The Billionaire Boss Next Door

When Heath finally finishes, I take a big heaping scoop of pasta and cover the entirety of my plate.

Mm, carbs.

A few twirls of my fork later, I’m about to put the glorious food in my mouth when Heath busts right through the force field I was certain I’d constructed successfully by wearing all black clothing and needlessly emo makeup.

“So, Greer. Tell me how the new job is! Is the hotel business exciting?”

“It’s great,” I say, filling my mouth with spaghetti to disguise my deceit. “No problems whatsoever.”

Besides spilling paint on myself, getting on my boss’s bad side before my actual interview, giving him constructive criticism he didn’t appreciate that led to me wondering if he even knows I exist anymore, and then, accidentally putting my ass directly into his hands, that is.

Yeah, everything is pretty fucking great.

So great, in fact, that Trent seemed like less of an asshole at work for all of twenty-four hours, until two days ago when my ass landed in his hands and served as a catalyst to revert back to barking orders and rampage.

My milk shake brings all the boys to tyranny. Go figure.

“Good. I’m so glad for you.” Heath’s smile beams. “Isn’t that great news, Rhonda?”

Rhonda sneers so hard, I’m pretty sure I see fangs.

I jerk my gaze to Heath and Brooks, convinced they’ll have seen the evil spirit within her, but they seem unfazed.

What the actual hell? Where are Alyssa Milano, Shannen Doherty, and that-other-one-whose-name-I-can-never-remember when you need them?

“And how about the new place? I still can’t believe you’re downsizing from the house to an apartment, but if Emory’s parents own the building, it must be nice. You got renters insurance, right?”

Yeahhhh. The thing is…my brother has no idea how much trouble my business was in before I got this job or how little of a choice I had in moving out of my house.

He worked so hard to make sure I had all the things I dreamed of, and to tell him just how close I’ve come to losing it all… Well, I can’t even stomach the thought of it.

I’d much rather soak in the bitter truth of it all by myself.

Luckily, I don’t have to lie about the quality of the apartment. Emory’s parents own one hell of a classy place.

“It’s great. Spacious and modern,” I say, trying to give him at least a morsel of something to cling to. “And yes, Dad, I got renters insurance.”

He smiles at my jab at his smothering worry and points to his shirt.

I didn’t even notice it before, but I’m pretty sure it’s the only thing I’ll notice now.

Dad Body is the new Hot Toddy.

Gah, that’s terrible.

It’s like a dad joke from hell, and the only thing remotely creative about it is that it rhymes.

I smile and nod anyway, just to humor him, but not before reaching to grab the wine bottle and pouring myself another enormously healthy glass.

If I’m going to make it through the rest of family dinner with the Corny Dad, Mute Teenager, and Tina Turtleneck—aka my lovely witch-in-law—without saying something I shouldn’t, I’m going to need a little lubrication, if you know what I’m saying.

Liquid courage.

Hooch.

The sauce.

A little vino for my—

Alcohol. I need alcohol.

By the time I leave The Last Supper, I’m what a college frat boy might refer to as smashed, bro. And three large glasses of wine are all it took to get me here.

My tolerance for drinking is on the low end of the spectrum because I don’t really drink that much.

Other than a glass of wine here or there, the most I ever drink is at dinner with my brother and his family.

It’s not that they’re that terrible or anything; I think I’m just…comfortable. Or I need the intoxication to tolerate my sister-in-law’s stink eye. Honestly, it’s a toss-up.

But I know my brother would never judge me or jump to conclusions, and even though Rhonda doesn’t talk to me, she doesn’t talk to anyone else either. They see me for who I am and accept it.

Hell, my brother drove me home in his minivan and waved from the curb like a proud father when I finally got the outside door to my building open.

I’m a lucky woman, having such a positive, supportive guy in my life—even if he’s got corny dad jokes and doesn’t contribute to my bank account at all.

Hah.

Truth is, Heath is such a good guy, he probably would give me money if I asked him to.

But I’d never do that to him. He has his own business to run and family to feed.

My head swims as I force myself to climb the stairs rather than taking the elevator as some form of pseudo-punishment, and I’m only slightly disappointed when I make it to the top without falling down and acquiring a head laceration.

I’m kidding. Well, sort of. I mean, I’m currently in a phase of life where a two-to-four-day hospital stay sounds like a trip to the spa.