The Billionaire’s Forbidden Little Sister

by Monroe, Max

  The Billionaire’s Forbidden Little Sister

  A Romantic Comedy

  Published by Max Monroe LLC © 2019, Max Monroe

  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

  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

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Epilogue

  The Day I Stopped Falling for Jerks Excerpt

  Intro

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Acknowledgments

  Max Monroe’s Billionaire Rom Com Titles and Suggested Reading Order

  Author’s Note

  The Billionaire’s Forbidden Little Sister is a full-length, stand-alone romantic comedy novel.

  At the end, we’ve included an excerpt from The Day I Stopped Falling for Jerks, one of our best-selling romantic comedies about fun-loving Australian surfer Oliver Arsen. ;)

  Now that you know, don’t panic and call up your friend at the police station to activate an emergency alert when The Billionaire’s Forbidden Little Sister concludes at around 90%. We will not be able to help you get out of that pot of hot water.

  Also, prior to diving in, we ask that you please read this very important disclaimer:

  *Disclaimer: The Billionaire’s Forbidden Little Sister is NOT a taboo romance about a billionaire banging his own sister. In fact, no one is getting with THEIR OWN sister. However, if you would like for this book to be a taboo romance about someone getting with their actual sister, then you can still read this, you’ll just have to switch around some names. Every time you see Theo, switch it to Cap, and vice versa. We can’t guarantee it won’t be confusing as hell at times, but who knows? Maybe it’ll be just what your doctor ordered.

  Now that we got that out of the way, please enjoy this hot and hilarious romantic comedy! Happy Reading!

  All our love,

  Max & Monroe

  To red, red wine—who makes us feel so fine and keeps us rockin’ all the time: We can’t actually drink you without getting a raging hangover, but we won’t hold that against you. Clearly, we can’t hang.

  To anyone who is now singing that UB40 song in their head: We’re sorry. But also, you’re welcome because that’s an awesome fluffing song.

  And, last but not least, to anyone who has ever experienced the horrific pain of a *Brazilian wax: Girl, you deserve all of the laughs in this book, and we are prepared to deliver like an obstetrics team awaiting a set of octuplets.

  *PSA: If you’re getting your wax done with strips, please CEASE immediately. For the love of God, find yourself somewhere that uses hard wax (i.e. European Wax Center #notanad). We can’t go on without getting this important message out there for whatever poor, desperate soul needs to hear it.

  Theo

  The late afternoon, early August sun reflects like glitter off the impressive glass panes of the skyline of New York City as the helicopter lifts off the pad on the roof of Cruz Headquarters and makes a hard turn to head across the Hudson River to New Jersey.

  The scene would be the kind of luxury that movies are made of—the kind of thing gold-digging women dream of and powerful men exploit. It’d be a goddamn magnanimous showing of my wealth and status and paint a picture of me that would surely make it into tales of my legacy—if not for one thing.

  I’m not wearing pants.

  Yeah. Weird. A button-down shirt, my suit jacket, calf-high black socks, charcoal gray boxer briefs, and a set of tanned legs complete my ensemble.

  I should probably explain, but I have to tell you up front, I wish the story were better.

  I wish I could tell you that I ran into a woman in some deliciously seductive location and promptly got lost in making her every sexual fantasy come true.

  That we’re at the tail end of seventy-two of the wildest hours of my life, and she decided the perfect way to say goodbye was with a mid-flight blow job. That the lush flesh of her lips is around the base of my dick, with the rest of its length down her throat.

  But the real story, as it were, is that I spilled my entire cup of scalding hot coffee on the crotch of my pants as I boarded this whirlybird, and, as I’m due to fly out of Teterboro within the hour, headed for Italy—and my suitcase was already messengered over to the airport to meet me at the plane—it was either go pantsless…or suffer from third-degree burns.

  I dial my assistant Carey on my phone, and my pilot, Pete, noticing my signal, patches the call through to my headset so I’ll be able to hear over the sound of the whooping blades.

  Carey answers on the second ring. “Mr. Cruz?”

  I laugh at his confusion.

  “Yes, Carey, it’s me. Who else would be calling from my phone?”

  “Sorry, Bossman. You’re supposed to be on a helicopter, and you only left two minutes ago. I’m surprised to be hearing from you off schedule.”

  I roll my eyes at his mocking.

  I’m one of those rare types who thrives off a schedule inundated with work and borderline obsessive precision. Some might use the term workaholic, but I prefer to think of myself as someone who’s motivated.

  “Yeah, well, I had an unexpected incident.”

  “Ooh, do tell.” His voice drops an octave, and I can imagine him leaning an elbow onto his desk and cranking the reception up on his ears to better hear the gossip.

  “Sorry to disappoint, Care. Though I’ve placed this call at an unexpect
ed time, my predisposition—or lack thereof—for gabbing like a couple of pals hasn’t changed.”

  “Ugh. Bossman—always the pooper, never the party.”

  “Listen, Carey, just have someone waiting for the chopper with a pair of pants.”

  “Ooh, I take it back. Maybe you are a party.”

  “It’s a boring story, trust me.”

  “No. I choose not to believe you. I’m going to picture you losing your pants while riding a magic carpet in the Arabian desert.”

  I scoff as the helicopter swoops over a thick section of rich green trees interspersed with busy two-lane roads. “You’re picturing Aladdin? Without pants?”

  “Don’t judge my fantasies, Mr. Cruz.”

  Carey, my assistant of the last five years, is tall, handsome, and unfortunately for his many teasing efforts—some of which may actually border on sexual harassment—not my type. I like long legs, curvy hips, and a warm, wet pussy. And as much as he might be willing to try, he’ll never be able to give me that.

  But he’s also the only person who can manage my schedule with the care and precision on which I thrive. He’s organized and forward-thinking, and besides all that, he’s a truly interesting person. I don’t know what I’ll do without him if he, one day, decides to move on with his life.

  He’s also, obviously, a pain in my ass.

  “Whatever, Carey. Just have the—”

  “The pants will be waiting,” he interrupts, just barely covering the evidence of his giggle with efficiency.

  “Great.”

  “While I have you, I just got confirmation of your schedule for Positano.”

  I’ll be spending the next ten days in Positano, Italy—one of the most beautiful places in the world, but this isn’t the kind of trip that warrants leisure or fun.

  This is purely business.

  Which pretty much sums up my life—visiting some of the most sought-after destinations across the globe, all in the name of work.

  God, I can’t even remember the last time I took a vacation—saw somewhere just for the pleasure of seeing it, enjoying it…relaxing. No doubt, it was years ago, before I graduated college. Before I started Cruz Nightlife. Before I became responsible for a billion-dollar empire.

  But I hardly have reason to complain. I have a great life with great—somewhat overbearing—friends and, because of my wealth, access to anything and everything I want, right at the tip of my fingers.

  “Fantastic. Run it down for me.”

  “When you land, it’ll be early tomorrow morning Italian time, and you have a full day of meetings scheduled. I suggest you try to get a little sleep on the flight so you can adjust to the time change swiftly.”

  “Thanks, Mom,” I tease, and he clucks his tongue in a way that sounds a lot like fuck off. I ignore it and focus on my priorities. “Who am I meeting with tomorrow?”

  “The first meeting is at eight with Matteo Russo, and the second is at nine with Stefano Alfonsi.”

  Both are big Italian businessmen with deep pockets who just so happen to want a piece of the Cruz Nightlife pie. Their investments would be helpful, but it’s not necessarily wanted or needed. I’ll just have to see how much sugar and honey they want to put on their proposition pies.

  “And then,” Carey continues, “you have a breakfast meeting with Franco Lugoni about delivery expediency, an eleven a.m. final walk-through of Club Indigo…a meet, greet, and final instruction with incoming staff at noon…a one o’clock lunch meeting with Marco Luna, the club manager…a quick three o’clock drop-in with the resort manager to confirm your plans for club promotion allowances on the premises, and at four thirty, the owner of the company you’re using for complimentary private shuttle service wants to have a quick discussion about the contract.”

  A wrinkle forms in my brow as he quits speaking unexpectedly. “And then?”

  “My God,” he says through a laugh. “I’m getting to it, but unlike someone I know, I like to take a breath every now and then.”

  I roll my eyes. I may not make the most extracurricular use of my time—I mean, I don’t have a wife and one point five babies, like most of my friends—but I’m breathing just fine. Carey just likes to be dramatic about everything.

  “You have the press coming to the hotel at six to gather some footage of you to air the next day—”

  “Why didn’t we push that back to air in time for the opening?”

  “So you can work out kinks if they arise on opening night, Bossman.”

  “Right.” I nod. “Good thinking.”

  “Jesus, Mr. Cruz. I’ve been with you long enough. I thought you’d know better than to question my excellence at this point.”

  I shake my head, but I don’t respond. His ego is big enough without my padding it.

  He doesn’t seem to mind as he rambles on. “After that, you’re pretty much free until eight, when you need to be at Club Indigo for the big opening. God only knows what you, Mr. I Work Too Damn Much, are going to do with all that free time…”

  I laugh at his merciless mocking of my one free hour of the day. I don’t have a lot of downtime, but the point of my trip is efficiency. If I didn’t schedule my every waking moment, this ten-day trip would easily turn into twenty.

  “I’m sure I’ll be able to use it wisely. Dinner perhaps. And maybe a little brainstorming to find some extra tasks for you to keep yourself busy with while I’m gone.” I smirk to myself. “You know, the usual.”

  “Well, you may have lost your pants, but at least you haven’t lost your sense of humor. Maybe you’ll be able to use that to find an exotic Italian beauty while you’re there.”

  I roll my eyes again, and somehow, he senses it.

  “Don’t roll your eyes at me, Mr. Cruz! At this rate, I’m gonna have to start scheduling dates for you and adding them to your calendar.”

  I snort, but that doesn’t stop him.

  “Answer me this…if I put your wedding down for two years from now, will you order a bride off the internet just in the interest of keeping the appointment?”

  “Carey.”

  “What? You are literally in the business of pleasure, but your whole damn life is the opposite.”

  “I’m not all work,” I retort. “I have fun.”

  He snorts. “When?”

  “I go out on dates.”

  “No, no, those are not dates. Trust me, I’m a man with very loose restrictions on the definition, but make no mistake, what you do is not dating. Those are just meetings. Meetings in which you take out your dick, but meetings all the same.”

  He’s not lying, but what can I say? I don’t have time for relationships.

  The only things I do have time for are the pre-scheduled “meetings” with a few beautiful women I consider close friends. We eat, we drink, we fuck, and then we go our separate ways until our schedules align again.

  “I also have drinks with the guys,” I add.

  “When they go to a bar within walking distance of your dinner meeting.”

  “So, what you’re saying is that I’m fantastic with time management.”

  “What I’m saying is that you’re fantastic with not doing anything besides work.”

  “What about the book club I’m in? That, I can assure you, isn’t work-related.”

  His responding laugh is a cackle. “Yeah, but you never read the books. You make me read the books and tell you what happens. Plus, the only reason you go is because your rich and insane buddies make it impossible not to go. I field at least fifty calls from them days prior to every one of your little book club meetings.”

  “Damn, Carey. And here I thought I had the only assistant among my friends who was pro-balls. Turns out, you love busting them just as much as they do.”

  Caplin Hawkins, Milo Ives, Thatcher Kelly, Kline Brooks, Quincy Black, Trent Turner, Wes Lancaster, and Harrison Hughes—the members of my book club and some of my best friends—all have women dedicated to keeping their business ships afloat and sailing
straight. Some of them are more hard-core than others, but none of them takes any shit.

  Which is exactly what these kinds of men need.

  It’s the same quality they’ve found in the women in their lives outside of the office—with the notable exceptions of Harrison and me, of course, the last two single bachelors in the bunch.

  In fact, Caplin Hawkins’s pursuit of his woman, Ruby Rockford, is the whole reason we have a book club in the first place.

  “I’m going to tell all of them you said that,” Carey retorts.

  “Wow. Is there no loyalty among us? Bro-code? Something?”

  “I’m gay, Bossman. Bro-code means something entirely different with me.”

  I shake my head with a laugh as he continues.

  “You’ll just have to settle for knowing I’ve got all your shit handled. Your schedule is in your calendar, your email, and I’ve made sure the front desk at the resort has a printed-out itinerary as well. They’ll give it to you when you arrive.”

  See what I mean? He never misses a fucking beat. I need someone who is ten steps ahead of me at all times, and seeing as I’m six foot three and my strides are long, that is no easy feat. Carey has just the right metaphorical legs.

  “So, you’re saying you’re on top of things?”

  “Yes,” he says, and I can hear a smile in his voice. “It’s almost like I’m so good at my job that my boss should consider giving me a raise…”

  “What’s that? It’s hard to hear you over the helicopter noise,” I lie good-naturedly.

  Carey laughs. “Ah, yes. Suddenly, it’s a problem.”

  I look out the window as the helicopter makes its descent toward the tarmac at Teterboro Airport, and it’s my turn to smile. “Well, we are about to land.”

  Carey hums in my ear as a man holding a folded object—which I can only assume is a pair of my pants—braced against the wind comes into view, and I have to give it to him. We never even got off the phone, I never heard Carey make reference to my need in the background, and still, somehow, he managed to arrange for someone to be there with my pants. Maybe he does deserve a raise.