Wait. Don’t do that, Turn.” He chuckles. “My reason for calling is Susie Gimble.”

  “Who?”

  “Susie Gimble,” he repeats. “Come on. You remember, we went to high school with her brother—”

  “Gavin,” I supply, finally remembering who the hell he’s talking about.

  I lean into the wall next to the door and pinch the bridge of my nose. Why the hell is he talking about people from high school right now?

  “Well, she’s divorced and living in New Orleans now, and I told her you want to take her out on a date.”

  My eyes pop open, and I jump, shoving away from the wall I’ve just settled into. “Jesus Christ, why would you do that?”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” he says sarcastically. “Maybe to get you laid?”

  “Cap—”

  “You’re like a month away from becoming a monk, Turn. Just go on the date, fuck the woman, and then you can move on with your life.”

  An image of Greer’s big blue eyes looking over at me after I said the word cock flashes in my mind, and I crumble.

  Because maybe Caplin is right, and maybe he’s not. It’s truly a fucking toss-up, but before I know it, I’m actually agreeing to it. “Fine. When?”

  “It’s not for a couple of weeks. She’s in Greece right now. You’ll have plenty of time to shave your balls.”

  “Yep. It’s official. I’m hanging up now.” I shake my head and look to the ceiling. The energy his mind must dedicate to coming up with this ridiculous shit to say is mind-boggling.

  He laughs. “Good chatting with you, Turn. Good luck finding your midnight mystery texter.”

  “It’s not… They don’t text at midnight…” I struggle to explain, hating that he even knows this much now.

  “Sure. Listen, I have to go because Thatcher Kelly just walked in, and there’s no telling what kind of legal trouble he’s in.” I hear our friend Thatch’s booming laugh in the background and cringe. The two of them in an office together must break some kind of law. I’ve never met two people with less of a filter than them. “But don’t worry, you won’t be a virgin anymore in two weeks!”

  I tell him to fuck off, but he’s already hung up by the time I get the words out.

  Everyone is looking at me again when I step back inside the room after getting off the phone, so I say the only three words that come to mind. Words that will get them out of my hair long enough to erase at least a tiny portion of their memories. “Go get lunch.”

  Greer

  There is only one thing I do on Tuesday nights—watch Ellen’s Game of Games.

  Which is exactly what I’m doing now, all curled up on my couch in a pair of sleep shorts and a tank top, popping popcorn into my mouth like a heathen with my eyes riveted on my favorite TV shenanigans.

  Emory: I love how all the people always bounce in those sumo suits and flippers. Like, do their legs become rubberier or something?

  And, occasionally—only during commercial breaks—I answer my best friend’s text messages.

  Me: I think it’s Ellen’s glee. It fills their legs with springs. Or hell, maybe it’s a part of the show. Like, in order to participate, you need to fill out this contract that allows them to do minor surgery on your legs.

  Emory: You should do it. What’s a little surgery for 100K?

  Me: Hey! Why don’t you do it?

  Emory: Because I already have money. And perfect legs. Surgery to insert springs would ruin them. You, however, could use a little pep in your step.

  Me: Oh, right. Also, totally unrelated, but I hate you.

  The show comes back from commercial, and I drop my phone and my conversation with Emory like it’s a hot potato.

  And trust me, a potato has to be pretty fucking hot for me to drop it.

  I won’t be interrupted from my favorite program—even if it’s by my best friend, talking about my favorite program.

  I’m a complicated woman.

  Ellen brings out the huge contraption she calls Mount St. Ellen, and three fun-loving people dressed up as little Bavarian boys and girls come running out from behind the stage.

  This is one of my favorite games to watch because it takes so much fitness and savagery. Opponent below you on the mountain? Bowl over them like the boulders in Indiana Jones.

  I’m really getting into it as two out of the three contestants come rolling back down the slime-covered mountain after grabbing fake pull ropes, and popcorn litters the floor from my unsuccessful attempts to get it into my cackling mouth.

  My wheeze starts up after a snort, and by the time one of the women slides down and boots the guy contestant right in the balls, I’m damn near having a seizure, I’m laughing so hard.

  All of a sudden, my laughter and the TV become background noise to a much greater adversary—the pounding on my door.

  I jump up and hurry over, completely unsure who it could be or how I feel about their obvious aggression. When I get close and the pounding starts up again, I grab an umbrella out of my stand and wield it like a weapon.

  I’m cocked and ready to swing as I reach out cautiously for the knob.

  Slowly—painfully slowly, if I’m honest—I peel the door back to reveal the perpetrator.

  When Trent Turner’s eyes meet mine, I accidentally swing the umbrella like a reflex.

  He ducks—thankfully—but it’s safe to say I haven’t improved the boss/employee relations at all.

  And I haven’t been what one might consider neighborly either.

  I’m coming up with goose eggs everywhere, people.

  “What the hell are you doing?” he yells, putting up a hand to fight off my offensive as—whoops—I’m still swinging the umbrella like a lunatic.

  I put it down and drop it back into the holder, but that doesn’t make my voice any less shrill as I accuse, “I thought you were an intruder!”

  He scoffs, and one dark eyebrow climbs toward his hairline. “An intruder who knocks?”

  I don’t notice anything else about him at all. Nope. Not the way his casual wear—jeans and a T-shirt—seems to suit his body just as well as professional attire, and not the way his hard jaw complements his sparkling green eyes.

  His forearms definitely aren’t veiny and pulsing either.

  “Well, it was a really hard knock, and I don’t know that many people who come to see me where I live,” I defend somewhat weakly.

  He smirks, and my instinct is to jump on it.

  “And just what are you doing here anyway? We don’t usually hang out and gab late at night.”

  He glances at his watch. “It’s eight thirty. Hardly what I’d describe as ‘late at night.’”

  “What are you doing here?” I snap at the know-it-all.

  “Checking on you,” he says before laughing. “God knows why. But it sounded like you were being attacked by a herd of feral pigs in here.”

  I pause, looking back to the wall that I know has to be shared by his apartment, and panic. Obvi
ously, I was aware we shared a wall and were in close proximity… I just…didn’t remember that would mean he could hear me.

  I clear my throat to compose myself, and the result is astounding. Yep, a real demure debutante here.

  “I was watching a TV show.”

  “A show?” he asks skeptically, peeking inside the apartment without permission and looking around. “Watching a show causes you to make that much noise?”

  “Yes. It’s Ellen’s Game of Games, and it’s hilarious.”

  He frowns. “I’ve never seen it.”

  The music changes in the background, and Ellen’s voice proclaims the beginning of Know or Go, and I drop the billionaire boss like I don’t know the meaning of either one of those words.

  “Uh, what are you—” he starts, and I shush him and head back to my couch, front door still wide open.

  “Shh, it’s back on.”

  “Greer, we’re in the middle of a conversation—”

  “Stay or go!” I yell like a psychopath. “But shut up and let me watch this.”

  I’m perched on the couch like a gargoyle when I feel him take a seat next to me. I didn’t expect this at all—I figured he’d cut and run while he could—but I’m too involved in the show to bother thinking about it now.

  Ellen opens up the game with a simple question, and I rub my hands together with delight at how hard it is for the lady to answer.

  “She’ll drop soon,” I mutter to myself like some kind of Game of Games overlord.

  “You’re scaring me,” Trent says softly through a half smirk. Evidently, he thinks speaking at regular volume will anger the beast.

  “Don’t be scared,” I say. “You’ll come over to the possessed side of things if you’ll just watch.”

  “Why is it so funny?”

  “Are you kidding?” I nearly shout. “Ellen is like a torture tyrant. She has absolutely no shame about making these people suffer for a chance at money. She loves it!” I glance at him as he considers it, and a lightbulb goes off. “You should relate to that mentality perfectly.”