Home > The Billionaire's Forbidden Little Sister(3)

The Billionaire's Forbidden Little Sister(3)
Author: Max Monroe

“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.

“Thanks for the schedule,” I say, and he hums again. “And I’ll think about the raise,” I add, and I click end on the call before he can offer one of his infamous sarcastic retorts. Lord knows he would if I gave him time.

Still, I make a mental note to let my accountant know to make the change in his salary. I may play a hard-ass in my head, but I’m a pretty nice guy at heart. One who understands the value of hard-working and reliable staff and never hesitates to compensate them well. And Carey deserves this raise and then some.

With practiced ease, Pete sets down the chopper on the pavement and makes quick work of shutting down the propellers and getting everything ready for me to disembark. He doesn’t even question the situation as the man with my pants approaches, and instead, climbs out to grab them for me, climbs back in, and passes them back.

I swiftly cover my exposed legs and underwear, and then open the door to my side and exit onto the tarmac. As the August sun blares its angry rays at me, it doesn’t take long for me to see the silver lining of my previously pantsless state. It was, at least, a brief respite from sweating my balls off.

“Thanks again, Pete. Have a safe flight back into the city,” I say, looking back to my pilot with a nod.

A former Apache pilot in the army, Pete affirms my goodbye with his usual salute from the skin just above his gold-rimmed aviators and immediately dives back into his preflight checklist.

The Cruz Enterprises’ jet sits just a couple hundred feet away, outside of its usual hangar. I head straight for it, thankful for the absence of traditional security that comes with a commercial airline, and am greeted by a member of the ground crew at the bottom of the stairs.

“Welcome, Mr. Cruz.”

I nod and jog up the short flight and into the cabin. Four pilots are aboard as a safety measure given the flight time anticipated, just under ten hours, and I make a point to shake each of their hands before turning to the main cabin to take my seat.

They seem to appreciate the gesture, and I take solace in knowing the people who are in control in the rare instance I can’t be.

Unfortunately, when all the formalities are completed and I’m finally ready to settle in, I don’t make it more than two steps before stopping dead in my tracks.

What. The. Fuck.

Stretched out on one of the cream leather benches—in a goddamn fluffy white bathrobe with slippers to match, mind you—is my older brother, Brogan.

The very last person I expected to see here—the last person, if I’m honest, I wanted to see here.

“Theo! My man!” he exclaims with a smile and lifts his glass of champagne in my direction. “I hear you’re opening up a new club in Positano. What is that now? Ten nightclubs around the globe?” He wrinkles his nose and winks at me. “You little overachiever. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were trying to become the favorite son and grandson.” He downs the rest of the bubbly fluid and smacks his lips like a fucking heathen.

I swallow hard against the annoyance in my throat and grit out a correction. “Twenty-five, actually.”

“What?”

“Twenty-five clubs,” I elucidate. “And I think we both know I am the favorite.”

“Touché, brother,” Brogan says through an amused laugh as I shuck my suit jacket, hang it up in the front closet, and make myself comfortable in one of the seats across from him. His bathrobe sash has come undone, and the whole swath of material is precariously close to opening completely. I hope to God he’s got something on underneath it.

He doesn’t even wait for me to be fully settled before ruining his concession with a snide smile. “Though, I’m pretty sure ole Merl prefers to hear my wild tales of sex and debauchery rather than your boring work shit.”

Merl, our ninety-year-old grandfather and the foundation of Cruz Resorts, is both a brilliant man and a dirty old bastard. He’s the master of inappropriate behavior, and I guess his DNA is responsible for the bathrobe-wearing bachelor in front of me.

Though, my grandfather at least had the decency to live out a meaningful, successful life first. He built his company from the ground up, carried it through strife, lessons learned, and unparalleled success on his back, all so we as a family could carry out the legacy of what it’s become now.

When he retired, our father Luke took over, and upon my MBA graduation from The Wharton School at the University of Pennsylvania, I started Cruz Nightlife.

It took a little while to get a portfolio of quality investors I could count on to elevate my clubs to the caliber I wanted them to be, but after a decade of work, I can honestly say I’ve gotten there.

In fact, one of the first clubs we opened in New York is how I met Wes Lancaster and Thatcher Kelly. Wes, poised as an investor, surprised the hell out of me by going joint venture to create a neighboring club and late-night restaurant combination. It’s one of the only ones in the world, designed entirely to round out the closing time experience.

You’ve probably heard the phrase You don’t have to go home, but you can’t stay here. We added our own twist to it with, We suggest you go next door.

When Wes suggested we get Thach involved in the money, my life as I knew it ended, and life with Thatcher Kelly as a friend began.

He’s overbearing, insulting, egotistical, and one of the best friends I never knew to hope for. Friendship with him pretty much led to the rest of my circle.

It’s also the reason I’m a member of a fucking book club, but I’ve finally convinced myself to get over that. Unless I want to change my name, give up my fortune, and enroll myself in the Witness Protection Program, I’m stuck in it for life.

Anyway, eventually, Cruz Resorts and Cruz Nightlife merged into Cruz Enterprises, and now the entire family really is a part of the family business.

Except, of course, the man in the bathrobe and slippers across from me.

My older brother Brogan lives life by the seat of his pants—whenever he decides to wear them, obviously—and when it comes to money, he just eats away at the generous trust fund my grandfather bestowed upon us.

His tales are wild, but his work ethic is non-fucking-existent.

“And did you say twenty-five, Theodore? As in twenty-five nightclubs?”

I nod and then sigh, knowing that by entertaining a conversation with him, I’m giving him an opportunity to take it somewhere I’ll likely regret. I should have just pulled out my computer and used it and its implied work-related tasks like a human would use garlic against a vampire. “I did.”

But not acknowledging the work seems just as unacceptable. With twenty-five locations in some of the most popular cities around the world, and another ten locations in the works, Cruz Nightlife is really starting to become a household name. And I’m proud to say I’ve been at the center of building it. My hours, my sweat, my work—they’re responsible for employing thousands of people.

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