The Billionaire Boss Next Door

Good God, I’m literally running away from a beautiful, gorgeous, naked woman. Cap would have a fucking field day with this.

It doesn’t take long before I hear the clack of her heels as she follows closely behind, and I dial my run up to a sprint until I make it to the stairwell.

This is fucked. I’m fucked. But what else can I do when all kinds of terrifying situations are floating around inside my head?

Gross misconduct.

Sexual harassment.

Greer witnessing an erection the size of Texas tenting my pants.

All worst-case scenarios, yet possible scenarios all the same.

With quick breaths and a racing heart, I hide inside the stairwell like a lunatic and peek through the window until it seems like a good time to pretend I wasn’t just ogling her like a fucking pervert.

Good Lord, Trent. What in the hell are you doing right now?

I adjust my traitorous cock inside my pants and try to get my shit together and, you know, act like I’m the one in control of this project.

After rehearsing some simple phrasing a couple of times, I burst through the door and steel my voice against the prepubescent squeaks I know lie just under the surface of my normal timbre.

“There you are,” I say in a way I’m hoping is normal. “We’re up on six. Come on.”

I don’t mention the change to her outfit, and neither does she.

For six flights, we don’t mention anything.

For two people who’ve spent nearly every moment they’ve been in company with each other sparring, we’re suddenly doing a hell of an impression of silent-film stars.

Mere footsteps from the doorway to the lounge, she finally pipes up.

“I, um…” I stop, but I don’t turn back. I don’t think I’ll be able to meet her eyes. “I spilled some paint downstairs, and I know—”

“I’ll have someone take care of it,” I interrupt.

“Oh,” she says, clearly shocked at the simple, nonconfrontational response.

I step forward into the room, and she reaches out to stop me with a hand to my elbow. The heat of it burns all the way through my jacket, and I jerk away in response. She takes it the wrong way—because why wouldn’t she—and immediately recoils in apology.

“Look, I’m really sorry. For falling behind and for the paint. I know—”

“Don’t worry about it,” I say curtly. I need nothing more than to put some distance between us before my dick takes over again. Now that I’ve seen what I’ve seen, he suddenly thinks he’s in charge. “Shall we get on with this now?”

She nods, scoots past me, and doesn’t even think about talking back.

And I’m left to wonder why, all of a sudden, it feels like something has changed. As if seeing her in that vulnerable situation has fired up a new part of my brain.

In what feels like an instant, all of that hate I’ve been harboring for her doesn’t feel so much like hate anymore.

Trent

It’s been five days since I accidentally saw Greer naked, and anytime I close my eyes, I can still see the swell of her ass where it meets her thigh.

In fact, I see it so vividly, I’ve started having dreams about catching her without her clothes on in the business center in a way that’s reminiscent of the beginning of a porno.

As a result, I’ve continued to get up an hour and a half earlier for the past several mornings, just to ensure we won’t leave our apartments at the same time, and focused on spending as little time with her at work as humanly possible.

She asks me a question; I redirect it to Marcus and relocate to another room.

She makes a suggestion; I nod and move on like my stake in her design is meaningless.

She laughs with Sarah about some secret joke; I avert my eyes and ignore them completely.

Seriously. How has it come to this? A week ago, I couldn’t stand her, and now all I do is think about the way she looks beneath her clothes?

I blame Cap and his bullshit for filling my head with all these ideas of sexual tension and letting some “steam out of the pot.”

It’s not real attraction; it’s just biology…right?

“Uh…Mr. Turner?” George’s voice fills my ears, and I blink from my stupor to find him standing in front of the makeshift desk I currently reside behind, in what will eventually become the reception area of the hotel.

Get it together, Trent.

“Yeah?” I ask, clearing my throat and forcing the scattered thoughts of Greer and her silky-smooth skin out of my head.

“I just wanted to let you know the sample shelving for the conference rooms has been installed and is ready for your approval.”

Finally. George is actually following through.

“Great,” I respond and stand.

I follow his lead, past reception and down the maze of hallways, until he stops inside the first meeting room. My eyes find and lock on to Greer standing in the center of the room talking to a construction guy named Dick. Her hands rest on her slim hips, and her gaze looks toward the ceiling.