The Billionaire Boss Next Door

The bar juts up and out of the floor as though it’s a part of it, the white-and-gray marble of the top and waterfall matching the tile of the floor. It’s elegant and unique, and I’m so proud to say it came from a place in my head.

Preoccupied with the design, I pay no attention to the bartender, and for the first time on record, the whole exchange goes off without a hitch.

I get my Chardonnay, and he goes about his business, no bitchy blacklist in sight.

Hmm. Maybe I was just putting too much pressure on myself before.

I pick up the glass from its spot on the countertop and turn, tripping on the overly long train of my dress and dropping that shit straight to the floor.

It shatters and spreads, and every masked head in the room turns to stare at me.

“Hah,” I laugh nervously. “Whoops.”

A quick glance back at the bartender shows all goodwill has disappeared and confirms that I got ahead of myself.

I’m ostensibly doomed with bartenders until the day I die.

I’m about to leave drinkless when Trent Turner Senior steps up to the bar, maskless, and taps his fingertips on the surface.

“Another Chardonnay for Ms. Hudson, please.”

The bartender doesn’t even attempt to give him a side-eye. “Yes, sir.”

I don’t know how he knew it was me, but I feel like it’s better that I don’t ask.

Lord only knows what the man would say.

I fidget nervously, rubbing the satin between the tips of two fingers on one hand while we wait for the drink in silence.

I’m not sure what to say, given the whole sordid history. He doesn’t like me, but he doesn’t know that I know he doesn’t like me…and yeah, it’s a messy, fucked-up thing.

Still, somehow, it seems genuine as he compliments, “The hotel is beautiful, Greer.”

I’m thankful for the mask for the first time tonight as my cheeks warm with a small blush. “Thank you, sir.”

“I’m impressed with what you’ve put together here. I have to say, I wasn’t convinced initially.”

My chest tightens at his honesty. The truth makes the memory of hearing him say it more vivid, and I’m surprised by how acute the pain is.

I have no clue what to say to it, but he doesn’t make me figure it out.

“I thought the lines were too modern for this part of the city, and the cultural touches too literal.”

I swallow thickly as he laughs.

“But what do I know? I also think these fucking masks are ridiculous, but people seem to be enjoying them.”

I snort, and he seems to understand what I mean by it, despite the wide array of possibilities.

“I know,” he says good-naturedly. “But Trent insisted they were a good idea, and it looks like, mostly, he was right.”

My breath catches in my throat, and I have to pound a fist to my chest to force the air out of the way so I can speak. “The masks were Trent’s idea?”

“Yep,” Senior confirms, handing me my new glass of Chardonnay. I take it as carefully as I can and grip it tightly.

And it’s a good thing because the next thing he says flips my world upside down.

“His idea to keep you, too,” he adds nonchalantly. “Really fought for you. Said you were the heart of this place.”

He…

My breathing slows, and my eyes hover between open and closed as I come dangerously close to passing out.

He fought for me?

“Turns out he was right.”

My heart pounds in my chest, and I suddenly feel like my mask has no air in it.

I grab for it indiscriminately, trying to latch on to any goddamn part of it that will help me get it off.

The speed of my breathing grows and grows as the rubber sticks to me in my panic.

I’m half ready to hulk out and rip that shit off Avengers-style when “In Your Eyes” by Peter Gabriel starts playing over the sound system.

It’s completely out of context for the soundtrack they’ve been playing during this soiree and makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up.

Forcing myself to take three deep breaths, I finally peel the death mask off of my face and look up at Senior.

He’s looking behind me with a genuine smile—though, slightly mocking—on his face, and it’s all I can do to keep my shit in check as I turn.

There, in the middle of the dance floor, with a boombox over his head, is Walter White.

My mystery kisser.

I shake my head and clap my hands over my mouth and nose.

I know those legs and those abs and those arms.

And, as it turns out, there’s more than one reason I know those lips.

All of it, including the kiss with a stranger on New Year’s Eve, belongs to the boss next door.

Trent

Saliva pools in my mouth as the weight of an entire lounge full of people’s stares bears down on me.