The Billionaire Boss Next Door

Fucking hell, I can’t escape her.

She is everywhere, all the time, and the brain in my pants can’t resist appreciating the vision that is her perfect ass and long, slim thighs encased in one of those tight-fitting skirts she insists on wearing nearly every day of the week.

For fuck’s sake, doesn’t she own at least one pair of pants?

Capris? A fucking parka?

Anything but those damn skirts and silk blouses?

“So, what do you think?” George asks, and I turn to find his uncertain gaze locked on me.

“What do I think…?”

“About the shelving.”

Oh, right. The fucking shelving. The whole reason we came into this room.

Thankfully, no shelving for me to approve is located in the center of the room.

Slowly, I move around the space and take in the way the professional cabinetry and shelf installations create practicality while maintaining a modern and sophisticated appearance. They transform the room into exactly what I’d hoped.

At least one thing is going right today.

“I approve,” I say and turn to meet his eyes again. “Go ahead and get the guys working on the rest of the meeting rooms.”

“Will do, sir.”

George strides back toward the hall, and I’m left to my own devices.

Alone. With Greer.

Shit.

She’s still standing in the center, Dick long gone with George, and I watch as she moves to the corner of the room to grab one of the brand-new, plastic-covered office chairs.

Her fingers grip the back cushion as she rolls it across the floor until she stops just below one of the newly installed sample light fixtures.

With a lightbulb in her hand, she uses the armrest to steady herself, and I watch in absolute horror as she goes to step onto the chair.

The chair on fucking wheels, mind you.

“Uh…what are you doing?”

“I just want to see how the lighting would look if it were a bit softer.”

“You’re going to hurt yourself,” I say. “Get down and let one of George’s guys do it.”

“It’s fine,” she says, too fucking determined. “I do this all the time.”

“Greer—”

“It’s fine,” she cuts me off.

Her heels dig into the plastic covering the seat cushion, and she focuses her eyes on the ceiling.

She lengthens her slim body, stretching her hands toward the fixture, and the chair does not appreciate the movement. It wobbles and wiggles, and I know she’s exactly ten seconds away from disaster.

“Oh shit,” she mutters, and I’m already moving toward her, quick as my feet can take me.

In a matter of seconds, the chair and her feet slip out from under her, and she free-falls from standing and heads straight for the floor.

But I jump toward her just in time.

Arms flexed outward and my hands braced, I catch her in midair—before her fall turns tragic—with my hands directly on her ass.

On instinct, she leans forward to catch her balance on the back of the chair, and that abrupt movement only lifts her ass more toward my face and pushes the plush, perfect flesh deeper into my hands.

Her ass is literally in my hands.

What the fuck is happening?

“Uh…” she mutters through a shocked breath. “I’m so sorry… I… Shit… Just…”

Her stuttered words tell me she’s just as confused as I am.

I’m utterly speechless. Probably, I presume, as a means of defense while I’m trying not to focus on just how good her ass feels in my hands.

And it does feel good. Better than I imagined.

Now would be a good time to stop gripping her ass…

Shit.

Quickly, I move one hand to her stomach, and with a firm grip around her waist, I lift her body away from her complicated situation with the office chair.

Once her heels hit the ground, I put a good ten feet of distance between us.

“Are you okay?” I heave, forcibly pushing the words past my lips.

“Uh… Yeah… Thanks,” she says, and with those big blue eyes of hers, she moves her uncertain gaze from the floor and looks at me. “I’m okay.”

“Okay…well…” I pause and run a hand through my hair. “I’m…uh…glad you’re all right.”

“Yeah. I’m all right.”

“You’re all right. Good. That’s good.”

Fuck, this is awkward.

“So, I’m just going to get one of George’s guys to help me with that…” She pauses, and I nod like a moron.

“Okay. Yeah. That sounds good.”

“Okay, good.”

Certain we’ve met our quote for okays and goods and all rights for the next two years, I do the only thing I can do in this situation. I turn on my heels and walk right out of the conference room.

If someone had told me Greer Hudson’s ass would end up in my hands by the end of today, I would have bet my entire share of Turner Properties on the contrary.

Yet, somehow, some-fucking-way, that is exactly what just happened.

And I thought seeing her naked spurred some seriously dirty thoughts.

Touching her…feeling something I’ve been imagining vividly…was the last thing I needed.

Greer

Coastal Crepes is one of the best breakfast, brunch, and lunch restaurants in the French Quarter, and has a convenient location smack-dab in between my office and the hotel.