Taming Hollywood's Baddest Boy - Max Monroe Page 0,119

a busy guy, and that’s where he’s going to be. I used my connections to get you this thing for a reason. Turner Properties is the real deal. A Vanderturn hotel in New Orleans is a big deal, especially if you get to design it,” she says with a little smile, but that quickly vanishes when she continues her train of thought. “And have to? You act like you’re going to war. It’s New Year’s Eve in New York, for shit’s sake. You should be excited!”

“You’re right. New York does sound amazing.”

“Thank you.”

“I’m just—”

“I know.” Her eyes turn soft and understanding. “I know what’s riding on this, and I know it’s weighing you down a bit.”

Weighing me down a bit? If the stress of my financial situation gets any heavier, I might actually become my own gravitational force.

“If this doesn’t go well,” I say on a near whisper, “I’m not really sure what I’m going to do.”

Because I don’t. If this job interview isn’t a success, I honestly have no idea what my next move will be. And that is terrifying.

“It’s going to go well! You’re the right person for the job. There’s no way he won’t see that.”

I chew my lip.

“As long as you bring sweet Greer and leave the bitch at home…”

I feign a gasp.

Emory’s lips crest up into a smile. “Oh, come on, put a smile on that pretty face. This is going to be the best trip of your life! Everything is about to come up roses! I can feel it!”

I just stare at her.

“Smile, Greer.”

I half-ass an attempt at a smile, but it’s brittle and forced and probably looks like Chandler Bing’s engagement photos.

“Repeat after me,” she says. “I am a brilliant designer.”

I furrow my brow, and Emory nudges my arm with one of her pointy fucking elbows.

“Ow.” I rub at my arm, but she ignores her assault completely.

“Say it, Greer. Say, I am a brilliant designer.”

“I am a brilliant designer.” The words come out monotone and unconvinced, but my newfound motivational speaker isn’t deterred.

“Say, I am going to nail this interview.”

“I am going to nail this interview.”

“But before I go to said interview, I’m going to remove this resting bitch face and put on my strong, confident woman face.”

I can’t not smirk at that. “That is incredibly specific.”

“Just say it.”

I oblige and silently pray that Tony Robbins will leave my best friend’s body so I can attempt to enjoy this first-class trip to New York.

“Who’s the best interior designer in New Orleans?”

I stare at her, but she threatens to dig one of her pointy elbows into my skin again.

My eyes roll heavenward. “Me.”

“Who’s the best woman for this job?”

“Me.”

“Who is going to flaunt her perfect tits around New York and land herself a kick-ass job and nail a hot guy all in one weekend?”

“Me…wait…what?”

“Don’t you worry, sweet cheeks, no one at Turner Properties will be able to resist you.” Emory winks. “Now, let’s go catch our flight to your future success!”

Minus the nailing a hot guy part, I hope she’s right.

Because, fuck, I need this job.

Greer

After two-and-a-half hours on a plane, an hour-long slog in a death taxi—without mention of horses, mind you—a long line to check in at the Vanderturn Manhattan hotel, and eleventy-billion interview pep talks from Emory, I’m on the very brink of insanity.

My skin feels tight, my hair hurts, and my eyeballs seem to be operating independently from each other.

Apparently, I’m not the only one to notice.

When the bellman leaves to head up to our rooms with our luggage, Emory gets bossy and points in my face.

“Go work out. You need some Elle Woods thinking in your life. Exercise gives you endorphins. Endorphins make you happy. Happy people don’t murder their husbands.”

I scoff and tilt my head to escape the virtual laser beam shooting out of her finger. “Grumpy people without husbands don’t murder their husbands either.”

“You’re going to have one someday, I’m telling you. So, you should start training now.”

“Training? To be happy?” I frown. “Isn’t that the sort of thing that should come naturally?”

“For you?” She snorts. “Probably not. You have a nasty habit of being a miserable shrew, and habits are hard to break.”

My sigh is heavy as I grab the tops of her slender arms and squeeze affectionately. “You really say the nicest things.”

She ignores me and shoves me in the shoulder.

“Go. Change out of last night’s clothes—”

I grin contemptuously.

“And sweat out all of that toxic energy you’re carrying around. I’m going to need you to