“No buts, please.” He puts his finger to my lips. A surge of electricity rushes through my body. His touch does crazy things to me. I want to push him away, but I don’t.
“What I’m trying to say is that…I love you.”
The words hang in the air in between us. I’m not sure if I heard him right. Gatsby looks me straight in the eyes and repeats himself.
“I love you, Annabelle,” he says. “I’ve loved you since the moment I first laid my eyes on you. I love you. I just could never say it before.”
These are the last words I expected to hear from him.
“I love you, too,” I whisper. I’ve wanted to say that to him for so long. I just didn’t have the courage or the strength. I wasn’t sure if he would say it back to me.
“You do?” He grabs the back of my neck and pulls me close to him.
Our lips touch, and sparks of electricity course through my body.
“I love you,” he whispers, pulling my head toward his.
“I love you, too,” I whisper and bury my hands in his hair.
“I love you,” we say together and fall back onto the bed.
THE END
The Stranger (Billionaire Matchmaker Book 1)
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?
**WARNING: Steamy scenes, NO Cheating, HEA!
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, however, 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. Maril
yn 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 have 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!
“Thank you for asking the women to leave,” I say.
“Yeah, yeah,” she shakes her head. “Logan, you’re 30 years old. Rich. Handsome. Why do you need two women for a night? Why don’t you try to find one woman for the rest of your life?”
It’s funny. My mom asks me the same kind of questions, except that she doesn’t exactly know about the threesomes. Something about my mom asking me irritates the hell out of me. When Marilyn does it, I don’t really mind. I find it kind of humorous.
“How can I be just with one woman, Marilyn?” I ask, jokingly.
“Then you’ll have someone to take care of you. Cook for you. Clean for you,” Marilyn says, pushing a rag across the kitchen island, even though it’s already spotless.
“But I already have a woman who does that for me,” I say.
“Oh yeah? Who?”
“You, of course!” I wrap my arms around her soft, pudgy shoulders and give her a big squeeze.
“Oh, Logan, please!” she pushes me away. “I won’t be around forever, you know. I can find other clients, if that means you’ll finally get married.”
“Are you serious? You want me to get married so much that you’ll forgo the crazy salary that I pay you?”
She rolls her eyes and shakes her head.
“I told you it was a crazy salary,” she says, pointing her index finger in my face. “No normal housekeeper is paid this much.”
“Well, you’re not just a normal housekeeper,” I shrug. “Not everyone will kick women out of my bed in the morning in such a nice and delicate way that they’ll actually come back to me for more.”
Marilyn rolls her eyes again and laughs. A big, infectious laugh, the kind that makes the whole world light up.
“You crazy, Logan,” she says.
“You know you love me!” I joke. “But seriously, what do you think of Allison?”
“You don’t want to know.”
“C’mon, please?” I give her kiss on the cheek. She blushes and pushes me away. I know I make her uncomfortable, but in a good way. I think of her as an old, wise aunt, and I really do appreciate her input in my life. Even i
f I rarely follow it.
“Allison is nice, of course. They’re all nice. And they’re all in love with you. But you know that already,” Marilyn says sprinkling some baking soda on the stove. She insists on using only natural cleaners, even if they require her to do more work.
“Yes, I do,” I say, winking at her.
I’m almost entirely air dried by now, and I head toward the master bedroom to take quick shower and wash the salt off me.
“But you don’t need a nice girl, Logan,” Marilyn yells as I close the door the room. That’s one of the things that I love about her – she isn’t someone who’s threatened by closed doors. She knows that she voice carries, and she isn’t afraid to use it.
“Oh yeah? And what kind of girl do I need?” I yell through the door.
I’ve already taken off my swimming trunks and I’m admiring my nicely toned body in the mirror. I love the way the early morning light wraps itself carefully around each muscle in my stomach. I run my fingertips of the each curve of the six pack, which look like little hills protruding out of a 3D topographical map.
“Someone who can put up with all your shit,” Marilyn yells and starts the vacuum cleaner. I smile at myself in the mirror. This conversation is over. I turn on my rainfall shower and enter my favorite thing about my house. On occasion, I’ve shared this shower with a girl or two, but I love this shower so much that I tend to vet women extra carefully before introducing them to it.
Unlike my old apartment shower and bathtub combination, which barely had room for one person, this shower room has space for at least four. The walls are made of beautiful Mexican tile – my favorite – and the floor is made up of little pebbles to mimic the feel of the earth. Water falls directly from the 12 foot ceiling, and there are additional steam nozzles on the side, which I don’t use nearly as much as I should. It was this shower that made me finally realize how much money I really had and how far I’ve come.
Auctioned to Him Book 8 Page 48