The Billionaire Boss Next Door

He agrees easily enough—and by easily enough, I mean he gives in when I threaten to throw a shitfit in the middle of the room like a Pixy-Stix-fueled toddler—and leaves me to go say hello to some of the other hotel owners he knows.

When I get in line for the bar, I make sure to pay special attention to the bartender’s name—and gender—and paste a huge smile on my face.

This night will require steady drinks, and in the name of making that possible, I’m going to be this bartender’s favorite goddamn person if it kills me.

“Hi,” I say with a little flirtation, using the fact that this one is really a man to my advantage. He smiles back and glances down at my heaving bosom, and I know I’m in business. “I’ll take a Chardonnay—big glass,” I emphasize, “And a…a…”

Well, fuck. Why in the hell didn’t I ask Trent what he wants to drink? Am I the most terrible date in the universe?

The longer I pause, and the rowdier the alcohol-thirsty crowd behind me gets, the more my carefully placed flirtation and big breasts start to wear off.

Frankly, if I don’t get something out soon, I’m pretty sure they’re going to end up calling an ambulance for me because of signs of a stroke, so I spit out the first thing that comes to mind and move on with my life.

“An old-fashioned.”

It’s fancy and niche and seems appropriate for the venue, if nothing else.

If Trent hates it, he’ll only have himself to blame for not giving me something specific to order.

When I find Trent with a group of people I don’t know, but only can assume are important, I’m too focused on the trauma from the bar to worry about anything else.

He takes his drink with gratitude as I hand it to him, and then after taking a quick sip, smiles down at me.

“How did you know I like old-fashioneds?” he asks.

I guffaw. “I didn’t. I picked the first thing that came to mind when everyone behind me started to take out their pitchforks and yell. There’s a real problem with mob mentality in this country. It was like a—”

Cutting me off with a squeeze of my hip, Trent turns me toward the group we’re standing with and introduces me. “This is my date, Greer Hudson.” They all nod hello, but their eyes are wide. Probably from the hot mess they’ve just overheard.

“Greer, this is the mayor, her husband, and a few members of the royal court.”

“The royal court?”

“Appointing royalty is a Mardi Gras ball tradition,” he explains. “Our mayor is the queen, her husband the king, and Jules, Bonee, and Ty are all local business owners and members of the royal court.”

The mayor’s face is kind as she asks, “Are you new to New Orleans, dear?”

I consider lying because that’d probably sound better than the truth, given my lack of knowledge of Mardi Gras, but I’d never be able to support it with any details. This is the only place I’ve ever lived—the only place I’ve ever really known.

I laugh a little—self-deprecation ripe in the tone. “No, ma’am. I’ve lived in New Orleans all my life. My brother, Heath, owns Coastal Crepes.”

Her eyes light up.

“On St. Phillip Street?”

“Yes, ma’am. It used to be my grandfather’s.”

“I love that place! Best crepes I’ve ever tasted, sweet and savory.”

“Thank you,” I say, and I feel my cheeks blush a little.

Trent’s eyes are wide as he turns to face me. “Your family owns Coastal Crepes?”

I nod.

I don’t know what he’s thinking because he doesn’t say anything else, but I don’t have time to worry about it because the mayor is talking to me again.

“Next year, we need to make sure your brother gets an invitation to the ball too. That’s one of my favorite local businesses, and he does a fabulous job of running it.”

“Thank you. That’s the kind of news that could make him call off the hit man.”

“I’m sorry?” she asks, and the Secret Service-looking guys at her back step a little closer. Trent’s hand convulses in mine.

Oh shit.

“No, no, ma’am,” I mumble in a panic. “Not you. He’d never take out a hit on you. I meant on me. Kid sister and all. Lots of trouble.” I point to the specific location of my problem. “I have a big mouth.”

Trent steps in before I can sink our ship completely, but I’ve got to tell you, we’re definitely taking on water.

“She’s a jokester. Her brother is really proud of everything she’s achieved. We all are. You know, she’s a business owner too. Her design firm, Hudson Designs, is doing all the work for the Vanderturn New Orleans.”

“That’s fantastic,” the mayor says, but she’s shuffling her feet discreetly in the other direction. “Well, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a lot of people to mingle with.”