by Max Monroe
Sleighed It
A Bad Boy Billionaires Bonus Novella
Published by Max Monroe LLC © 2017, Max Monroe
All rights reserved.
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
Editing by Lisa Hollett, Silently Correcting Your Grammar (who adores us so. <3)
Formatting by Champagne Book Design
Cover Design by Perfect Pear Creative
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Foreword
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Acknowledgments
To our readers, this holiday season, we’re thankful for a lot of things, but you are at the top of our list. Okay, you’re second. But you’re right below Oreos, so don’t take it too personally.
We hope you get everything on your Christmas list this year—though, if it’s something from us, you should probably plan on getting it in July. HAHA! Sorry.
To online shopping and Amazon Prime, thank you for catering to our laziness and never requiring us to wear bras or put on pants while doing our Christmas shopping this year. That’s what we call a perfect holiday.
By Kline Brooks
About a week ago, I received a package in the mail from Max and Monroe.
The wrapping was sloppy at best and torn at the edges—no doubt a rush job by one member of the lovable duo while they steered with their knee and pulled their coat tighter to hide the fact that they’d forgotten a bra while cruising down the highway. But inside—an area they’d obviously crafted with more care—lay a manuscript for a novella entitled Sleighed It, an oversized pink Post-it note stuck haphazardly to the top. A bad feeling washed over me instantly.
Kline,
We know you said you preferred to stay out of the limelight, and that you told us all about your most recent holiday adventures in confidence, but we couldn’t help ourselves.
This one was too good not to share with our readers.
And since you are our swooniest male lead and a reader favorite, will you pretty please write the Foreword?
Just think about it, okay? No pressure.
Well, some pressure. Because we know our readers would love-love-love to hear from you.
Did we mention you’re our favorite?
So, just read it, and then get the foreword to us by the end of this week. We’ve got a tight publishing schedule with this one, and our editor needs it soon. Oh, and promo started today.
But very little pressure.
Lots of love,
Max & Monroe
P.S. We went ahead and scheduled a photo shoot for you for the cover. We’ll email you the details, but you should know we already paid the deposit, and some of us aren’t billionaires.
P.P.S. Your masseuse told us you like light pressure, so really, you should thank us. It’s like we’re massaging you.
Needless to say, I wasn’t left with a lot of options. When Max and Monroe want something, they’re pretty demanding. It’s like a prison camp filled with comedians, and the jokes keep coming until you come to heel or die. The fact that I just got back to the office from that fucking photo shoot is proof of that.
Fucking hell, Thatch is going to have a field day with this cover once it’s released.
So now, here I sit, trying to figure out what in the hell to write for a Foreword.
I’ve read Sleighed It, in an effort to stir some sort of flow into my creative fountain for this thing, and despite the fact that I’ll be on this cover strung up in Christmas lights and red velvet boxers, I enjoyed every second of it—maybe even more than when I was living it.
Probably because reading about it makes it easier to pretend it isn’t me.
Max and Monroe spared no detail and provided no complimentary rose-colored glasses in their portrayal of me, my family, and my friends, but I assure you, after I read this novella, when my sheer disbelief and the PTSD from this year’s holiday adventures dissipated, there was nothing left but a whole lot of love.
Life is a roller-coaster ride, but when you find that one person—or in my case, a whole group of batshit crazy people—to spend your days and nights with, the bumps and curves only provide you with more appreciation and thankfulness for the ride itself.
My wife, especially, is my world. Every day, I strive to be good enough for her, to be the man she deserves. Believe me, Georgia Brooks deserves a man who epitomizes good and honest and noble and kind.
I don’t know that I’m all those things naturally, but she sure makes me try to be them for her.
My adorably awkward funny girl. The most loving, caring, and awe-inspiring mother to my two girls. A strong, ambitious, career-driven woman who can and will accomplish anything she sets her mind to.
And most importantly, my soul mate, my person.
Is it obvious I love her?
I sure fucking hope so. Because now that I’m done listing all the qualities she’d love to hear me list, I’m going to get real.
She is a fucking lunatic.
One with the sexiest ass and most show-stopping smile I’ve ever seen, but a lunatic all the same. Manically organized and anally hyper, she’s an apple from her family’s tree whether she likes to admit it or not.
And between keeping up with my wife’s whims, running Brooks Media, raising two spunky and precious girls, and Max Monroe writing the stories of our lives into their books, life has been crazy these past few years. Not to mention, Georgia’s family splashed into the media after her brother Will starred in the popular reality docuseries The Doctor Is In and was dubbed Dr. Obscene to millions of viewers and never fully climbed back out.
It has been an absolute whirlwind, and recently, during this holiday season, my adorably zany wife craved peace and quiet and to spend a perfect Christmas without the added shenanigans of her family.
But what is a perfect Christmas?
Is it Georgia’s meticulously planned-out dinner with flawlessly wrapped presents and the ambiance of a fire and softly playing holiday music?
Or is it merely spending the holiday season with the ones you love most?
I’d go to the ends of the earth to ensure my wife’s happiness—insane, minutia-driven schedule or not. But for those who aren’t so devotedly betrothed, the feeling might not be mutual.
My dear, beautiful, amazing readers, I invite you to turn the page and dive into another story of our lives. One that will no doubt bring you laughter and leave you with that deliriously happy and full-heart feeling Max Monroe is so good at giving.
The people you’ll read about aren’t perfect—but they’re mine.
Happy Holidays, everyone.
All my love,
It’s the Most Wonderful Craziest Time of the Year
Thanksgiving
“Should I expect the usual suspects at dinner tonight?” Kline questioned from the driver’s seat with a smirk, and immediately, I sighed.
Thick and dry, it was weightier than my normal sighs by about 2,500 pounds—roughly the cumulative mass of the band of relatives I was expecting to encounter imminently.
After spending the early afternoon eating a Thanksgiving lunch with Kline’s parents, my day already felt twenty-six hours long, and, unfortunately for me, it was only five o’clock. T-minus seven hours to go.
“Considering it’s Thanksgiving with my crazy a-s-s family, I imagine the whole gang will be there.” Bad words had to be spelled out when your back seat had a curious five-year-old and an impressionable one-and-a-half-year-old ready to repeat anything that filled their little ears. Our friends Thatch and Cassie Kelly had already expanded my children’s vocabulary enough for a lifetime.
My husband chuckled softly beside me, and I briefly considered taking my cuticle scissors out of my purse and stabbing his bubble of good humor repeatedly.
Don’t get me wrong, I loved my family, but generally speaking, the holidays—any holiday—and my family didn’t have a good track record. It was challenging enough getting through our monthly family dinners with my parents, but when extended relatives were involved, shit never failed to hit the proverbial fan. Bloody carnage where a finger used to be, septic backups, drunken Christmas tree tipping, and a near house fire thanks to a turkey in the deep fryer—you name it, we’d had it.
“Mommy! Mommy!” Julia called from the back seat. “Has it been ten minutes yet? Are we at Mimi and Papa’s yet?”
Mimi and Papa, otherwise known as my mother and father, or Dick and Savannah Cummings, were two of my first-born daughter’s favorite people on the planet. So much so that I often noticed her mimicking their behavior.
The first time I’d picked up on it, I’d nearly dropped dead in terror.
“Almost, sweetheart,” I said evenly—even though I’d answered the same question fifteen times already. My calm exterior was a maternal façade. On the inside, I was slowly unraveling. A mother could only answer the same question so many times before she started to break. When the masking tape of propriety and lies holding me together gave way, everyone near me had better look out.
“Ugh! I’m tired of being in the car!” Julia whined again, and I shot venomous eyes at Kline.
You did this to me, they yelled. He smiled. Bastard.
What was it with children and car rides?
Or more than that, why did their sense of time always seem to move at warp speed?
Ten minutes equated to thirty seconds in their little minds.
Of course, Julia, my precocious and adorable five-year-old, was going through a bit of a stubborn phase that made all time seem painfully twisted, regardless of whether we were in the car or not. For the past six months or so, she couldn’t let a moment pass without loudly voicing her disapproval when she did not like something—and she apparently didn’t like much of anything anymore.
Seriously, guys, this little phase is driving me up the wall.
It’s really bad with a capital B and the word f-u-c-k-i-n-g in the front.
Taking Julia on a trip to the grocery store? Forget about it. I might as well attempt to push a feral cat around in a cart filled with milk and tuna. And don’t even get me started on what happens on the days she doesn’t feel like going to school. Have you ever thought about what it would be like to get the little girl from The Exorcist bathed, dressed, and ready to head out the door? Sounds pretty terrible, huh?
My fellow moms, please pray for me. Lord knows I can’t handle another thirteen years of little Miss Diva’s attitude.
“Momma,” Evie calmly announced from her rear-facing car seat sitting beside her sister.
“Yeah, baby?”
“Hi!” she exclaimed simply, snorting several giggles immediately after.
“Hi, Evie,” I responded and silently thanked the heavens above that my littlest child was content being a calm and happy little lady—so far.
“Daddy!”
“Hi, Evie,” Kline answered immediately, his blue eyes glimmering with love as he glanced in the rearview mirror at his two girls.
Our eighteen-month-old giggled in response and then exclaimed, “Lia! Lia! Lia! Lo youuuuuu, Lia!”
“Love you, Evie,” Julia answered sweetly.
I guessed even little Miss Diva couldn’t be annoyed by her baby sister’s love.
I glanced behind me to find the girls holding hands, and my heart stretched tight with love. It was moments like these that reminded you why you wanted to be a parent in the first place. Between the chaos and stubborn phases and the sleepless nights, you could always count on those little, precious slivers of time where unconditional love for your children consumed you.
After all, God had to have something in place to prevent mother-on-child homicide and facilitate the survival of the human race.
The familiar tree-lined circular driveway and white brick of my parents’ home came into view, and the sweet reminiscence of childhood memories and the stomach-clenching anxiety that always seemed to occur during the holidays hit me all at once. It was like whispering “home sweet home” and grabbing the “oh shit” handle at the same time.
“All right,” Kline announced as he switched off the ignition. “We’re here.”
“Yay!” Julia shouted and immediately started unbuckling her own seat belt. “Mimi and Papa’s!”
Kline turned toward me and placed his hand tenderly on my shoulder. “Ready?”
I shook my head, and he grinned.
“It’ll be fine, Georgie,” he reassured, but I called bullshit with a raise of my eyebrow.
“You and I both know holidays with my family never end fine.”
Take last Christmas, for example. After we’d eaten turkey fried in beer—only my father, Dick Cummings, would be crazy enough to make another attempt at this after the fire of 2007—my entire family had proceeded to get into a screaming match about the inner workings of the Twilight series. Team Edward or Team Jacob might seem innocent enough, but what should have been a simple debate merely provided a domino effect into every issue we had ever had with one another. How a fictitious vampire love story served as a catalyst for an all-out family brawl was beyond me, but the night had ended with half of my family storming out before the presents were even opened and Julia crying the whole way home.
Disaster, I tell you. It was always a fucking disaster.
“If anyone brings up Twilight or your uncle Donnie tries to discuss politics or, God forbid, your aunt Rhonda tries to sell us items from her most recent pyramid scheme, I’ll be the first to get the girls packed up, and we’ll blow this popsicle stand.”
See? Even my husband doesn’t want to relive the Twilight fiasco of last year.
“Promise?”
Kline slid a loose lock of hair behind my ear and kissed my cheek. “Promise, baby.”
“Let’s go! Let’s go! Get me outta here!” Julia screeched as her little hands went apeshit on the child-locked back door.
“Love you,” my husband whispered through the pounding beat of my rapidly escalating blood pressure. He pressed a quick peck to my lips before hopping out of the driver’s seat and unleashing the caged animal—aka our five-year-old—from the back seat.
Quick as a whip, Julia sprinted across the driveway until she reached the stoop of my parents’ front door and started a secondary assault on its—thankfully—solid wood.
At a much more normal pace, I slid out of the passenger seat and unbuckled Evie from her car seat. She smiled a full-toothed grin and wrapped her little hands around my neck as I lifted her out of the car.
Two seconds later, her littl
e hands reached out for her father, and he happily pulled her into his arms. Evie was a total daddy’s girl. I couldn’t blame her, though; I loved my husband something fierce too. Always doting, always tender, and never failing to show his love, Kline Brooks was the best father and husband a woman could ask for. If anyone was lucky in our relationship, it was for sure me.
By the time we reached the door, my dad already had Julia on his hip and a big grin slung across his face. “Savannah! The Brookses are here!” he called behind him, and my mother’s face appeared over his shoulder mere seconds later.
“Happy Thanksgiving!”
“Mimi!” Julia squealed and hopped into her grandmother’s arms.
“Oh my goodness, I swear you’ve grown two inches and gotten even prettier since the last time I saw you!”
Julia giggled. “You sos silly, Mimi! You just saws me yesterdays!”
Don’t ask me why, but my five-year-old had a thing for adding the letter S to the majority of her words, even the non-plural ones. And no, it wasn’t the product of a lisp. These S’s were completely voluntary and random in their timing—at least, I hadn’t been able to discern a pattern.
My mom smiled and kissed her oldest granddaughter on the nose before setting her to her feet. With Evie now being carried by my dad, Julia ran into the foyer, and the rest of us followed behind.
I guess it’s not off to too bad of a start…
Kline smiled down at me as he wrapped his arm around my shoulder and led us into the living room. The instant we stepped into the room, we were greeted with hellos and happy Thanksgiving wishes from everyone sitting around the fire and television that was currently blaring a football game.
I looked around the room and took stock. The usual suspects—as my husband so eloquently described them—were, in fact, all here.
Granny Cummings. Uncle Donnie, Aunt Rhonda, and their four sons—and my cousins—Randy, Ralphie, Ricky, and Raymond. Two of whom were married and had their spouses with them.