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Apparently, Greer Hudson is an expert at heading up projects and managing people. And here I just thought she was the designer on staff. Go fucking figure.
“I’m not going to hold George’s hand and give him a back rub to boost his confidence because he’s not doing his job. I’m going to tell him he’s fucking up so he gets his shit together and starts doing his job.”
She rolls her eyes. “I’m not saying you should sit us around a campfire and make s’mores. Just back off a bit on how hard you’re riding everyone’s asses. You don’t have to be a tyrant to get people to do their work.”
A tyrant? She’s obviously never worked side by side with my father.
Before I can offer up a retort to her holier-than-thou and completely unwanted and unwarranted advice, a boy with a dark mop of hair cruises by with dirty dishes in his hand, and Greer reaches out and flicks him.
“Yo, garçon,” she says like a lunatic. “Another pickle for me, and a heart for the Tin Man over here.”
The kid shakes his head and buzzes back to the kitchen.
I fake a horrid excuse for a smile. “Very funny.”
“I thought it was pretty good.”
“For someone who acts like she knows everything about how to treat people, you sure don’t seem to mind the way you treat the busboy.”
“The busboy is my nephew.”
Skepticism makes my head shake. “No way. He has to be eighteen at least. And you’re what? Twenty-six?”
“That’s the nicest thing you’ve said all day. Seriously.” Her responding, albeit sarcastic, smile is too pretty for my liking. “But I’m thirty-three.”
I laugh. There’s no way she’s a day over thirty. “No, you’re not.”
“Yes, I am. Don’t tell me I’m going to have to show you my driver’s license.”
“How?”
“How what?” she asks with a raise of her brow.
“How is he your nephew?”
“Uh, biology? See, when a mommy and daddy really love each other, they do something called sex. Sex is—”
I shove back in my chair. “Funny.”
She snorts. “Well, what are you looking for here? He’s my brother’s son, which makes him my nephew.”
“Your brother must be older.”
She straightens her spine, surprised at how accurate I am. “Ten years. He pretty much raised me after my parents died.”
The unexpected admission makes my chest constrict. One second, we’re tossing insults, and the next, she’s reminding me there’s something human under all that hostility of hers.
“I’m sorry. How did they…”
She looks down at the table, pulls out the chair across from me, and takes a seat. I give her the time to collect herself before she speaks again.
“Their plane went down.”
“God, Greer, I’m—”
“One of their employees wanted to take over the company, so he paid a guy to put a bomb on their plane.”
My jaw drops. “Holy shit.”
“They found it before it went off, though, and threw it out the window. But it clipped the engine, and they went down in the ocean. I was by myself at home—except for the staff, of course—and I had no choice but to take over their company myself. Unfortunately, that made Lawrence even angrier. He wanted the company and the contents of the vault—”
Jesus Christ. I can’t believe I let her sucker me like this.
“You’re just reciting the plot for Richie Rich.”
“Yes. Yes, I am. I thought you’d relate. Being a billionaire and all.”
It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell her I’m not exactly a billionaire. Turner Properties might be a multibillion-dollar empire, but that doesn’t mean my share in the company equates to ten digits in my bank account. My dad is, but I’m not. And he might not even leave the company to me when he’s ready to retire. He’s threatened to leave it to someone else several times.
“Are your parents even really dead?” I ask, and the instant the question leaves my lips, my stomach turns with discomfort. I’m not trying to be a dick; I’m just trying to gauge how far Greer’s snark goes when it comes to conversation. But shit, I might have pushed the envelope a little too far.
“Yes. They are.” I wince as she stands from her seat and kicks it back under the table with a shove of her foot. “But asking how someone’s parents died within a week of meeting them isn’t exactly the politest thing to do.”
And then she walks away from my table, leaving me feeling like…a real fucking tool.
Shit. Suddenly, the allure of my forgotten crepe doesn’t seem so powerful anymore.
Greer
Ever since my failed attempt of therapy hour at lunch, Trent’s been giving me weird looks.
He’ll be scolding one of the electrical workers, and then he’ll look over at me and the skin between his eyebrows will wrinkle.
It makes his face look broody and interesting, and all of my focus goes straight to the complex mingle of green in his eyes.
