Home > The Billionaire Book Club (Billionaire Collection 3)

The Billionaire Book Club (Billionaire Collection 3)
Author: Max Monroe

Author’s Note:


The Billionaire Book Club is a full-length, stand-alone romantic comedy novel.

At the end, we’ve included an excerpt from Dr. OB, one of our best-selling romantic comedies about fun-loving Dr. Will Cummings. ;)

Now that you know, don’t panic and throw your kindle across the room when The Billionaire Book Club concludes at around 90%. We do not provide e-reader insurance with this purchase.

 

Prior to diving in, we would like to offer you a very important warning.

This book is funny.

Like, really funny.

Unless you’re one of those people who can execute the silent laugh, we strongly urge you to read in the privacy of your own home.

Of course, there are always exceptions to the rule.

Such as: if you give zero fucks, if you work for Michael Scott at Dunder Mifflin in Scranton, if you’re in some sort of cackling contest, if you’re reading while at a comedy club, if you’re recording a laugh track for NBC, and/or if you’re reading in Walmart—because Walmart, you can pretty much do anything there—then it’s probably okay to read in public.

Otherwise, reading in public is not recommended.

 

Happy Reading!

All our love,

Max & Monroe

 

 

To our true first love, our forever soul mate: Carbs.

 

To anyone who has ever felt like life is soup and they’re the fork: Screw the fork. Pick up the bowl and slurp from that motherfluffer. You got this.

 

To Cynthia, our Uber Eats driver in Dallas: We’re not sure how four people managed to order $75 worth of food from Steak ’n Shake, but you did one hell of a job of delivering. We love you long time.

 

 

Ruby

 

At twenty-eight years old, I, Ruby Rockford, have reached a point in my life where I understand why some women—some very intelligent and wise women—prefer to remain single and, instead of trying to find happiness and companionship with a man, just adopt a dog.

Woof-motherflipping-woof.

You think I’m joking? I’m not.

Let me paint you a picture.

Hypothetically, let’s say there are two women. And for the sake of keeping things simple, we’ll call them Happy Woman and Annoyed Woman.

Happy Woman is single. She could give two shits about dating, and men aren’t even a bullet point on her list. She has a great job she loves, fantastic friends, an Amazon Prime and a Netflix subscription, and her dog Fido is the only man in her life.

Fido is a very good boy.

He is house-trained, likes long walks in Central Park, and whenever Happy Woman comes home from work, Fido is there with his tail wagging, ready to greet her. Her furry buddy loves nothing more than her and his balls and gives her zero grief.

Basically, things are fucking good in Happy Woman’s world.

Now, let’s take a look at Annoyed Woman.

Instead of Fido, she has a man…and well, we’ll just call him Dickhead. She has a job she loves and great friends—she even has Amazon Prime and Netflix—but her boyfriend, Mr. Dick, takes up all of her time with his bullshit.

He never calls when he says he will, gives so many mixed signals he could add some vodka and create his own flipping cocktail, and when it comes to commitment, he ain’t got none, hon. He’s all about the fucking chase, the big challenge, but once he gets Annoyed Woman in his bed, his interest turns lackluster at best.

It’s a classic tale of a fair maiden and her scumbag, and in this day and age, it happens way too fucking often.

Even…for me.

Because I’m not the Happy Woman in this scenario—no, I’m not even close.

Happy Woman wouldn’t get involved with the biggest manwhore in New York City and expect it to last. She has Fido, for goodness’ sake! She knows better!

And unlike me, she’d never dive headfirst into a relation-shit with a man who I knew—I fucking knew—was bad news from the start.

I mean, what kind of psychopath puts themselves out there for a guy who’s never put out anything more than his dick in the entire history of his dating life and anticipates getting anything other than heartbreak in return?

The myriad of delusions it takes to convince yourself you’re different—that you’ll be the woman who turns his world upside down and sets him on a course for commitment—is nothing short of comical.

Honestly, it’s ridiculous—absolutely absurd to think a man like that would change. That he would stop leaving broken hearts all over the world just because he met someone with the guts and willpower to pretend he doesn’t have any effect on her.

It’s irrational thinking at its finest, and I’m ashamed to admit…I’m the crazy one.

When it comes down to it, Caplin Hawkins is a woman-using, heartbreaking, philandering commitment-phobe of a man, and he isn’t ever going to change.

It’s fact enough that it should be common sense.

Like…the first thing Sephora asks you upon entering their rewards program. What is your favorite shade of lipstick? And have you heard about that asshole Caplin Hawkins?

Like…it’s an inspirational quote on Pinterest-inspired wooden boards and hanging inside everyone’s home right above the damn mantel. There’s no place like a home that doesn’t involve Caplin Hawkins.

Like a freaking emergency alert from the White House triggered a reverse call to every goddamn number in the free world with a very important message—Caplin Hawkins is bad fucking news.

The saying “men are dogs” is completely inaccurate.

Caplin Hawkins isn’t a dog. Dogs don’t break a million fucking hearts.

I really should’ve known better, and yet…here I am.

Why? Why couldn’t I have been rational enough to realize all of this before—before I let myself get trapped in his web of charm and witty remarks?

Before I let him into my bed and my heart, and he changed my life forever.

Before I fell in love.

Because now, I’m screwed. I’ll always be comparing every man I meet to the cockiest—literally and figuratively—son of a bitch ever to grace my life.

I’m a big, steaming pile of Caplin Hawkins roadkill.

Seriously. The road crew should be here any minute to scrape my good-for-nothing rotted carcass from the pavement.

Not Fido’s. Mine.

Woof-motherflipping-woof.

Still don’t believe me?

Keep reading—you’ll see.

I have to warn you to be careful, though.

Because you’re going to like Cap from the start. You’re going to think he’s charming and funny and sexy. He’s going to make you laugh and giggle and flutter your eyelashes, even if you’re generally not one of those eyelash-fluttering kinds of girls.

You’re going to find yourself enamored of him.

Hell, you probably won’t be able to resist him.

But don’t be fooled. He’s a sexy-as-fuck wolf in sheep’s clothing, and when Caplin Hawkins is involved—any time Caplin Hawkins is involved—there’s a really good chance you’ll end up roadkill too.

 

 

Cap

 

A calendar alert pops up on the screen of my computer, reminding me about the call I have scheduled for tomorrow with a client named Gene Huffman, and I curse under my breath.

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