The Billionaire Boss Next Door

I snort. While I appreciate his faith in me tremendously, I’m not sure it’s well placed. “Uh…I’m not known for great decision-making in social situations. I understand the sentiment, but I’m not sure you’re making the smartest business decision.”

The elevator arrives with a ding, opening its doors and beckoning us to step inside. I’m all ready to comply when Trent pulls me back, turns me toward him, and takes hold of both of my hands.

The elevator closes and leaves, and a hive of very busy bees breaks out in my stomach.

“Uh, shouldn’t we have—”

“Greer,” Trent says, giving my hands a gentle tug to get me to look at him instead of the elevator. When I do, his face is serious and so handsome, it actually hurts to look at him.

Strong jaw, chiseled cheeks, and majestic green eyes are seemingly my weakness.

“Attending the ball is about business. You’re right. A business you just so happen to be passionate and knowledgeable about and heavily involved in. But tonight, the whole experience is about you and me on a date. It’s the part I care about more, and the part I’m choosing to focus on. The ball is just the backdrop.”

“Is it just me, or have you, like, taken a crash course in swooniness in the last twenty-four hours?”

He pushes the button for the elevator again, leaning away from me momentarily, only to come back and wrap an arm around my waist.

I’m shivering in all my feels, but he seems perfectly composed.

“Nope, no advanced schooling. You’re just not used to me as a date.”

“Well, shit. If I’d known dating made you this nice, I would have done it from the beginning.”

His lips brush the shell of my ear, and he whispers, “It wouldn’t have worked.”

“Why?” I ask, the anticipation and excitement of this newfound feeling he’s giving me making my skin feel electric.

“Because I thought I hated you then.”

I laugh. “You’re right.”

He nods, and then I bring the hammer down because I’m ruthless and inappropriate and, despite what he seems to think, I have trouble not ruining a moment.

“Except, I didn’t just think I hated you. I did. I’ve got the voodoo doll to prove it.”

“So that’s why, way back in January, I had to ingest an unnecessary amount of TUMS and Pepto Bismol.” He quirks an adorable brow, and I giggle.

“Okay, so maybe I don’t have a voodoo doll, but I can’t deny I was tempted.”

Trent just grins. “Just so we’re clear, I know I had moments of being a real dick, but—”

“A lot of moments,” I correct.

“Yeah,” he agrees. “Okay. But you’re weren’t a peach either, honey.”

I act affronted, and he just laughs and wraps his arm around me tighter as he leads me into the elevator cart. “It’s okay, though,” he adds and hits the button for the lobby. “Because all that sass and sarcasm are two of my favorite things about you.”

Two of his favorite things about me?

As in, he has several favorite things about me.

Goddamn. Date Trent is just dropping swoon bombs all over the fucking place.

Fingers and toes crossed I don’t spontaneously combust before I get to enjoy more of this irresistible guy.

Velvet drapes and flower waterfalls cover the walls of Gallier Hall, this year’s location for the mayor’s Mardi Gras ball, and candlelit tables dot the space of the room like stars.

My eyes flick left and right and up and down, completely unable to latch on to any one thing, there’s so much going on.

Performers dance in synchronization in the corner below aerial silks, and I wonder if they’ve just finished their routine or are about to get started.

Trent’s hand is warm in mine, and as a bonus, he hasn’t made the barest mention of how sweaty mine has gotten.

I don’t know if it’s my nerves or the fact that I’m just not used to holding hands with someone for extended periods of time, but my glands seem to be in overdrive.

“Is it hot in here?” I ask a little manically.

Trent smiles at my panic, which just seems to make me panic more.

“No? Just me? Are you seriously not sweating at all?” I ask, wiping at my brow with my free hand.

Trent watches me closely for only a moment before pulling me close and whispering in my ear. “Just relax,” he soothes. “Have fun. I promise you don’t need to be this worked up. In fact, why I don’t get you settled at our table and then go get you a drink?”

I’m shaking my head before he can finish speaking. If he leaves me alone, sedentary at our table, I will die a quick but painfully awkward death. I can feel it.

No, I need to be moving.

“Why don’t you go schmooze a little, and I’ll go get us drinks,” I suggest instead. “It’ll give me something to do and a little time to calm down before I have to talk to anyone.”