The Billionaire Book Club

by Monroe, Max

  The Billionaire Book Club

  A Romantic Comedy

  Published by Max Monroe LLC © 2019, Max Monroe

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 978-1-7321702-6-1

  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 Silently Correcting Your Grammar

  Formatting by Champagne Book Design

  Cover Design by Peter Alderweireld

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Author’s Note

  Dedication

  Intro

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Epilogue

  Extended Epilogue

  Dr. OB Excerpt

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Acknowledgments

  Author’s Note:

  The Billionaire Book Club is a full-length, stand-alone romantic comedy novel.

  At the end, we’ve included an excerpt from Dr. OB, one of our best-selling romantic comedies about fun-loving Dr. Will Cummings. ;)

  Now that you know, don’t panic and throw your kindle across the room when The Billionaire Book Club concludes at around 90%. We do not provide e-reader insurance with this purchase.

  Prior to diving in, we would like to offer you a very important warning.

  This book is funny.

  Like, really funny.

  Unless you’re one of those people who can execute the silent laugh, we strongly urge you to read in the privacy of your own home.

  Of course, there are always exceptions to the rule.

  Such as: if you give zero fucks, if you work for Michael Scott at Dunder Mifflin in Scranton, if you’re in some sort of cackling contest, if you’re reading while at a comedy club, if you’re recording a laugh track for NBC, and/or if you’re reading in Walmart—because Walmart, you can pretty much do anything there—then it’s probably okay to read in public.

  Otherwise, reading in public is not recommended.

  Happy Reading!

  All our love,

  Max & Monroe

  To our true first love, our forever soul mate: Carbs.

  To anyone who has ever felt like life is soup and they’re the fork: Screw the fork. Pick up the bowl and slurp from that motherfluffer. You got this.

  To Cynthia, our Uber Eats driver in Dallas: We’re not sure how four people managed to order $75 worth of food from Steak ’n Shake, but you did one hell of a job of delivering. We love you long time.

  Ruby

  At twenty-eight years old, I, Ruby Rockford, have reached a point in my life where I understand why some women—some very intelligent and wise women—prefer to remain single and, instead of trying to find happiness and companionship with a man, just adopt a dog.

  Woof-motherflipping-woof.

  You think I’m joking? I’m not.

  Let me paint you a picture.

  Hypothetically, let’s say there are two women. And for the sake of keeping things simple, we’ll call them Happy Woman and Annoyed Woman.

  Happy Woman is single. She could give two shits about dating, and men aren’t even a bullet point on her list. She has a great job she loves, fantastic friends, an Amazon Prime and a Netflix subscription, and her dog Fido is the only man in her life.

  Fido is a very good boy.

  He is house-trained, likes long walks in Central Park, and whenever Happy Woman comes home from work, Fido is there with his tail wagging, ready to greet her. Her furry buddy loves nothing more than her and his balls and gives her zero grief.

  Basically, things are fucking good in Happy Woman’s world.

  Now, let’s take a look at Annoyed Woman.

  Instead of Fido, she has a man…and well, we’ll just call him Dickhead. She has a job she loves and great friends—she even has Amazon Prime and Netflix—but her boyfriend, Mr. Dick, takes up all of her time with his bullshit.

  He never calls when he says he will, gives so many mixed signals he could add some vodka and create his own flipping cocktail, and when it comes to commitment, he ain’t got none, hon. He’s all about the fucking chase, the big challenge, but once he gets Annoyed Woman in his bed, his interest turns lackluster at best.

  It’s a classic tale of a fair maiden and her scumbag, and in this day and age, it happens way too fucking often.

  Even…for me.

  Because I’m not the Happy Woman in this scenario—no, I’m not even close.

  Happy Woman wouldn’t get involved with the biggest manwhore in New York City and expect it to last. She has Fido, for goodness’ sake! She knows better!

  And unlike me, she’d never dive headfirst into a relation-shit with a man who I knew—I fucking knew—was bad news from the start.

  I mean, what kind of psychopath puts themselves out there for a guy who’s never put out anything more than his dick in the entire history of his dating life and anticipates getting anything other than heartbreak in return?

  The myriad of delusions it takes to convince yourself you’re different—that you’ll be the woman who turns his world upside down and sets him on a course for commitment—is nothing short of comical.

  Honestly, it’s ridiculous—absolutely absurd to think a man like that would change. That he would stop leaving broken hearts all over the world just because he met someone with the guts and willpower to pretend he doesn’t have any effect on her.

  It’s irrational thinking at its finest, and I’m ashamed to admit…I’m the crazy one.

  When it comes down to it, Caplin Hawkins is a woman-using, heartbreaking, philandering commitment-phobe of a man, and he isn’t ever going to change.

  It’s fact enough that it should be common sense.

  Like…the first thing Sephora asks you upon entering their rewards program. What is your favorite shade of lipstick? And have you heard about that asshole Caplin Hawkins?

  Like…it’s
an inspirational quote on Pinterest-inspired wooden boards and hanging inside everyone’s home right above the damn mantel. There’s no place like a home that doesn’t involve Caplin Hawkins.

  Like a freaking emergency alert from the White House triggered a reverse call to every goddamn number in the free world with a very important message—Caplin Hawkins is bad fucking news.

  The saying “men are dogs” is completely inaccurate.

  Caplin Hawkins isn’t a dog. Dogs don’t break a million fucking hearts.

  I really should’ve known better, and yet…here I am.

  Why? Why couldn’t I have been rational enough to realize all of this before—before I let myself get trapped in his web of charm and witty remarks?

  Before I let him into my bed and my heart, and he changed my life forever.

  Before I fell in love.

  Because now, I’m screwed. I’ll always be comparing every man I meet to the cockiest—literally and figuratively—son of a bitch ever to grace my life.

  I’m a big, steaming pile of Caplin Hawkins roadkill.

  Seriously. The road crew should be here any minute to scrape my good-for-nothing rotted carcass from the pavement.

  Not Fido’s. Mine.

  Woof-motherflipping-woof.

  Still don’t believe me?

  Keep reading—you’ll see.

  I have to warn you to be careful, though.

  Because you’re going to like Cap from the start. You’re going to think he’s charming and funny and sexy. He’s going to make you laugh and giggle and flutter your eyelashes, even if you’re generally not one of those eyelash-fluttering kinds of girls.

  You’re going to find yourself enamored of him.

  Hell, you probably won’t be able to resist him.

  But don’t be fooled. He’s a sexy-as-fuck wolf in sheep’s clothing, and when Caplin Hawkins is involved—any time Caplin Hawkins is involved—there’s a really good chance you’ll end up roadkill too.

  Cap

  A calendar alert pops up on the screen of my computer, reminding me about the call I have scheduled for tomorrow with a client named Gene Huffman, and I curse under my breath.

  Shit. The Huffman case.

  I knew I had something on the docket for tomorrow that I needed research for, but with the chaos of today’s office environment, I couldn’t remember what the hell it was until right this moment.

  “Heather…Heidi…Hoda!” I yell quickly, trying to get my new assistant’s attention.

  “Jesus Christ,” Milo Ives, founder and CEO of Fuse Technology, mutters in my ear. “Are you requiring alliteration in your harems now?”

  I suppose some might consider it bad form to be on the phone with the CEO of a billion-dollar empire without giving him my undivided attention, but I, Caplin Hawkins, am a one-man show.

  Also, Milo is one of my best friends, and he can simply fucking deal with my lack of focus on whatever the hell legal contract he’s wanting me to nail down so he can add more zeros behind the number on his bottom line. The man has enough money to last him a lifetime. Surely, not being able to acquire another tech company under his umbrella wouldn’t be the end of the world.

  Basically, I run my office in much the same way I run my life.

  There are no partners to turn to, no office lackeys to count on, no wife to answer to when I don’t come home at a certain hour.

  I make my own decisions, and in work, I know I’ll do the job the way I want it done.

  But it’s that mind-set that’s gotten me where I am today.

  At a mere thirty-one years old, I’m a man—a damn good-looking one, I might add—who has built one hell of a successful career as a corporate lawyer.

  But I only have so much time to give, so many hours in the day, and as a result, in both the office and my relationships with women, multitasking is always necessary, bad form or not.

  “I fucking wish,” I grumble, scrounging desperately around my cluttered desk to find the Post-it note I know I put somewhere. After a straight twenty-four hours here at the office, there are files and Red Bull cans and takeout order receipts on every square inch of usable surface. “I’m trying to remember my assistant’s name, and I’m pretty damn sure it starts with an H.”

  “It’s Liz,” he deadpans, and if we weren’t on the phone, I’d definitely give the asshole a big hug—right around the neck with only my hands. As it is, and we are, I chortle a fake laugh.

  “I know Liz’s name, Jackwagon. But she decided she needed time off from work to have a baby, if you can believe that. Like working for me isn’t a vacation every single day of her life.”

  Nine months ago, my regular assistant Liz, my right-hand woman—my Girl Friday—up and decided to have a baby. Just like every other goddamn person in my life, she succumbed to settling down into marriage and babies and happily fucking ever after.

  Pffft. Happily ever after. As if proverbially handcuffing yourself to one person for the rest of your life is going to result in bliss. Divorces would be a hell of a lot lower than fifty percent if that were the reality.

  Frankly, I don’t understand the disgusting practice, and as much as my love-sick friends like to believe otherwise, I never will.

  Of course now, something that’s annoying on its best day—the Leave It to Beaver epidemic—is even worse. Now that Liz is a part of it, it’s actually inconveniencing me.

  Don’t get me wrong, I don’t dislike babies and I’m happy for Liz and all that fucking jazz, but goddamn, she couldn’t have picked a worse time to procreate.

  “I don’t think you can really call maternity leave vacation, Cap,” Milo advises in my ear. “She’s caring for a newborn.”

  “Not yet, she’s not,” I argue petulantly. “She still has three days until her due date. You’d think she’d do me the courtesy of sticking around until the blessed event. We’re busier than we’ve ever been, and she’s left me on my own.”

  He snorts. “You’re a real asshole, you know that?”

  “No, Milo. I’m a man in distress. There’s a very big difference. Miniskirt McGee is making my life a living hell today, and I’ve got at least twenty appointments with people way more important than you that I’m not even remotely prepared for.”

  As Milo chuckles cruelly, I test out every goddamn H name I’ve ever heard in my mind.

  Helga.

  Harper.

  Haven.

  Hillary. Hillary!

  Yes, that’s it!

  “Hillary!” I yell victoriously.

  “Jesus,” Milo grumbles. “I need that eardrum, asshole.”

  I ignore him as the door to my office opens, and a glossy-lipped, mile-high stiletto-wearing Hillary pops her head in. “Did you, like, need me for something?” she asks and proceeds to rest a black miniskirt-clad hip against the doorframe and file her fucking nails.

  You have got to be kidding me.

  “Yes,” I practically shout, waving her the rest of the way into office with a wild arm. “I need you to run to the law library and get the—”

  She purses her lips, frowns, and hums a noise that has to be the equivalent of water torture to anyone in the universe with ears. It’s dry and phlegmy at the same time, and—maybe the worst part—it’s not even structured in the affirmative. “Yeahhh, I don’t think I can make it.” She pauses her nail filing to glance down at her shiny gold watch, and my brain attempts to hemorrhage. “It’s already four, and I’m meeting the girls in SoHo for margs at four thirty.”

  Margs.

  I clench my teeth to keep myself from yelling so loud I shatter my floor-to-ceiling windows—unlike Milo’s eardrum, I give a shit about them. “We keep long hours here. Surely Liz told you that.”

  A small wrinkle forms between her eyebrows. “Liz?”

  “The woman who hired you to temporarily replace her!” I snap. I can’t help it. This chick has pushed me over the edge.

  Milo laughs in my ear so hard I hang up on him.

  No goodbye, no see
ya later, asshole. Just a poignant slam of the phone onto its base. I’m pretty sure he’ll get the message.

  Hillary jumps at the sound, drops her nail file, and grabs at her right breast. I’d normally feel a great fondness for such a fondle, but all I can feel right now is the throb of a vein in my forehead. “I’m from a temp agency. I didn’t speak to a Lizzy or whatever.”

  What the fuck? Liz didn’t even interview her?

  “Whatever. Forget Liz. Forget the margs. I need you to stay—”

  She’s shaking her head before I can even finish my sentence.

  “I can’t back out on the girls. Tonight, our girls’ night is Sex and the City-themed, and I’m Samantha. I wanted to be Carrie, but Leslie said I don’t have the bone structure for her.” She makes a show of gesturing toward her skimpy outfit like it will all make sense to me, and I have to blink three times before I can even find words that don’t include f-u-c-k to respond.

  “Do you realize I’m your boss? And that the reason you’re here is to work a job, and that sometimes that job requires you to work past four?” I ask with a calmness I most certainly do not feel. The Huffman case is the kind of thing CNN covers. Not a divorce proceeding in county court. And I sure as shit need things to be in order in my office so I can continue to be the powerhouse lawyer every one of my clients knows me to be. It’s why they seek me out. It’s why billion-dollar CEOs want me on their team.

  “I’m sorry, but I have plans. The girls can’t be short a Samantha tonight. I mean, it wouldn’t make any sense if it’s just Carrie, Charlotte, and Miranda.” She shrugs, completely unaffected. “Maybe I’ll be able to stay later another day?”

  Good God. No wonder she’s getting work out of a temp agency.

  She doesn’t wait for my response. Instead, she bends over to pick up her fucking nail file and steps back out of my office, closing the door behind herself.

  Blind with rage, I pick up the phone and dial the only woman’s number I know by heart. Up until this point in my life, she’s been steady. Constant. Dependable.