The Billionaire Boss Next Door

“The masks were Quince’s idea,” Emory moons, and the ironic timing of my thinking almost makes me choke.

“Wait…are you Greer Hudson?” Quince asks suddenly, turning to look at Emory and then me, like somehow staring into the eyes of my Beyoncé mask is going to uncover the truth.

“Uh, yes. Should I already know you?”

“No, no, I’m just a fan of your work.”

“Seriously?”

“Definitely,” he says, and his voice vibrates with honesty. It warms my cold heart, but unfortunately for him, it also leaves me one hell of an opening.

“Well, this is embarrassing,” I respond with feigned nervous giggles. “I honestly thought none of those tapes were circulating anymore…”

“What?” he questions.

“I swear, I only did it briefly,” I add. “After college. To pay rent.”

“Oh God.” Panicked, his eyes dart between Emory and me like a ping-pong ball. “No, I… I don’t… I—” He clears his throat. “I haven’t seen any tapes of you. I don’t watch tapes. Well, I mean, not since high school anyway. I—”

Emory spears me with a glare and takes her flustered boyfriend’s bicep in hand.

“Relax, Quince. She’s kidding. Greer never had a porn career. Only a sick sense of humor.”

I smile and stick out a conciliatory hand. “Nice to meet you, Quince. And now I’m one-hundred-percent interested to know which tapes you watched in high school. Hefty Jugs? Tight Taints? Bangin’ Blondes, perhaps?”

“I’m sorry,” Quince mumbles. “I think I just swallowed my tongue.”

“Jesus Christ, Greer,” Emory grumbles. “Can I not take you anywhere?”

“What?” I shrug. “I’m just making friendly conversation.”

“It’s fine, Em,” Quince says. “I’m kind of in love with her now.”

I can’t exactly see Emory’s face clearly under her Taylor Swift mask, but I don’t have to. She is undoubtedly ordering a voodoo doll of me from an Etsy shop tonight and stabbing it right in the vagina.

“No, no, she’s right, Quince. You guys are adorable together, and it really is nice to meet you. I’m surprised but honored that you’ve heard of Hudson Designs, and I appreciate the excitement about my work. I’m also digging the Kanye, Taylor Swift couple irony you have going on here.”

“That was Em’s idea,” he says admiringly and tucks her closer to his side. The two of them lock gazes and sway toward each other with fairy-tale precision.

And I officially need a drink.

I excuse myself pretty easily since they’re ensconced in their canoodling and slink toward the long marble bar along the windows on the far side of the ballroom. Free drinks are one of the bright spots of attending this party, and I fully intend to enjoy the opportunity to consume them.

The line is long and the people are chatty, so I take the time to retreat deeper into myself. The bartender works the crowd and smiles readily with everyone, and he seems like the kind of easygoing guy I could get along with.

His name tag glints in the light, and I ready myself to regale him with charm by studying his name.

When I finally belly up to the cold gray stone, I lean my elbows into the counter and announce cheekily, “Chardonnay me, Kevin.”

Kevin’s eyebrows pinch together, and his fun-loving demeanor suddenly seems a lot less fun. “My name’s not Kevin.”

What?

I glance back to the name tag I was so sure had set me up for success and read it again.

Karen. Her name is Karen, and Karen is a girl.

Dear God, I need to get my eyes checked.

“Heh. Whoops.” I laugh nervously. “I have…uh…cataracts. And you look lovely tonight, Karen.”

Her scowl is scary, but I’m not leaving without my Chardonnay. I tap my fingernails on the counter as she prepares it, and I watch with an eagle eye for spit or poison.

Thankfully, the open setup of her workspace makes it hard to achieve either form of sabotage, and she slides the half-full glass toward me.

Her intense loathing of me won’t make getting another drink easy, but maybe I can sweet-talk Emory into switching masks with me in the bathroom before I need more.

I turn to leave the bar and smack right into a hard wall.

“Excuse me,” a tuxedo-wearing Albert Einstein says. I can’t see his face, obviously, but the fit of his formal wear is superb. I can feel the hot muscle of his chest through the expensive fabric as I force myself to step away.

I smile flirtatiously on instinct, but it’s not until he speaks again that I realize he can’t see a goddamn thing thanks to Beyoncé.

“Are you okay?” The mask does a good job of muffling his words, but it does nothing to disguise the deep, rich, masculine edge of his timbre.

“Oh, sure, sure. Just a little elementary particle interaction,” I tease flirtatiously. “Nothing I can’t handle.”

“What?”

Jesus. Don’t tell me my eyes have failed me again.

I squint through the tiny holes in Beyoncé’s rubber skin. “Aren’t you supposed to be Albert Einstein?”