by Max Monroe
The Billionaire Boss Next Door
A Romantic Comedy
Published by Max Monroe LLC © 2019, Max Monroe
ISBN: 978-1-7321702-4-7
All rights reserved.
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
Editing by Silently Correcting Your Grammar
Formatting by Champagne Book Design
Cover Design by Peter Alderweireld
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Author’s Note
Dedication
Intro
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Epilogue
Tapping the Billionaire
Intro
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Acknowledgments
Author’s Note:
The Billionaire Boss Next Door is a full-length romantic comedy standalone novel.
At the end, we’ve included an excerpt from Tapping the Billionaire, one of our best-selling romantic comedies about our OG sexy and hilarious billionaires. ;)
Now that you know, don’t have a witch bestow a curse upon us when The Billionaire Boss Next Door concludes at around 90%. We’re already busy with other stuff. ;)
Also, due to the humorous nature of this book’s content, eating and/or drinking and/or operating heavy machinery while reading is not recommended.
Happy Reading!
All our love,
Max & Monroe
To intimidating women: May you find your superfish and harpoon that fucker right in the heart. Also, we know this doesn’t make the most sense to you right now, but it will when you’re done reading.
To billionaires: Thank you for being so fun to write.
*P.S. Hi. *winks* We have husbands, but they won’t mind if you pay us to come spend time on your yacht and eat fancy cheese.
*We’re not hookers, even though this makes us sound like it. We swear. We’re just writers who like yachts and cheese.
To Colleen Hoover: Thanks for doing such a good job being us. Or maybe we do a good job of being you?
We’re confused.
My name is Thatcher Kelly, but my friends call me Thatch. You might know me, or, if you’re new here, you might not.
So, I’ll just take this time to tell you about myself.
I—and pretty much everyone else—would describe myself as an insanely handsome, crazy successful, addictively charming, and irresistible man of many talents.
I’m confident, maybe to the point of cocky, but I’m not the kind of guy who gets lost in the logistics of people’s opinions.
I take life by the balls. I live without regrets or hesitancy. I do what I want, whenever I want, without fear of judgment or societal constraints.
Basically, if Lenny Kravitz were an insanely successful billionaire banker and had an extra two inches of length behind his zipper, he’d be me. Now, I’m no bullshitter—or rock god, for that matter—but what I lack in musical expertise, I more than make up for in all aspects of giving pleasure.
I’m aces at fucking. Amazing with my tongue.
And so damn generous with gifting orgasms, you might as well call me Santa Thatch.
Simply put, I’m all the good and delicious things.
But before you start licking your lips and getting amped up to know me, I need to tell you one very important thing: this story isn’t mine to tell. It’s not even about me, really.
I know. I know. What a fucking disappointment, right?
But I’ve had my time, and now, I’m told, it’s best if I pass the torch.
And I guess, if I have to give up the limelight, there’s no better person than the guy in this story to turn it over to.
See, while I’m not the main player in this game, one of the best guys I know is.
And, while I know it would be considered “mannerly” to tell you his name, I’ve never really been one to play by the rules. Plus, I’m a big fan of surprises and teasing, if I’m being honest.
But don’t worry, I never tease without the certainty of satisfaction and pleasure in the end. With me, a little teasing goes a long, long, big huge climax way.
So, what can I tell you about the leading fella of this little tale?
With a chiseled jaw, svelte physique, and striking green eyes, he’s almost as attractive as me. He’s got a great sense of humor and impeccable taste—he knows me, after all—and a heart of fucking gold.
He’s a bit of a workaholic, but he’s smart as a fucking whip.
This mystery man is the kind of eligible bachelor that would’ve made Prince Harry look like a British schmuck before he committed himself to one beautiful American for the rest of his life.
No offense to the royal ginger, but he ain’t got nothing on my homeboy.
And if the world’s hospitality industry were stationed in Buckingham Palace, this guy wouldn’t even be Harry. No way. He’s a William all the fucking way.
His last name stands for a billion-dollar empire, and my buddy will one day take the throne and be in control of all of it. We’re talking the kind of success and appeal that would give that dude who hosts The Bachelor a boner.
Yeah, Chris Hansen would definitely tent his pants over this guy.
Wait. Is Chris Hansen the host for The Bachelor, or is he the one who catches sex predators in a staged kitchen with cookies and Kool-Aid?
Meh. It doesn’t really matter.
What matters is Mr. Mystery.
All he needs is a woman who can show him there’s life outside of the office.
To help him let loose. To challenge him.
To bust his balls and call him on his bullshit.
A sexy, curvaceous woman to blow his fucking mind.
<
br /> And you know what? I have a feeling, a gut instinct so to speak, that just might be what he gets…
This might be my perfect, addictive, literary greatness of an introduction, but this is one hundred percent his story. And hers too.
Fluffing hell, guys. You’re in for one hell of a ride.
Greer
It’s the end of December—otherwise known as the Bermuda Triangle of the calendar—and still, I find myself outside of my bed, wearing business attire rather than pajamas, and acting as a functioning member of society.
Insanity, I tell you.
A notification pings on my phone, and I snag it from my kitchen counter to glance at the screen. After spending the entire night in my office—with the door locked because, you know, weirdos—and then rushing home with exactly one hour to pack a suitcase, I’m praying the news from Uber isn’t grim.
“Don’t say known for great conversation, don’t say known for great conversation, don’t say known for great conversation,” I chant to myself.
After a night of going over my company’s books, there’s nothing I want to do less than make up stories to entertain some stranger with a lot of questions this early in the morning.
Nelly in a silver Chevrolet Equinox is here.
The Uber notification thankfully says nothing about Nelly’s conversational skills, but I have no idea what an Equinox is. The last time I had a car was never, and the last time I was interested in them was sometime before that.
I’ve lived in New Orleans all my life, and most everything I’ve done has been possible on foot, on public transportation, or via taxi.
And now that ride services are a thing, I just pretend I’m rich enough to have personalized chauffeurs all the time.
Which, after what Hudson Designs’ accounting records had to say last night, I am not. If those fuckers get any redder, the New Orleans homicide division will be confiscating them as evidence.
Thankfully, though, when I open my front door and drag my suitcase over the threshold, my driver is out of her vehicle and introducing herself.
“Gree Hudson, right? I’m Nelly.” She flashes a toothy grin my way and crosses her arms below her chest, revealing a giant, sparkly-silver horse head on her white t-shirt.
“Nice to meet you, Nelly,” I say and pull the cheap suitcase I bought off Groupon for fifty bucks toward the sidewalk. “But it’s actually Greer.”
“What is?” She raises one of her bushy gray eyebrows.
“My name,” I explain in the friendliest voice I can manage. “It’s pronounced Greer.”
At a whopping five letters, it’s one of the simplest names in the greater New Orleans area. Thanks to a heavy Creole influence, I went to school with a Fabienne and an Adelaida and a Eulalie, and Nelly’s having trouble with Greer.
She must be new to the area.
“Oh, sorry about that,” she responds, and her smile turns apologetic. “Greer-er.”
“Greer.”
“Gree-ware,” she tries again.
Screw it. As long as she gets me to the airport in time for my flight, Nelly can call me whatever she can get past her tongue.
“You got it.” I force a smile and stop beside the hatch to the cargo area, but she gestures me toward the back-passenger door.
“Sorry, but the back is filled with stuff for my horses.”
I blink three times as if that simple movement might help me hear better.
Did she just say stuff for horses?
Living inside the city that hosts Mardi Gras, it’s safe to say I’ve experienced some pretty insane Uber rides, but I can’t deny this is the first time horses and stuff for horses have ever been an obstacle.
“So, if you don’t mind,” Nelly continues. “You can put your suitcase in the back seat and sit in the front.” She takes my bag from my hands. “I mean, you’re a petite little thing and could probably fit in the back with your luggage, but I figure you’ll be more comfortable up front.”
To be honest, I might be most comfortable if I called a new Uber, but I’m already running significantly behind schedule and have zero time to question the contents of her trunk.
Anyway, as long as it’s not an actual horse or a dead body or a dead horse body, we’re all set.
Once my suitcase is securely in her back seat and we’re both seat-belted into the front, Nelly pulls away from my place and out onto the main road.
Instantly, our drive has a soundtrack that includes the sounds of swishing and swashing coming from the cargo area. It’s like a sound machine, only it’s not raindrops or the ocean but some mysterious fluid.
And whatever it is, there’s a lot of it.
There’re not, like, jugs of gasoline back there, are there?
No way. That’d be ridiculous. She said it was for her horses. I’m no veterinarian, but I’m pretty certain they’re powered by hoofs and hearts. Not fossil fuels.
“Beautiful day, right?” Nelly asks, her eyes not on the road and staring directly at me.
I mutter a simple uh-huh and bury my face in my phone, hopeful that’ll encourage her to keep her eyes focused on driving and possibly save me from hearing about the history of the hoof or something similar.
But it’s hard to scroll through Amy Schumer’s Instagram page when my driver is speed-racing through yellow lights and fucking up the flow of traffic.
I look up to find my driver glancing around at the scenery like it’s a fucking Sunday morning walk.
“Oh! Look! It’s the new Target!” she exclaims and takes one hand off the wheel to point toward the right side of the road. “If you haven’t had a chance to check it out, you definitely should, Greer-ware! They even have a Starbucks inside.”
It’s not so much that my Uber driver is distracted but more I don’t think she is aware that she’s actually driving.
“Oh, uh, watch out!” The words tumble out of my mouth on instinct, and I point toward the vehicle right beside us. The one she’s mere inches away from side-swiping because, apparently, Nelly is an “I’m going to use all the fucking lanes” kind of broad.
“Hey there, buddy!” She honks her horn and jerks her wheel to the right. “Bastards don’t know how to drive!”
Simply put, her driving isn’t exactly aces, and I’m gripping the edge of my seat before we even reach the highway.
And, sadly for me, the ride doesn’t get any smoother.
The road is apparently a deterrent for Nelly’s eyes. Her foot consists of lead. Her turns are rough at best, and she sticks with the mind-set that everyone on the road but her is a terrible driver.
“What the hell!” she shouts toward the car in front of us. The car that she cut off no less than two minutes prior, mind you. “For goodness’ sake, no one can drive today!”
I grip the edge of my seat tighter and close my eyes and start chanting namaste in my head.
But my attempt at finding solace and calm is brief at best. I pop my eyes wide open when my body is catapulted toward the passenger door as Nelly takes a sharp left turn and accelerates onto the highway.
Whoa, Nelly.
All the while, the swooshing from the back turns into the equivalent of Niagara Falls, and I white-knuckle the handle above the passenger door and glance toward my driver. “What did you say you have in the back again?”
Please don’t say gasoline. Please don’t say gasoline.
“Two big tanks of water for my horses,” she answers like it’s the most normal thing in the world and switches lanes without the use of her blinker. A horn honks behind us, but Nelly gives zero fucks about other drivers’ horns. “I was at my mom’s place this morning, and I always get my water from there because it’s cheaper. She has a well.” She grins over at me. “And since I’m planning on seeing my horses after my morning Uber shift, I figured what the hell. Might as well kill two birds with one stone today.”
Metaphorical birds might not be the only thing she kills today.
On the bright side, I suppose, if I never
make it to the airport, I won’t have to worry about my interview with Turner Properties.
Hah. My anxiety must be at a new, all-time high if I’m considering the possibility of death as an upside.
Yeah. But that’s because things are looking pretty damn grim from where I sit.
Even though I have plenty of happy return clients and referrals for small bathroom renovations or sunroom decoration available for work, the profit margin on those kinds of jobs is barely enough to keep my doors open for a month or two.
I need a large-scale job with notoriety and name recognition, and the new Vanderturn New Orleans hotel is it. The outcome of this interview is the difference between struggling to stay open for another thirty days without bankrupting myself and setting up my firm to thrive.
My stomach spasms.
Yeah, no pressure or anything.
Instantly, my stress level skyrockets, and Nelly’s driving only gets worse.
Not to mention, she keeps talking to me.
It’s the longest twenty minutes anyone has ever experienced, and all I can do is hold on for dear life and answer her questions. The last thing I want to do is upset her and cause some sort of accident.
Honestly, I never would’ve thought drowning was an actual possibility in a motor vehicle collision, but here I am, inside Nelly’s water bed on wheels.
By the time she pulls the Equinox into the airport entrance, I’ve seen my life flash before my eyes a good seven times, and I’ve run the conversational equivalent of a marathon.
I know the names of all five of her horses, her retired parents’ favorite vacation spots, and that her sister Marion makes her money by selling homemade scarves on Etsy.
Once she pulls the SUV to a stop at the departure curb, I hop out with about six times as much energy as the carcass formerly known as my body feels, but also, I hop the hell out.
Five stars. That’s what you do with Uber, right? Just be thankful you arrived at your intended destination alive? What the fuck do I know.
I’m tempted to get on my knees and kiss the concrete, but my body isn’t up for that kind of physical challenge. My legs and lower back ache as I yank my suitcase out of the back seat, and a sigh escapes my lungs of its own accord.
