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.
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.