The Billionaire Boss Next Door

I make it to the restaurant in record time, but when I walk inside and look around, it looks like I might be too late.

I take a second scan, but I still don’t find Greer anywhere.

Instead of wasting any more time, I go up to the counter to ask.

After all, her brother owns the place. Someone’s bound to know if she was here and left.

I wait in line so that I don’t anger the other patrons, and when I get to the front, the kid I now know is her nephew greets me. “Can I help you?”

“Uh, yeah, actually.”

He raises his eyebrows as if to say Get on with it, then.

I laugh at how stupid I must look, and he grows even more skeptical.

I speak quickly to get ahead of myself before they call the cops. “I’m looking for Greer. Your…aunt. We…” I pause, unsure of what she wants her family to know at this point, and then finish with the safest option. “…work together.”

“Right,” he says. “She came in before and said she wasn’t feeling well. Said to tell Trent she said that. You Trent?”

I nod. “Yep. I am.”

“Cool. She also said to give you the Kevorkian special. Any idea what she means by that?”

The fact that this kid has no idea who Kevorkian is scares me; the fact that Greer used that name and mine in the same sentence scares me more.

I knock on the door for close to a minute before Greer finally answers.

She’s in her pajamas and a robe, and her face is an absolute mess.

I know I shouldn’t say that. I know I should say she looks beautiful no matter what, but I can’t.

There’s snot and mascara mixed together to make a brownish goo on both sides of her nose, and her hair looks like it’s been pulled out at the roots. Her eyes are bloodshot, and her skin looks so puffy, it seems like she’s had an allergic reaction.

Clearly, when she told her nephew she wasn’t feeling well, she meant it.

“Oh my God, are you okay?” I ask, shoving her back with a gentle hand to her stomach and stepping into the apartment.

“Yes, of course,” she says sarcastically. “Do I look like something’s wrong?”

I laugh at her obvious joke, and she glares at me.

“I’m so sorry you don’t feel well.”

“Yeah,” she scoffs. “Me too.”

“Why don’t you take the rest of the day off—”

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” she mutters under her breath, dragging her slippered feet into the kitchen and grabbing a package of Oreos.

“No, I wouldn’t,” I say with a laugh. “But you’re clearly under the weather—”

“Clearly.”

“So, you should take the time to get better before you come back to work.”

“I still have a job?” she asks, and I tilt my head to the side in confusion.

“Of course you still have a job.” I nearly want to laugh at the ridiculousness of her question. “Being sick isn’t a fireable offense, Greer. Which is why you should take the day off and come back to work when you’re feeling better.”

“Maybe your dad will be gone by then.”

I draw my eyebrows together at the subject change, but I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s got a fever and is delusional. I decide just to go with it. “He’s already gone, actually. Just left.”

“He is?” she asks, spinning around so fast, a piece of cookie comes flying out of her mouth.

“Yeah.”

She shuffles to the fridge and takes out a glass of milk. I cringe.

“Milk? Do you really think that’s the best choice if you’re feeling sick?”

She skewers me with a glare so sharp, I put up my hands and chuckle. “Okay. Cookies and milk, it is.”

She moves around the kitchen manically, not meeting my eyes, and I take a shot in the dark to try to make it better. “Kevorkian special, huh?”

She grunts.

“I’m sorry I was late,” I say with a smile. “I’ll make it up to you, I promise.”

She stares into a cabinet, her hand on the knob, before closing it and turning to face me. Her face might be the most serious I’ve ever seen it.

“It’s fine. I just…don’t feel well. It’s gonna take me a couple of days to feel better probably, and then I might work at my office to avoid contaminating the crew.”

I pull my eyebrows together.

“Maybe it’s a quick bug. You might feel better tomorrow.”

She shakes her head. “Doesn’t feel like it.”

“Well, okay… I’ll come back after work with some soup, and we can—”

“No.”

I jerk my head back. I step toward her, and she holds up a hand. Something I don’t like but can’t explain takes hold in my chest.

“Greer—”

“Trent, you’re in contact with everyone on the job. If I infect you, I infect them all. No. You’ll stay away too. I’ll see you next week.”

“Can I go on record and say I don’t like this?”