The Billionaire Boss Next Door

by Max Monroe

  He should, actually. That dictatorial mentality of his is exactly what landed me a burner phone and two and a half weeks filled with sending cryptic advice messages.

  Which has been incredibly enjoyable, to be honest.

  He’s threatened his mystery texter’s life no less than three times and now walks around the job site like he’s an undercover CIA agent.

  I’m probably enjoying it a bit too much.

  “I should relate to Ellen DeGeneres’s game show?”

  “Come on!” I shout, actually taking my attention away from the TV to look at his face. “You torture your employees for their paychecks daily. It’s like you and Ellen are kindred spirits.”

  “I do not,” he scoffs.

  “Trent, come on. George cried into his yogurt so much yesterday, he ruined it.”

  He barks out an incredulous laugh. “No, he didn’t.”

  “Yes, he did,” I insist. It’s not actually true, but if it gets Trent to change his behavior, I hardly think George will mind my painting him as an emotional man. Because for all the covert texting I’ve been doing on my burner phone, I’ve seen very little results out of this guy. Maybe, just maybe, he needs a more direct approach.

  “I don’t believe you.”

  I throw up my hands like it’s all the same to me. “Hey, believe whatever you want. I’m just here to deliver the truth. Like how Sarah went to the dentist on Saturday and found out she has to wear a retainer to prevent more wear and tear now.”

  “You really have a penchant for exaggeration, you know that?”

  “No exaggeration here, my friend. Even Marcus had to join a meditation group to bring down his cortisol levels, and Tony’s been running through a string of hookers just so he can have a sense of control but without having to commit emotionally. He’s basically dead inside now.”

  Trent shakes his head with a smirk curling the corner of his mouth and stares at the TV. I watch him intently, Ellen’s torture chamber all but forgotten.

  “And what about you?” he says, eyes never leaving the TV.

  I shrug and settle back into the couch, so I don’t have to see his reaction if he has one. But he probably won’t. The Terminator usually doesn’t. “I swung an umbrella at your head.”

  “So, you did realize it was me!”

  “Shh,” I say, unable to stop the little smile that settles into my cheeks. I had no idea sparring with him away from work could be this fun. “She’s about to drop the winner, and she always enjoys that the most.”

  “The best is always last,” he comments easily, and just like that, my head starts to race.

  Was that some kind of subtle nudge because I was the last employee on my list? Or is he just spouting sayings like Yoda?

  But his eyes, well, they are now one-hundred-percent serious and intently looking into mine.

  Why is he looking at me like that? And, more than that, why am I still staring into those gorgeous green eyes of his?

  I can’t stop, though. His eyes are like crack for my eyes.

  Eye crack…

  Wait…don’t I mean eye candy?

  Nope. I don’t. Candy is something you can quit. Crack, on the other hand, is something that is incredibly addictive and trouble from the very fucking start.

  Trent Tucker and those mesmerizing eyes of his are definitely eye crack.

  I don’t miss when his gaze flickers to my lips. Or when he reaches out to brush a lock of hair behind my ear. I don’t miss the way my heart picks up in speed or the way my breath gets tangled up in my lungs. Or the goose bumps rolling up my arms.

  I don’t miss any of it.

  But when the quiet but intense moment ends and we go back to watching the show, I do miss something—his eyes. On me. And when he leaves shortly after the show ends, I find myself kind of missing something else—him.

  What on earth is happening to me?

  Trent

  It’s been two days since I watched TV in Greer’s apartment.

  Forty-eight hours since I nearly kissed her.

  It had all been so fucking innocent, just sitting on her couch and watching some outrageous game show, but at one point, it took a turn.

  Before I knew it, I wasn’t just fixated on the cerulean blue of her eyes; I was mesmerized by her soft, pink lips. I thought about the way they moved when she opened her mouth to spout sarcasm and sass. I thought about the way they curled up at the corners when she smiled or laughed. And I thought about the way they looked, right then, when her teeth pressed into her bottom lip as she searched my steady gaze.

  Fuck. Those lips of hers have become a serious problem for me.

  One I don’t have any time to contemplate right now because shit has really hit the fan in the hotel build. More supplies have been delayed, two workers quit, and the city pulled two of the permits we need to make any progress.

  I am a raging bull, and everything in my path is a china shop.

  I know flipping out doesn’t necessarily help the greater good, but if I don’t hold myself rigid as steel, the stress will snap me in two. At least, that’s what it feels like.

  For the first time in this build, the delayed supplies are the least of my worries. Quincy’s got a few connections with different suppliers and some work-arounds, so we’re not totally dead in the water there.

  But it doesn’t matter. We can have all the shit we need and all the workers we need, but without permits, we’re fucked in a way that we don’t ever grow our hymen back.

  “Sarah, where’s George on the permits? Has he spoken with the city? Do we know why they pulled them?” I fire off rapidly.

  Sarah pulls out her phone and dials immediately, her hand shaking ever so slightly. I pull my eyebrows together, and I find myself dipping down a little to try to see if she’s got a retainer in her mouth.

  “I’m not sure yet, sir. I know George went down to the municipal building to find out. I’ll get him on the phone.”

  My phone buzzes, and before I know it, one of those damn advice texts is staring me back in the face.

  Unknown: Smile. And say thank you. People mind an asshole a lot less if he says thank you.

  Instead of getting angry this time, I implement it without even thinking.

  “Thank you, Sarah,” I say softly, letting the corner of my mouth curl up. “Just let me know when you hear from him.”

  Sarah looks dumbstruck, and when I spot Greer from across the room, she looks impressed—eyes wide and cheeks plump with an approving smile.

  My chest feels warm, like melted chocolate is being infused through a port.

  Well, fuck.

  New Orleans me, it seems, has thrown another wrench in the system—caring what Greer Hudson thinks.

  It’s almost sickening how easily my body slides into the new plan as it gets a little hit of a high from Greer’s admiration.

  “Also,” I say, looking at a shell-shocked Sarah with new eyes. “You don’t have to call me sir. Trent is fine.”

  Records scratch, and activity drops off to nothing. Several sets of eyes on are on me with an intensity that makes me wholly uncomfortable.

  “All of you,” I amend. “All of you should just call me Trent.”

  Greer, thank God, finally breaks the ominous silence. “Will do, Captain Trent.”

  I laugh, and the rest of the team stare at me like I’ve suddenly grow an additional head.

  Time stands still. A fly drops dead midflight. Mouths gape like open wounds.

  Have I really never fucking laughed at work before?

  “Captain, huh?” I look at Greer. “Okay, I kind of like that.”

  Instantly, she shakes her head with a cheeky smile. “Sorry. One-time thing.”

  “Ah, well.” I shrug and smirk. “I guess it was fun while it lasted.”

  After that, five more minutes with the pod people formerly known as my staff is all I can take.

  Apparently, I am going to need to pace myself when it comes to softening my fist from iron. If not,
I might not have anyone left in a week.

  For today, though, I’ve decided to remove myself from the situation completely. It’s not like I don’t have other important shit to do, and as much as it seems I’d like to, I can’t stand around staring at Greer’s approving smile all day.

  Wait a fucking minute. Hold. The. Phone. My mind starts to replay how the entire interaction went down.

  Talking to Sarah.

  Text advice from that fucking unknown number.

  Magically, I use said advice and say thank you.

  And Greer smiles—admiringly.

  Well, I’ll be damned… That’s quite the coincidence right there…

  I glance at Greer one more time, finding her already back to work and holding up linen samples near a freshly painted wall, and I make a mental note to look into this revelation.

  Later, though.

  Because right now, my focus needs to stay on the job. There are crucial permits we need to obtain because, without them, none of us will have jobs to come back to.

  Thankfully, the municipal building is only a six-block walk from the hotel, and fifteen minutes later, I’m heading toward the entrance doors.

  George nearly jumps out of his skin when he sees me approaching. His eyes are big and round, and his body language is throwing off all sorts of signals telling me to stay away.

  But I know what’s at stake here, and despite my history, I have no intention of barreling in here with my guns blazing.

  When he sees that I’m not stopping my advance, he excuses himself from the counter and meets me halfway.

  “They’re working on finding out why they pulled the permits now, sir.”

  I’m almost surprised he didn’t get a text message memo about canning the use of sir, but evidently, everyone has actually stayed busy since I left. I’m impressed.

  “We don’t even know why they pulled them yet?”

  George shakes his head. “No. From what I’ve been able to figure out, one of the city council members was coming by the job site and didn’t think something was in compliance.”

  “An inspector has to make that decision, don’t they?”

  “Yes, sir. But out of deference to his standing with the city, I guess they’re honoring his request until an inspector either confirms or denies it.”

  “So, it’s the reason he felt like we were in noncompliance we don’t know.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “All right.” I sigh heavily and run a hand roughly through my hair. “Well, I guess I’ll leave you to it.”

  He blinks. Rapidly. Like, an abnormal amount, and Greer is obviously right. I am a tyrant.

  Shit.

  “Sir?”

  “It seems like you’ve got everything under control here.”

  “Yes, sir.” George nods and stands up a little straighter. Without the weight of my temper, he’s six inches taller.

  “I’m going back to the job site to tighten everything up. Until we know what’s stuck in this guy’s craw, we’re going to have to make sure every aspect of the job is clean and correct.”

  “I agree. I’ll have a talk with the guys when I get back for the day.”

  I appreciate his work ethic, but after a glance at my watch, I wave him off. “It’s almost three. Just stay here until you get it figured out, and we’ll pick up where we left off tomorrow.”

  “You sure, sir?”

  I nod. “The city isn’t going to make any decisions or do any inspections after hours.”

  “Okay. I’ll talk to the guys first thing tomorrow, then.”

  “Perfect. Thanks, George.”

  His mouth opens and closes so many times, I just have to walk away and head back to the hotel site. There’s no upside to wasting the amount of time it’s likely to take him to understand my new attitude.

  After a quick check-in with Sarah and letting George’s guys know he’ll be tied up at the municipal offices for the rest of the day, I head into the conference room I’ve been using as a temporary office and grab my laptop and suit jacket.

  I have a four o’clock meeting with the NOLA hospitality board across town and just over thirty minutes to get there. I’m already pulling my phone out of my pocket, about to call an Uber, but when I spot Greer in reception, I get an idea.

  Swift and light on my feet, I step into one of the small restroom corridors and out of her view. And instead of clicking on Uber, I pull up my text inbox, find the anonymous advice-giver, and send a message.

  Me: You there, anonymous? I have something to tell you.

  No response. So, I send another.

  Me: It’s incredibly important.

  And another one.

  Me: So important that you’re not going to want to miss it…

  And that’s when I see it. Greer, reaching into the pocket of her blazer and pulling out a phone. She glances around the room a few times, before turning her back to the workers milling about near reception and looking down at the phone in her hands.

  It’s her. It has to be her.

  Instantly, I type out another text as I quietly walk toward her.

  Me: Trust me, you don’t want to miss this really important something…

  The instant I hit send, I’m standing close enough to see the phone in her hands buzz, and the screen lights up. I watch as her fingers tap across the keys and then, the instant they release, my phone vibrates.

  Unknown: Any day now…

  It is her! Holy shit. That little fucking minx. She’s the mystery texter.

  A part of me is shocked, but another part of me knew it all along. Only Greer would use insane, sometimes incomprehensible text messages to try to get advice to me.

  And for some unknown reason, I’m smiling like a loon as I type out another message and hit send.

  Me: Okay, fine. I’ll tell you right now.

  Stepping up to Greer, I place a gentle hand on her shoulder and whisper, “Gotcha.”

  The instant the little text bandit—with the evidence still in her hands, mind you—locks eyes with me, I smile, lean even closer, and whisper into her ear, “Thank you.”

  Her mouth drops open so wide, I’m not sure it’ll ever close, but the light shining in her blue eyes as they search mine is worth all of those ridiculous texts and then some.

  She might be a pain in my ass sometimes, but I can’t deny that today, her usual cryptic advice rang clear, and it taught me an important lesson in humility.

  And I’d have to be a real weak fuck of a man not to thank her for it.

  Yeah. Thank God for Greer Hudson.

  Trent

  At the gym that evening, while I’m on the treadmill, my head spins.

  Have I really been that terrible of a boss? Have I been that way all along?

  When I’m stressed, which is a lot, I tend to demand first and think later.

  I mean, sometimes, as the boss, you have to be a hard-ass. You have to be the one in control. But not to the point of making your employees uncomfortable. And the past two months on this job, I’ve been more bark and bite than anything else.

  The revelation is eye-opening.

  And it’s all thanks to her. Greer.

  She’s beautiful and can banter with the best of them—and I’m surprised it’s taken me this long to notice.

  Why on earth did I hate it so much in the beginning?

  It doesn’t take long before I snag my phone from the cupholder and pull up Greer’s actual number in my contacts. I type out a message as I run.

  Me: It’s crazy, you know, because I’ve yet to receive a single advice text from this unknown number since this afternoon. And let me tell you, they have quite the track record for sending A LOT of text messages…

  Her response is instant.

  Greer: No hablo inglés.

  I grin. I can’t help it. This woman is fucking hilarious.

  Me: HAHA. Very funny.

  Greer: I know I’m hilarious, but what is your current state?

  Me: My current st
ate?

  Greer: Are you mad?

  Me: Why would I be mad?

  Greer: Oh, I don’t know. Because you’re the boss. I’m the employee. And I was texting you advice on how to do your job from a burner phone.

  Me: You got a burner phone? Just to text me?

  Greer: Uh…I don’t remember the details exactly…

  Of course, she doesn’t remember…

  Me: LOL. Sure, you don’t.

  Me: But, no, I’m not mad. When I said thank you, I meant it.

  Greer: Is the apocalypse happening right now? Are we mere seconds away from a meteor crashing to Earth and blowing us all to smithereens?

  I laugh. Outright. Loud enough that a woman on an elliptical glances back to see what’s so funny. Greer Hudson, lady. That’s what’s so funny.

  Me: Always the smartass, huh?

  Greer: Pretty much.

  Her texts come in rapid fire after that.

  Greer: Thanks for not firing me.

  Greer: Or murdering me.

  Greer: Or hiring someone to kidnap me and take me to a deserted island where I would live off of coconuts and leaves and have to befriend a lost volleyball named Wilson.

  Fucking Cast Away. A soft chuckle leaves my lips as I type out my last message before heading to the locker room to take a shower.

  Me: You’re welcome, Tom Hanks. P.S. Your mind is a scary place.

  Greer: Tell me about it.

  At around nine, I’m back in my TV-less, far-too-silent apartment and wondering if Greer is home. I’ve been back from the gym for an hour, and I haven’t heard her yet.