The Billionaire Matchmaker
An Alpha Billionaire Romance
Charlotte Byrd
Byrd Books
Contents
Copyright
Want to Hear about New Releases?
Acknowledgments
About Malibu Connection: a Billionaire Matchmaker novel
Prologue
Chapter 1 - Logan
Chapter 2 - Logan
Chapter 3 - Logan
Chapter 4 - Avery
Chapter 5 - Avery
Chapter 6 - Avery
Chapter 7 - Logan
Chapter 8 - Logan
Chapter 9 - Avery
Chapter 10 - Logan
Chapter 11 - Avery
Chapter 12 - Logan
Chapter 13 - Avery
Chapter 14 - Avery
Chapter 15 - Logan
Chapter 16 - Avery
Chapter 17 - Logan
Chapter 18 - Avery
Chapter 19 - Logan
Chapter 20 - Avery
Chapter 21 - Logan
Chapter 22 - Avery
Chapter 23 - Logan
Chapter 24 - Avery
Chapter 25 - Avery
Chapter 26 - Avery
Chapter 27 - Logan
Chapter 28 - Avery
Chapter 29 - Avery
Chapter 30 - Logan
About The Date: A Billionaire Matchmaker Novel
Prologue
Chapter 1 - Chloe
Chapter 2 - Chloe
Chapter 3 - Finn
Chapter 4 - Chloe
Chapter 5 - Finn
Chapter 6 - Chloe
Chapter 7 - Finn
Chapter 8 - Chloe
Chapter 9 - Chloe
Chapter 10 - Chloe
Chapter 11 - Finn
Chapter 12 - Finn
Chapter 13 - Chloe
Chapter 14 - Finn
Chapter 15 - Chloe
Chapter 16 - Chloe
Chloe 17 - Chloe
Chapter 18 - Finn
Chapter 19 - Chloe
Chapter 20 - Chloe
Chapter 21 - Chloe
Chapter 22 - Finn
Chapter 23 - Finn
Chapter 24 - Finn
Chapter 25 - Finn
Chapter 26 - Chloe
Epilogue - Chloe
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Books by Charlotte byrd
Copyright
Copyright © 2016 by Charlotte Byrd
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
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Acknowledgments
Dear Reader,
Thank you so much for taking the time to read this book. Without you, I would not be able to do what I love. Your support and generosity means the world to me.
I’m particularly grateful to my devoted and dedicated Advanced Reader Team and all of you who have read and reviewed the book prior to its official release.
I’m also sending a special thank you to Mary E. Wolney, Nicole Batalon, Amy Monroe, Lisa Tantsits, and Denise Toups, Amy Shonk, Anne Rse - the wonderful people who found all the typos and errors from one of the last versions of the book. Without you, this work would not be the book that it is! Thank you!
If you would like join my Advanced Reader Team and get FREE copies of my books in return for honest reviews, please email me.
If you just want to let me know what you think about my book, please don’t hesitate to write me. I love to hear from my readers!!
Love,
Charlotte
[email protected]
About Malibu Connection: a Billionaire Matchmaker novel
I’m Dolly Monroe and I’m a billionaire matchmaker. I like my hair and boobs the way I like my diamonds: big. Why do I do this? I’m really good at it, and I’m a sucker for a happily ever after. Over the last thirty years, I’ve successfully set up close to 4,000 couples. Over the last five years, the majority were billionaires. Their stories need to be told. These are my favorite ones.
The last thing that Avery Lewis is looking for is a relationship. She has a crazy ex-boyfriend who’s refusing to leave her alone and a thriving floral shop near Malibu, California that keeps her very busy. When her friend gives her a gift certificate to Dolly Monroe’s billionaire matchmaking service for her 25th birthday, she’s more than a little skeptical. The last thing that she expects is to meet the love of her life.
After selling his banking start-up to Google, Logan Davenport is officially a billionaire. He’s swimming in money and sex, and that is the way he likes it. But he needs a respectable date to his brother’s engagement party. So he finally gives in and lets his eccentric aunt, Dolly Monroe, find him a date. Much to his shock, she sets him up with an opinionated, average-looking, floral shop owner who seems impervious to his charms. Avery doesn’t want him, and that makes him want her even more. Before he knows it, he falling in love for the first time ever.
But Logan is keeping a secret. No, he isn’t married. No, he doesn’t have a child. No, he doesn’t have cancer. It’s worse than that. Much worse. And when Avery finally finds out, he risks losing the only person he has ever really cared about. Can their love survive his secret?
Prologue
My name is Dolly Monroe and I’m a billionaire matchmaker.
I am 5’10’’ when I’m awake and 5’5’’ when I’m asleep. I’m suspicious of women who don’t wear heels, just as I’m suspicious of people who call me out of the blue asking for favors.
I have a strict policy when it comes to my hair, one which I’ve abided to since I was a little girl in West Texas – the bigger the hair, the closer to God. My hair is as platinum as some of my clients’ records, and it perfectly offsets the 10-carat diamond ring on my left hand.
I never let my waist get bigger than 22 inches, and I do not have the same restrictions on my breast size. The girls were 36 DD three years ago, and now they’re 36 EE. Who the hell knows how big they’re going to get in another decade?
I like my men the way I like my purses: in a variety of colors and styles and with a high price tag. My husband, who’s also my high school sweetheart, doesn’t mind, of course, because my little business makes more than a hefty penny and keeps him in a 20,000 square foot Malibu beachfront house and allows him to spend his days surfing and golfing.
You see, I’ve been at this for a very long time. I was 13 the first time I did my first set up: my second cousin with my best friend from middle school. They dated through 10th grade, married in 11th, and celebrated their 40-year wedding anniversary last year.
I started my matchmaking business when I was 20 and, at first, I set up average folk like my cousins, then wealthy folk, then millionaires, and now billionaires. This is the only thing I’ve ever done, and I’m pretty damn good at it. People aren’t that different you know. Of course, billionaires come with their attitudes and highfalutin opinions of their own importance, but at their core, they want the same thing everyone else wants: for someone to give a damn about them, not just their money or power. What typically ends up being the problem, how
ever, is that the billionaire (both men and women) think they’re going to get this thing from some 20-year-old, 5’11’’ bimbo, but that’s rarely the case. That’s where I come in.
Why do I do this?
I’m a sucker for a happily ever after. I believe everyone deserves one, and I can get it for them, if they just get out of their own way and let me.
How can I be so sure?
I have a great track record. I have successfully set up 3,988 couples. That’s more than 130 couples per year over 30 years of matchmaking. Not all of them were billionaires, but over the last five years a huge portion of them were. Close to four thousand couples now are living their happy ending because of me. It feels damn good to say that.
And then I made a mistake. I told my publisher friend about this, and she went wild.
“You have to write down some of your favorite stories, you absolutely must. People will go crazy over it!” she said.
So, that’s how we got here. This series depicts some of my favorite couples from the last few years. Their names have been changed to protect their privacy, but everything else is as true as it happened from my clients’ perspectives. Though each couple eventually found their happily ever after, the road to get there was often difficult and treacherous. But what would life be without a little intrigue and turmoil, right?
Chapter 1 - Logan
I wake up in the middle of my California king bed with a splitting headache and an aching groin. There are two women lying next to me, both dead asleep. They don’t look as gorgeous as they did last night at the club, but I’m used to women’s trickery and mystique when it comes to makeup. All those contouring tutorials on Youtube may confuse most men, but I’ve got three sisters. I know when a nose is made to look a little smaller, lips fuller, eyes larger. And that’s okay. Why not look more beautiful if you can? It’s pleasing to the eyes, even if it’s a little deceitful. But women aren’t the only liars. We all are. Men constantly lie about how much is really in their bank accounts by leasing cars that they have no business driving based on their paychecks. And why? To impress women, of course.
I’m lucky this way. I recently sold a small start-up that I founded after college to Google, and the sale officially made me a billionaire. The app allows people to make personal loans to their friends, family, and strangers just like banks and credit cards do and charge interest. It’s called BankMe, and whenever I mention the name people generally pretend to have heard of it, even though most of them haven’t. I don’t mind. It doesn’t really matter.
Threesomes are fun. I try to have a couple once or twice a month at least, because they keep me on my toes. Most men want to have two women at once, but I don’t want to be just a user. I want the women to have a good time and to enjoy themselves. So, it’s important for me to make sure that they do. Last night, however, I made a mistake. I make it a point to always fall asleep on one of the sides of the bed so that I can sneak out without waking anyone up. But last night, for some reason, I fell asleep in the middle. Now, I have to carefully climb out from beneath the blankets without waking either of them up.
I decide to go left, toward the ocean. The girl on the left is turned away from me. I carefully lift the sheet and slide out. Then I climb over her, making sure that I don’t pull the sheet too tight so I don’t risk waking her up. Just when I’m almost scot-free, she snores and turns around. I hold my breath and freeze. I’m draped over her on all fours, holding myself up by fingertips and tiptoes. Luckily, she doesn’t wake up. A moment later, I throw my legs over her and land silently on the floor.
All of this maneuvering is an absolute requirement. I hate morning conversations and make it a point to never talk to the women who sleep over. I’m not so rude as to make them leave in the middle of the night, but I also don’t hang around to make them breakfast. Instead, I go outside, grab my board and surf until Marilyn comes by at 8 a.m. to clean, make me breakfast and kick the girls out.
Marilyn is the longest relationship I’ve ever had with a woman who isn’t related to me. Marilyn is from El Salvador, and she has been with me since I lived in a one-bedroom apartment in West Hollywood. Even back then, when I made only $2000 a month and paid about $1300 in rent, I wasn’t much of a housekeeper and chose to spend $50 a week on her rather than getting out the vacuum cleaner and doing it myself. My oldest sister likes to say that even back then I was thinking rich. Maybe she’s right.
I stumble a little down the stairs on the side of my porch. I live in a 5,000 square foot, four-bedroom house on the beach in Malibu. After the deal with Google, I can afford to upgrade, of course, but this place is enough for me right now. I love it here. The beach is only a few steps away, and it’s in the quieter part of Malibu, away from the tourists and the paparazzi. The paparazzi usually don’t bother me (who cares about rich techies, right?), but I have been out with more than a few models and celebs and now they’re starting to get a little nosy.
I grab the pair of swimming trunks that I keep under my porch along with my board and change into them right there. This has become somewhat of a habit of mine – there’s no one out here this early, and I don’t think anyone can see me under my porch. Mainly, I change out here because I don’t really give a shit. I doubt that anyone will really complain about seeing my 6’1’’ tan body, my six-pack, which looks like it has been chiseled out of stone, or my large dick.
I grab my board and head toward the water. My head still feels like someone’s hitting it with an ax. I definitely had a little bit too much to drink last night. I think it was all because of Allison. Allison was the one sleeping on my right. The thing about threesomes is that usually one of the girls just isn’t as hot as the other one, and a part of you has to settle because two are frankly better than one. So that’s pretty much what I was expecting when Allison asked if I was interested in partying with her and her friend Samantha last night. But then I saw Samantha. Both of them are equally stunningly beautiful with light green eyes and full, soft lips. They both have infectious laughs, bubbly personalities without being bimbos, and high sex drives. The only thing that’s different about them is their hair color – one is light blonde and the other is a dark brunette. As soon as I saw them, I was in heaven, and that was even before they came over and did all those ungodly things to me and each other.
Still, no matter how hot the girls, I have rules for myself for a reason. I follow them religiously for a reason. Let them sleep over, but go surfing before they wake up. Let Marilyn wake them up and put them out. Marilyn is great at delivering early morning excuses and explanations about why I’m not there. He’s surfing now, and then he has an early meeting with clients, is her usual one. Today, she’ll have to be more creative. Allison knows that I’ve sold my company and don’t officially have a job or any clients to meet with anymore. I’m sure she’ll think of something.
I enter the freezing water. There are a few surfers out, and they’re wearing wetsuits, but I like the feel of the cold water on my bare skin. It’s refreshing and exhilarating. Mornings in Malibu tend to be overcast and a little dark, and the water is colder here than in the rest of Southern California. But I’ve been living here for close to two years now, and I’m pretty used to it.
When I dip my long yellow board into the first wave, my headache vanishes immediately. I ride the first wave all the way to the edge of the sand and then paddle back out into the blue. I ride another one and another one and another one, and each one makes me feel more alive than the one before.
I stay in the water for close to an hour. Then I shake my hair out before grabbing the board and walking back upstairs. This is one of the perks of having a house on the beach. Back when I lived in West Hollywood, I used to get up at the crack of dawn to beat the traffic, drive forty minutes, park and surf for forty-five minutes before heading back into the traffic and the grind of my life. The irony is that back then I had a job that I needed to get to and had to squeeze my surfing in before it. Now that I don’t have a job and actually h
ave time to waste my life in LA traffic, I live right on the beach and don’t have to.
Chapter 2 - Logan
“Hey Marilyn,” I say walking into the kitchen, dripping wet.
“Oh, Logan, you’re getting all the floors wet!” she exclaims and runs over with a towel. Marilyn is a small, round woman with curly hair who speaks in a thick Spanish accent.
“Sorry about that,” I say.
This is a game we play every morning. For some reason, Marilyn doesn’t believe me that the bamboo floors will be perfectly fine if they get a little wet, and I pretend that I’m actually sorry about it.
She has already made my smoothie, and it’s sitting at the end of the kitchen island. One thing I can tell you is that Marilyn was not happy when I insisted on having smoothies for breakfast. I don’t know if it has anything to do with being born and raised in El Salvador, or if it’s just a Marilyn thing, but for some reason she doesn’t approve of fruit being mashed up into tiny pieces.
“The fruit lose all of their nutrients when they’re processed like that,” she used to say. “You should eat them cut up, but not processed!”
To which I would smile and laugh and insist on it anyway, even if they no longer had the nutrients. Her response was a shake of the head and something that sounded like a curse to the devil in Spanish.
Luckily, both of us have begrudgingly agreed to disagree, and she no longer tries to convince me to have hot tamales for breakfast. Even though, those suckers are to die for. If you ever the chance to have one of Marilyn Abarca’s tamales, do not pass up the chance. You’ll think that you died and went to heaven.
“Delicious,” I say, taking generous gulps of the berry banana green tea smoothie. Even though she hates the idea of smoothies, Marilyn is the type of person who takes immense pride in her work, and since she must make smoothies, she makes the best fucking smoothies on the planet. Lucky for me!
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