The Billionaire Boss Next Door

This is the kind of turning point I’ll never forget.

Thankfully, he takes my overzealous hand with a smile.

“You won’t regret this,” I say as I shake.

He laughs. “I hope not, dear. Why don’t you head out and see my assistant again? She’ll get you a cup of hot tea while I gather the rest of the New Orleans team to introduce you.”

I absolutely despise hot tea, but I nod anyway. I’d drink a cup of toilet water at this point if Trent Turner wanted me to.

He’s just given me a shot. A second chance at making my dream a reality, and really, a chance to make it better than I’ve ever imagined.

This isn’t the kind of thing most designers have on their resumes—and certainly not something they add to them at thirty-three.

But for as sarcastic and cynical as I am about everything else, I’m three times as grandiose with my expectations for my work.

I’m going to put everything I have into this and then some, and when I’m done, people will know my name all over the Gulf Coast.

Now, I just have to win over the rest of the team.

Trent

Quincy Black and Caplin Hawkins split the space on my enormous twenty-seven-inch computer screen, and thanks to the breadth of the display, they’re about the size they are in real life. Except in real life, we never sit this close to one another.

“Emory has a friend. I know you’re not into being set up, but I haven’t technically met her, so really, this isn’t a setup,” Quincy, my longtime friend and hotel supplier, says. Just like always, a huge smile is permanently tattooed on his face.

Not, like, literally. But Quince is the kind of guy who never lets the world get him down, even in the worst of situations. He’s a positive force and a positive source for someone like me, one who definitely forgets to look on the bright side sometimes. Some days, it seems like I’ve known him forever.

“How can you technically not have met her? Isn’t it a you have or you haven’t type of thing?”

“I met her at the Mask-erade. She was dressed like—”

“No, no, Quince,” Caplin Hawkins interjects, paying attention for maybe the first time throughout this whole call. “Turn only dates women with the personality of a turnip. Remember?” He smirks at me patronizingly. “And I know a lot of instances of technically. My first high school girlfriend was technically a virgin, but it was like she wasn’t, you know?”

It’s official. What was once a business video conference call with my supplier and my lawyer about merchandise liability for the bath products we plan to carry in all of our hotels has become an episode of Singled Out from the 1990s. Which is appropriate, I guess. That’s around the time we all became friends, and around the time they decided I needed a name different from my father. I blame the nickname Turn on junior-high-level creativity. We may have gone to a private school on the Upper East Side, but we were just as maturity-stunted as the rest of the kids our age.

Truthfully, we may not be all that much more mature now. Outside of our careers, we’re all still basically a bunch of big kids.

“What personality does a turnip have, exactly?” I ask, rubbing my chin with the tip of my middle finger meaningfully.

“Bitter, mostly. A hint of spiteful. Fairly good-looking, but about as interesting as a fucking turnip.”

“They’re not all that bad,” Quincy, the goofball with the good soul, defends.

Cap scoffs. “None of them are good.”

I’d be tempted to take Cap’s words personally if they weren’t so true. I’ve dated a fair number of women, but the depth of those relationships was practically nonexistent.

Cathy Hounds was after my family’s money, Tina Gabriel was after my dick and then my family’s money, and Sadie Billings was after an appearance on Page Six. I was a means to an end to them, and I guess, if I’m honest, they were the same for me. I can hardly distinguish one’s bland personality and plastic parts from another’s, and looking back, I don’t want to.

They weren’t worth more than a mediocre fuck, and these days, I’m too busy to even go looking for that.

What about the enticing woman at the party the other night? my mind taunts, but I slam the brakes on that thought just as quickly as it appears.

“What do you care? It’s not like you’re searching extensively to find your soul mate,” I challenge Cap. “You sleep with any woman who purrs in your direction.”

If Caplin had a vagina, it’d be the size of the Holland Tunnel. He’s looser with his physical affection than most hookers, and he doesn’t even get paid.

Though, I’m half convinced he would if it wouldn’t get him disbarred.

But just like with Quince, our friendship goes back a long way. The three of us spent the majority of our formative years together, horsing around and giving each other shit about everything.