The Billionaire Boss Next Door

“Sexual destruction in five, four, three, two, one…KABOOM!”

Cap

The instant Turn leaves my office, I lean back in my chair and have a good laugh at his expense. I don’t make a point to laugh at my friends behind their backs, but fuck, he came in here with guns blazing and insanity predicting his every word.

Greer Hudson. A woman who, apparently, holds the power to turn an otherwise intelligent man crazy.

I like her already.

I might’ve told Turn a little white lie about hiring a private investigator to hunt down some dirty secrets on his sexy archnemesis, but that doesn’t mean I actually planned to follow through.

Sure, I know people, all kinds of fucking people, but my good buddy doesn’t need a PI.

He needs to get laid.

Eventually, though, curiosity gets the best of me, and I snag my phone off my desk and type the name Greer Hudson into the search bar on Facebook.

Instantly, thirty Greer Hudsons fill the results, and I start the process of elimination.

Hometown: Portland, Oregon. Nope. Next.

Age: Sixteen years old. Not her. Although, that would really make this interesting.

Occupation: Kindergarten teacher. Unless she’s schooling Turn on humbleness, this forty-year-old Greer Hudson isn’t her.

By the time I reach the fifteenth Greer Hudson, I’m certain I’ve found my match.

New Orleans, Louisiana.

Thirty-three years old.

Owner of Hudson Designs.

Bingo.

Without any preamble, I click on her profile and scroll through the pictures I can see without being Facebook friends. And it doesn’t take long for me to understand Turn’s momentary insanity.

While she may be a real stubborn pain in his ass, she is, without a doubt, a fucking beauty.

Long brown hair. Crystal-clear blue eyes. Greer Hudson is what most would call stunning.

Perfectly proportioned and curves in the most delicious of places, this fury-inducing designer is sex on a pair of mile-long legs, topped off with a great set of perky tits.

I laugh hard. I can’t help it.

Trent is so fucked.

Hell, it’s no wonder he came in here shouting about firing her for shit like property damage and undisclosed pregnancies.

Goddamn. I probably shouldn’t be so amused, but I am.

And I’m more certain than ever.

These two enemies are in for the fucking of their lives. Hell, I’m almost jealous of their future orgasms.

When my assistant buzzes my intercom to let me know my next conference call has been rescheduled by thirty minutes, I click out of Facebook and type out a text to the one and only person who needs to be pulled into Turn’s wild web.

Me: You still pissed about Sophia?

His response is instant. And far more forgiving than I deserve.

But that’s Quince for you. Always kind. Always calm. Always positive.

Quince: Nah. I know things like thinking get hard when your dick is involved. Consider yourself forgiven, you bastard.

“Get hard when your dick is involved.” Fucking hell. It takes everything inside me to hold my sarcastic, witty tongue and stay serious.

Me: Thanks, Q. You’re a real class act.

Quince: I know.

I grin and type another message.

Me: Now that we’ve kissed and made up, I have some news. Meet me after work at Murray’s Pub.

Quince: Your news is going to have to wait. I have dinner plans with Emory. I’m taking her to her favorite New York restaurant before we have to head back to New Orleans tomorrow.

Me: Aw, look at you all romantic and shit.

That’s cute and all, Q being a good little boyfriend and taking his gal for a night on the town, but it’s not helping me. Though, with me being the brilliant bastard that I am, it doesn’t take long before I get an idea and send the bait.

Me: What’s her favorite New York eatery?

And, as expected, he bites like a fucking fish.

Quince: Le Bernardin.

“Hey, Liz,” I call out to my assistant through my intercom system. “Call Le Bernardin, act like you’re Quincy Black’s assistant, and find out what time his dinner reservations are tonight.”

Her response is quick and to the point. “On it.”

“Oh, and get them to change the reservation from two to three.”

“Only if this doesn’t lead to me being an accessory to a murder.”

I grin and hit the intercom to answer. “Would I ever put you in that kind of situation?”

The only response I get is silence. Fucking crickets.

“Fine, Liz,” I chuckle into the intercom. “No murders. Promise.”

She sighs, literally sighs, into the receiver. “I’ll call Le Bernardin now.”

I smirk at her lackluster response, and before I get lost in the rest of my work day, I grab my phone and begin one last but very important text conversation.

Me: Full check complete.

Lucky for me, he responds right away.

Turn: Huh?

Me: The PI. He completed his check. Very thorough. FBI, CIA, FB, IG, 23andMe. You name it, and he did it.

Turn: I just left your office, like, an hour ago…

Me: My guy is good.

My guy is me. And I am good. So, yeah, technically, I’m not lying.