The Billionaire Boss Next Door

by Max Monroe

  “Okay, okay,” Cap says, stepping forward from the corner, a surprising peacemaker.

  “Quince, you just stay with Emory. I’ll handle Mo and Larry.”

  He grabs me by the shoulder, but I shake him off so I can offer Greer a hand up as she frowns. “What happened to Curly?”

  “He died,” Cap says stoically before pointing back over his shoulder. “She killed him. So, let’s go before you both meet the same fate.”

  The two of us laugh our way into the hall, poking and prodding and teasing each other all the way to the snack area. St. Luke’s Hospital in New York is big and sterile and about as unromantic as possible—and apparently very advanced if Emory’s parents insisting that she give birth here is anything to go by—but it’s the gesture…the moment that I’m after. The one that will suit the woman I’ve fallen head over heels in love with.

  The woman I would have moved to New Orleans for.

  Instead, she gave up everything she’d ever known, the city she loved, and living close to the only family she’s ever had to move to New York and chase dreams with me.

  After taking over Turner Properties, I took it upon myself, as one of my first official acts, to hire an in-house designer for all of our new projects and updates alike.

  She’s sassy and unfiltered and my favorite human being on the entire planet Earth.

  Hopefully, the one I’ll get to introduce as mine for the rest of my days.

  We stand in front of the vending machine as Greer makes her selection, and I wait nervously to see how well I really know her.

  Cap gives the nod from about ten feet away, taking out his phone to be ready.

  I’m just fucking hoping he gets pictures of something other than an epic fail.

  Greer clucks and hums and hems over her decision for so much time that I can feel a bead of sweat run down my spine.

  I’m pretty sure I lose moments off my life, but that’s okay. I’ll want to go first anyway.

  The idea of living without her at this point is…inconceivable.

  She finally pushes the button for A7, and everything inside me locks up with anticipation.

  This is really happening.

  Thank God for Greer’s mostly predictable love for Cheddar and Sour Cream Ruffles.

  When the bag drops into the tray and she bends over to take it, I glance over my shoulder at Cap to see he’s giving me a thumbs-up.

  A lot of planning—and if I’m honest, a lot of money—went into today, but I couldn’t imagine anything more appropriate.

  Greer isn’t a fancy, hoity-toity kind of gal. She doesn’t put on airs, and she sure as shit wouldn’t want me to get down on one knee at some stuffy restaurant that serves caviar and outrageously priced champagne.

  Basically, it was either this or somehow get us onto Ellen’s Game of Games. Considering Ellen won’t be filming any more episodes for another eight months, this is the option that stuck.

  Because fuck me, I’m not waiting another eight months.

  When you find the person you want to spend the rest of your life with, you don’t want to waste any more time. You want to dive headfirst and connect yourself to that person in every way possible.

  And that’s exactly what I’m prepared to do. Right now. In front of this vending machine while Greer’s best friend gets ready to give birth to her daughter down the hall.

  Don’t worry, the expectant parents approved it with flying colors.

  They couldn’t think of anything better on the day their daughter was born than giving her “aunt” the beginning of a family of her own.

  Greer gives me a weird look when she turns around—I know my face must be a ravaged mess—but I ignore it just long enough to prompt her to open the bag now.

  “Can I have one?” I ask nicely, pouting my lip when she seems as if she might hold out.

  “All right. Fine,” she agrees, plucking the bag open and reaching inside.

  Only, as Cap and I know, the only thing she’ll find in there is a ring.

  Her eyebrows pull together as she fishes it out and pulls it from the bag, but the moment her eyes meet diamond, she freezes completely.

  I take the opportunity to get down on one knee.

  Greer

  Holy mother of mercy.

  Holy Jesus Christmas in a choir.

  Holy elves dancing around Santa and the North Pole and a whole bunch of other shit I can’t possibly focus on right now.

  The diamond sparkles in the offensive fluorescent hospital lighting, and my knees threaten to give out as Trent sinks to one of his in front of me.

  “Greer, I need to ask you a question.”

  My nod is the definition of dumb. Up and down with no actual bearing on time or space or life, I watch as Trent takes the ring from my hands and starts to slide it onto my finger.

  My heart is racing and my jaw feels numb, and to be honest, I’m pretty sure I’m having a heart attack.

  But I wouldn’t interrupt this for anything in the whole fucking world.

  At least we’re in a hospital. They’ll be able to get to work on me quickly.

  “I love you.”

  I try to return the sentiment, but I’m pretty sure it comes out sounding like “I mumble schmoo.”

  Thankfully, he seems to understand anyway.

  “I had a tiny idea of how perfect you were for me early in our relationship, but I’m wholly certain about it now. No one makes me laugh like you. No one calls my shit like you. And no one…no one has ever loved me like you do.”

  It’s all I can do not to start sobbing right here.

  “You’ve been there for me and my mom, and you’ve made me and my family yours without hesitation. I know it won’t always be easy…but it will always be right.”

  I nod and squeeze his hand and give him every indication I can of my answer before he even asks the question.

  It’s literally all I can do to wait for him to have his moment.

  “Be mine forever,” he finally says. “Be my best friend in life, my partner in crime…be my wife.”

  “One hundred times yes,” I say. He scoops me up into his arms and tucks my lips to his ear.

  It’s the perfect proposal. The perfect place. The perfect man.

  I laugh as the soft flesh of my lips skims across his ear. “No one else is crazy enough to take me.”

  “There might be,” he corrects, giving Cap a jerk of his head.

  Cap nods despite not knowing what we’re talking about, and it makes me smile even bigger.

  “I just got here first.”

  When the room stops spinning and I finally find my feet, I know who I need to see, and I need to see her right now.

  She’s been there for me since teatime and sleepovers, and I want her to be the first to know now.

  “Can we go tell Emory?” I ask, glancing down at the twinkling cushion cut—massive—stone on my hand once more.

  Junior doesn’t disappoint.

  “Of course.”

  I take off at a run, shoving people out of my way as I go, and likely committing minor assault on several pregnant women.

  I don’t slow down until I barrel through the door to Emory’s room and hold up my hand in victory.

  “I’m engaged!” I shriek, to which Quincy responds with a smile.

  Emory’s happiness is a little less obvious, but evident all the same.

  “Congratulations,” she groans into a yell. “I’m crowning. Now get the hell out!”

  So, I do.

  I wait in the lounge with my fiancé and Cap, Emory’s family and friends, and even my brother and Rhonda.

  Everyone’s here in New York City for the big event, but I’m the luckiest one of all.

  Because at the end of the day, when Hudson Blair Black screams her first hello to the world, I’ve increased the size of my family by not one, but two.

  Cap

  The gang is all here, and as of today, we’ve officially added one more to our crazy group.

 
; Hudson Blair Black. A little beauty who is a mere two hours old. She has a head full of hair that matches her last name to a T, and her eyes are so big and blue and gorgeous that I predict they will one day equate to nothing but trouble for a lot of men.

  Mostly her father.

  Quince stares down at his daughter with nothing but unconditional love shining from his every fucking pore. Just born and she already has her soft-hearted daddy wrapped around her tiny finger.

  Emory sits in the hospital bed, gazing up at her husband and daughter, and looking exactly like what I’d think a fucking Kardashian would look like after giving birth. Full face of makeup, some kind of fancy gown thingie that I fucking know didn’t come from the hospital, and her hair is damn near runway ready.

  Fucking women.

  I love them—looking at them, smelling them, tasting them. I especially love making them come.

  But do I understand them when it comes to anything other than pleasure?

  Not even a little.

  Truth is, I haven’t even tried for the last decade or so. I’ve been more than content to fly by the seat of my dick, enjoy the company of a woman for a short time, and move on with my life.

  I’m too busy to get locked down in some kind of soul-sucking, life-ruining monogamous love story like Quince and Trent, and I’ve never really been the kind of man who pictures marriage and babies and shit in my future—I get bored when things become too predictable.

  “Look at how little she is, Trent,” Greer says, her voice laced with wonder and awe and a whole bunch of other shit women tend to have when looking at babies and puppies and fucking kittens.

  Trent, the lovesick bastard, smiles. “She’s perfect.”

  I watch them share a quiet look laced with silent words that we’re not privy to, and whatever it is makes my heart clench inside my chest.

  What the fuck is that about?

  I rub at my chest and squint.

  Something’s got to be coming from the ventilation system.

  Carbon monoxide maybe?

  Because for as willingly as my two best guy friends are throwing in the towel on their freedom, their fucking bachelor life, and settling down with women who have captured their hearts, I can’t even fathom that kind of love.

  And I don’t want to.

  In the span of three hours, I’ve witnessed—and helped because I’m an awesome friend—one of my best friends get engaged to a woman he once hated with every ounce of his being. And I’ve watched another become a father.

  It’s crazy. They’re crazy.

  I’m, without a doubt, the sanest human being in this room.

  Well, me and the handsome fuck who just walked in.

  Milo Ives is Emory’s cousin and one of my most successful clients. Of course, because of my natural likability, he loves me and considers me one of his good friends.

  I’ve gone along with it. You know, for his sake.

  God, I’m funny. If only I could wink at myself.

  Seriously, though, our friendship means I’ve seen him in all sorts of situations, including, but not limited to: a drunken brawl, a revolving door of women, and the kind of success that recently put him on Forbes list of richest men in the world.

  “Congratulations, guys,” he says as he steps toward the hospital bed and takes a peek at a now sleeping Hudson in Quince’s arms. “Goddamn, what a beauty.”

  The brand-new mother and queen of glam smiles proudly. “Obviously, she gets her looks from me.”

  Greer snorts. “Honestly, it’s hard to tell with all that makeup you’ve got caked on your face.”

  Emory’s responding look is a glare that could penetrate walls. “At least I met my daughter without looking like I just rolled out of bed.”

  “You and I both know that is exactly how I will meet my future daughter.” Greer laughs. “And you know I’m just kidding, Em. You look gorgeous. Kim Kardashian’s glam squad fucking wishes they could make her look that good post-birth.”

  I laugh. I can’t help it. No matter how much of a lovesick bastard Greer Hudson has turned my best friend into, she cracks me up.

  “Don’t even start, Cap,” Emory retorts, and I just shrug.

  “I didn’t say a word.”

  The conversation switches back to the baby, and it’s hard to believe that one little human being holds the kind of power to mesmerize a room full of grown-ass adults.

  I’m just about to give my formal congratulations when Greer informs us we need to exit the room. “Okay, it’s time for you bastards to get out of here. Emory needs to get her tits out.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Emory mutters. “Stop saying that.”

  “Fine. Emory has to get her boobs out.”

  Emory rolls her eyes. “I have to breastfeed.”

  It sounds like the kind of activity I’d love to stick around for, but Quince spears me with a look I can’t mistake—a silent threat against my most favorite appendage.

  I follow Milo out of the room without spying any nipples.

  “Where are you headed now?” I ask as we walk the short hall to the elevators. There’s some weird voodoo energy surging through my body still, an aftereffect of all the deadly gas, I’m sure, and I need some way to burn it off.

  Manly stuff. Wild stuff. Bachelor stuff.

  “Back to work.”

  “That’s fucking boring.” I groan and tap the down button between the two elevator carts. The one on the left dings its arrival almost immediately.

  Milo laughs before stepping onto the elevator with me, and I scowl.

  Why doesn’t it seem like he’s feeling what I’m feeling?

  Agitated, I stir the pot.

  I’m pretty sure our friend Evan—and the CFO of Milo’s company Fuse—is due to get married soon, and there’s no way he’s not feeling the same way about it as I am about all of this.

  “Is Evan really getting married?” I ask, and Milo tilts his head to meet my gaze as the elevator doors close shut.

  “Yeah.”

  “And how do you feel about that?”

  “I mean, he’s been engaged for nearly a year. Seems like the natural next step,” he says, unflustered.

  Why the fuck isn’t he commiserating with me?

  “First, Quince. Now, Evan and Trent.” I sigh and run a hand through my hair. “Goddamn everyone’s dropping like flies.”

  Milo laughs. “Well, if that isn’t the worst way I’ve ever heard anyone describe marriage…”

  “You know it’s true, dude. Marriage. Babies. Shit is going down within our friend circle.”

  “Aw,” he teases. “You feeling left out, sweetheart?”

  “Shut the fuck up,” I retort on a chuckle, and we step out of the elevator and head toward the hospital lobby. “I’m terrified…for them.”

  “Oh…” He pauses and smirks, the collected, self-assured bastard. “So, you’re just scared for them. Not scared in general? Or projecting your commitment fears onto them? Of course, that makes total sense.”

  “You bet your ass, it does,” I say without a second thought. “I don’t have any fears of commitment. I just prefer not to commit.”

  “So, this is more of an altruistic kind of concern you’re harboring, then.”

  “Exactly.”

  “If that isn’t a good friend, I don’t know what is,” he teases, and I roll my eyes.

  “You know, I almost forgot how much of a fucking smartass you are.”

  Just before he opens his mouth to most likely offer some witty retort, his phone pings several times, and he pulls it out to check the screen.

  I watch as his brow furrows, and with one tap of his finger, he unlocks his phone to read the messages.

  I’m all ready to assume it’s some software/techie/business bullshit, but before I can avert my eyes to seek out something more interesting than watching Mr. Brainchild text over boring computer shit, his reaction reels me back in.

  “What the hell?” Milo mutters.

  “Everything oka
y?”

  “Yeah,” he says, but he shakes his head at the same time, scanning the messages on his phone a second and third time. You know what? Fuck scanning. The motherfucker is staring. Hard.

  I try to sneak a peek, but the bastard snatches it away too quickly.

  “What the fuck, dude? What is it?”

  “It’s nothing.”

  “That doesn’t look like nothing.” I grin. I can’t help myself. Something fucking juicy is in those texts, and goddamn, I want to see.

  I hold out my hand. “Let me see.”

  “Fuck no.” Like a damn teenage girl, he locks the screen of his phone and slips it back into his pocket.

  “Someone sending you titty pics?” I ask with a grin, and that simple question has his face scrunching up into something that borders on shock and horror and intrigue.

  “Don’t be a fucking dick.”

  “What?” I ask and raise both of my hands in the air. “It’s a valid question.”

  Because it is a valid question.

  But more than that, it’s that question that riles him the most.

  No doubt about it, those text messages are from a woman.

  Looks like another one is about to bite the fucking relationship dust.

  I swear to God, sooner rather than later, I’ll be the only sane, single motherfucker left in New York.

  THE END

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