The Billionaire Boss Next Door

The penis, not the dream. The dream was unnerving because he’s my boss and my neighbor, and I don’t care how good of dream penis he gives—he is the one guy I should not be thinking about in any sort of sexual nature.

But yet, here I am, with visuals of Trent’s dream penis still dancing about inside my head.

Unfortunately, I only have me, myself, and my drunken shenanigans to thank for it.

Freaking out is an under-description for the little exhibition I put on Sunday morning when I woke up after Trent and his minuscule towel had to help me into my apartment and put me to bed.

He literally had to put my sloppy, tipsy ass to bed.

It truly would be great if I could go just one day without putting myself in the worst possible situations with him.

Luckily, a day later, I think I’ve finally got myself under control.

I mean, I almost went over to his apartment this morning to talk to him about my party-girl display outside his front door—and quite possibly, apologize for it—but I couldn’t bring myself to actually let my knuckles hit his door and knock.

And while I normally don’t applaud cowardice, I’m thankful for it today. Aside from our weird little interaction on the sidewalk this morning, he’s been the all too familiar asshole boss Trent.

Abrasive. Noncommunicative.

Hell, I kind of thought he was going to give George a wet-willy in our morning meeting when he said the shower tiling crew was delayed by two weeks. But common decency prevailed, and no wet fingers went into other people’s ears.

All in all, he’s made no mention or behavior that suggests Saturday night actually happened.

The only explanation is that I did, in fact, have an alcohol-induced dream about my boss and neighbor, and I’m never drinking again.

Okay, that last part is a lie, but I dreamed about my boss’s penis, for fuck’s sake. That’s the sort of thing that would put anyone in a state of denial.

“Sarah,” he calls now, making the skittish woman at my side jump. “Do you have the plans for the suite bathrooms?”

“Uh, yes, sir.” Rolls and rolls of papers fill the space between her arm and her body, and the way she’s searching through them without putting them down means she’s either going to dislocate a hip or go pro in contortionism soon.

“Let me help you,” I finally offer, pulling the rolls from under her arm and carrying them over to the table in the corner.

Everyone is in such a hurry to jump to Trent’s commands that they all forget to work smarter, not harder.

The ends of all the tubes are labeled, so I find the one with the “Suite” sticker on it and unroll it.

Sarah looks at me like I should expect flowers in the mail.

Trent comes to stand next to me, just an innocent move to get a look at the plans.

But harmless or not, the instant the warmth of his body starts to invade my personal space, unbidden thoughts of his penis fill my head, and I nearly trip over my own two feet as I try to put some distance between us.

Quickly, he places his fingers on my elbow to prevent me from teetering to the floor, and the warmth of his hand spreads through the sleeve of my silk blouse, urging unwanted goose bumps to roll up my arm.

“You okay, Greer?”

I choke on spit as I’m trying to answer, and I have to clear my throat three times to stop myself from choking.

Clumsy. Choking. Undoubtedly, I’ve established myself as extremely ladylike in his eyes.

“Yep, yep. Just fine,” I finally manage to push past my lips. “I’m good. To. Go.”

And hell’s bells, my skin still tingles from where his hand barely touched me.

Is he made of some kind of sexy electricity or something?

I cringe at my own thoughts. It’s like these Trent Turner penis dreams are stealing my brain cells or something.

Before he turns back to the blueprints, I see what I think is a hint of a smirk, and I have the momentary—and thankfully fleeting—urge to grab his face and turn it back to mine so I can investigate my correctness.

“I know the plumbing is already roughed in, but I can’t stop thinking that the sink should be on this side of the shower,” Trent says, and the whole room tenses. And then he adds, “What do you think, Greer?”

Just like that. Easy. Direct. Like…like he actually cares. I don’t know about everyone else, but suddenly I’m feeling all Taylor Swifty—Greer can’t come to the phone right now…because she’s dead.

Unfortunately, the delay my excitement causes kind of makes it seem like I might be suffering from a brain injury.

“Greer?”

When I wake from my trance, everyone in the room is staring at me.

Good God, get it together, woman.

“Uh, yes. Yeah. Normally, I would agree with you because I understand your perspective. Most hotels, if not all, are going to set this up the way you describe. But I think doing it this way instead is going to give so much more space and functionality, and isn’t that what people staying in suites are really looking for?”