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I will have to see him every-fucking-where, all the flipping time.
When I leave for work.
When I get home from work.
When I get my damn mail.
Jesus Christ, what if I masturbate and he hears me? I won’t survive.
The dramatic thought forces me to a halt in the stairway, and he rams right into the back of me.
I groan as the back of my shoe scrapes a blister on my heel before the day has even started.
“Could you watch where you’re going?” I snap snidely as I turn around to meet his infuriating green eyes.
“I was,” he spits back. “You’re the one who stopped in the middle of the staircase.”
“Yeah, well…”
“Yeah, well?” He raises a challenging brow.
“Just go in front of me,” I grumble when I can’t think of a snappy enough insult.
He smirks like he’s won, and I want to slap the expression right off of his handsome face.
Whoa, whoa, whoa, Greer. Handsome?
No, not handsome face. Just a face. A completely normal, nothing-to-see-here face.
By the time I make it to the bottom of the stairwell, he’s got a head start on me, and I decide to keep it that way.
There’s no upside to walking shoulder to shoulder with him all the way to the hotel.
When he rounds the corner out of sight, I increase my pace to one slightly faster than a tortoise. In what must be a personal record, I’ve given myself plenty of time to make it to the hotel on time, but I really want to stop for a coffee at the shop around the corner first.
Nobody should go into the day without coffee.
My brother always told me that my mom used to say Quick wit is just wit with caffeine.
I had to reach adulthood to truly understand what she meant, but now, I feel like I have a really clear picture of just how smart she must have been.
The Easy Roast sign with black-and-white lettering hangs over the entrance up ahead, and I can feel my legs start to churn involuntarily.
The smell of coffee beans and fresh pastries floats down the street and into my nose, and I can’t get there fast enough.
The bright light of the morning makes the transition into the dark shop all the more troublesome, and I have to take a good fifteen seconds for my eyes to adjust before stepping up to the line of customers waiting to order their drinks.
I’m about five people away from the counter when I notice the back of a man.
A very specific man who literally won’t disappear this morning.
Hunching and leaning, I immediately become an appendage that shoots out of the back of the person in front of me. They didn’t ask for this deformity, they weren’t expecting it, but at a time like this, they have no choice.
I need camouflage, and I need it now. In a coffeehouse in New Orleans, camouflage just so happens to come in the form of a hipster guy with a beanie.
Trent accepts his coffee with a smile and heads for one of the café-style tables outside.
It’s January, but this is New Orleans, and it’s remarkably pleasant out in the fresh air.
I keep watch on him with a discreet eye as the line moves forward until, finally, I get to put in my order for a large coffee with cream and sugar and a chocolate croissant.
Carbs are my best friend today, and I’ll do my damnedest to load up on them right up front.
Until then, I’m going to hunker down in a booth in the back and wait until one of two things happens: Trent Turner leaves, or I have absolutely no time left before I’m late.
Because I won’t sacrifice my work reputation to avoid him.
No way. I’ll go Hunger Games on that bitch.
May only the best of the best survive.
Trent
Seated at a little café table outside Easy Roast, the coffee shop up the street from my New Orleans apartment, I scan the street for signs of the enemy and come up blessedly empty.
Fuck, I’d love to know who is plotting against me. It feels like I’m being sent a death sentence in the form of a snarky, sarcastic woman by the name of Greer Hudson.
First, my dad hires her.
Then, she up and moves right next door to me.
Literally. Right next to me. Her front door is right beside my front door.
How is this even possible?
The odds of that kind of clusterfuck scenario have to be insane. Surely, I’d have a better chance of getting my father to realize he’s a controlling bastard when it comes to his son. Or for Cap to stop talking about his dick like it’s an actual family member.
Dear God. If that woman is anything but the devil in disguise, the heat of lightning can strike me down right now.
I put my cup to my lips and take a sip of my Americano.
