The Billionaire Boss Next Door

But I put on a smile for Nelly’s sake. It’s not one hundred percent her fault I’m such a bitch today. I mean, she could’ve not been such a shitty driver or asked me so many questions or told me her whole life story, but still, she is just a woman trying to earn a living and keep her horses hydrated.

“Thank you for the ride,” I say and grip the handle to my luggage with my right hand. Thank you for not killing me.

“Have fun in New York, Gree-ware! And good luck with Hudson Designs!” She offers a little wave and a big ole grin before hopping back into her SUV.

And not even a minute later, she sloshes her way back toward the highway.

Good luck with Hudson Designs, her words repeat in my mind.

Yeah. Pretty sure I need a hell of a lot more than luck, Nelly.

Hudson Designs is my baby. The company I birthed from my proverbial womb. It is my pride. My passion. And the biggest reason my shoulders feel like I’m walking around with Dwayne “The Rock” Johnson hanging on, piggyback-style.

Normally, I have nothing against The Rock.

He’s big. He’s handsome. And if I had to smell what he was cooking, I’d venture to guess it would have an aroma of success and a multimillion-dollar bank account.

But his weight perched on my shoulders is no fucking joke, and everything I’ve ever worked for is at risk of crashing into the fiery pits of hell if I crumble under it.

It’s almost hard to believe it all went so wrong.

When I graduated college, I was practically high off excitement over the possibility of future success. I mean, I had landed a huge internship turned full-time employment with Clarise Beaumont, one of the foremost interior designers on the Gulf Coast.

It was a big fucking deal, and in my naïve eyes, success skyrockets were already in flight.

After a few years working under her, I realized how impressive her work ethic and accomplishments were—and how much better they could be if I’d done them my way.

Eventually, I opened my own firm, motivated and hopeful about what opportunities being in business for myself could bring. And for the first couple of years, I chalked any and all hard times up to getting started. I had a client base to build, infrastructure to get in place. A few bumps in the road were more than understandable—they were expected.

Unfortunately, the next few years didn’t improve.

The design business isn’t the same as it was ten years ago, and everyone in the industry has taken a hit.

But when you’re a one-woman show like me, there’s a lot more overhead involved in making suppliers happy by taking sample stock at wholesale cost and keeping the daily operations of the office running.

Other than my assistant, Rosaline—who I had to let go three months ago—I couldn’t afford to keep a staff for the work I couldn’t spend my time doing personally. As a result, I had to outsource most of it, and the markup on the cost doubled.

And the bottom line of my books this morning confirms what I already knew—without a miracle, the last five years of my life might as well have been for nothing.

I haven’t dated, I haven’t traveled. I haven’t even been to the Cheesecake Factory they built at the mall. All I’ve done is work, desperate to build something I’m proud of, and now it could be over.

My lip quivers unexpectedly, and I grind the gears in my mind straight into reverse.

Do not cry, Greer. Breaking down on the sidewalk of the New Orleans airport is not acceptable.

Besides, other than the whole my business is failing thing, today isn’t all bad.

For one, I didn’t die in Nelly’s Equinox, and secondly, New Orleans is playing its most impressive hand of cards on what should be a cold winter day. The sun is surprisingly strong, and it makes my skin feel crisp, like I could crease it down the middle to match my slacks.

It feels good. Warm. Cozy.

This is my favorite city. The place I grew up. The place I started my business. My home.

And today, I’m minutes away from seeing my best friend Emory and flying first class to New York with her, courtesy of her family’s money. They have old money, new money—all the fucking money—and Emory never flies anywhere in the back of the plane.

Luckily for me, she also doesn’t like to fly alone, and her boyfriend is already there.

The loose wheel on my bargain luggage clatters behind me as I drag it up the ramp to the automatic door and inside the bright lights of the ticket area of Louis Armstrong International Airport.

People scurry back and forth around me in varying states of distress, but it’s there, in the center of the chaos, that I find Emory, waving wildly from her spot in front of a pile of Louis Vuitton luggage.