The Billionaire’s Forbidden Little Sister

by Monroe, Max

  “I think you’re going to have to go to the interwebs, Bossman, and try to find her that way.”

  “Interwebs?” I question. And do what? Google her? I don’t even have her last fucking name.

  “Instagram. Facebook. Twitter. You know, the interwebs. It’s basically instant access to everyone’s friend of a friend of a friend. A modern-day six degrees of Kevin Bacon, if you will.”

  “Are you seriously suggesting I start a Twitter account right now?”

  “No. I’m not. Because you already have a Twitter account.”

  I furrow my brow. “What? How do I have a fucking Twitter account?”

  “I started it for you over a year ago. The app is on your phone.” He sighs. “Sweet Lucifer, do you listen to anything I tell you?”

  “I listen to at least twenty percent, Care, and I think we both know that’s a damn miracle with the way you ramble.”

  “Funny,” he retorts. “Now, tell me who—”

  “I’m not telling you anything else. So, don’t bother asking.”

  “God, you’re never any fun,” he huffs out.

  “Goodbye, Carey.”

  I hang up the call, and even though I know using something like Twitter to locate Lena is about the most absurd thing I could ever do, I manage to locate the stupid app on my phone.

  One tap to my screen and I’m in.

  A few swipes of my fingers later, and I’m actually contemplating doing it.

  And before I know it, contemplation turns into something that looks a lot like action.

  @TheoCruz

  Say you hypothetically met someone, but you don’t know their last name (or where they live or basically anything personal about them), and you decide you want to see them again. How do you go about…finding them?

  God, I sound like a lunatic.

  I’m seconds away from deleting the tweet, but apparently, I’m not the only lunatic in the Twittersphere.

  Instantly, replies start pinging in.

  @SarahStrong

  Is this someone a woman? ;) ;)

  @Realish_Mike

  Tweet out what you do know about her, dude. Let us help you find her.

  @BagofDicks

  You can find anything on Craigslist, man.

  Yeah, Bag of Dicks, pretty sure I’m not going to find Lena on fucking Craigslist.

  But tweet it out? Would that work?

  I mean, Caplin Hawkins fell in fucking love, so yeah, stranger things have happened.

  More replies keep coming, but I ignore them, and since I’m already this deep into my insanity, I focus on the task at hand—finding the elusive Lena.

  @TheoCruz

  To the wild, beautiful woman I met in Italy with the extensive knowledge of “Almost-Midnight Swimming Rules,” I think it’s time you tell me your last name so I can buy you a drink in the city and bar of your choice.

  I keep it vague but give just enough information that if she read it, she’d know instantly.

  Oh yeah, you’re a real modern-day, smooth-talking, Sherlock fucking Holmes.

  It’s official. I’ve lost my mind.

  And, unfortunately for me, because the universe is so fucking wonderful, it ensures that nameless Twitter strangers aren’t the only ones to see my proverbial breakdown.

  @GetThatched

  DUDE. What is happening?

  @Cap_i_tain

  This is the best fucking thing I’ve seen all day. HAHAHAHAHAHA.

  Of course, those fuckers would chime in with some kind of opinion.

  But do I care? I probably should, but truthfully, if that tweet helps me find her, then it’ll be worth all the bullshit razzing they toss my way.

  Elusive Lena and I have some unfinished business.

  Too bad, unless you want to turn into a psycho and call her friend Pippa, finding her feels a lot like searching for a needle in a fucking haystack.

  Lena

  Ten hours on a flight home from Milan does absolutely nothing for my physical appearance. My hair is a rat’s nest of curls. There are dark circles under my eyes. And although my mouth feels drier than the Sahara, my body has somehow managed to retain a gallon’s worth of water in my ankles.

  Someone stick a fork in my sausage ankles, this chick is d-o-n-e, done.

  Once I step off the plane, the traveling madness continues.

  First, I walk ten minutes in the wrong direction.

  Then, it takes me exactly seventy-billion hours to get through the line at the passport check and convince the ICE agent sitting behind the glass that I’m not in a drug cartel or some kind of illegal-substance-smuggling mule.

  Thank you, JFK, for making everything run so smoothly.

  While I appreciate their diligence with security, I really would just like to find my damn bags and get the hell out of this airport before the swelling that’s now migrated to my calves doesn’t burst through my favorite pair of Good American jeans.

  Khloe Kardashian is right, by the way, these suckers hug your hips and ass like it’s no one’s business.

  Once I spot my bags on the carousel, I wrestle them off the spinning ramp, toss them onto a cart, and maneuver my way through the chaos that is baggage claim until I slip through the exit doors victoriously.

  When my brother is nowhere to be found at pickup, I plop my ass down on a bench and shoot him a text.

  Me: Where are you? My flight landed an hour ago, dude.

  He responds with a voice message. “Yeah, but you have to get through customs and get to baggage claim before I can pick you up.”

  I blow my hair out of my eyes and type another message.

  Me: I’m THROUGH customs AND baggage claim. Now I’m waiting outside for you like some kind of degenerate vagabond with a suitcase cart.

  “Hold your horses, drama queen. I’ll be there in five.”

  Drama queen. I’ll fucking show him drama queen when his tardy ass gets here.

  As I wait for my ride, I see a few missed text messages I must have received during the flight. One from Maybe that demands I call her when I get home. And another one from Pippa telling me to let her know I’ve landed in New York safely.

  Which I do.

  Me: My feet are so swollen they could be used as flotation devices, and I look like I haven’t slept in two weeks, but I’m officially in New York.

  She responds a minute later.

  Pippa: Those intercontinental flights are always a bloody bitch.

  Me: Tell me about it.

  Pippa: Says the girl who just flew in a cozy first-class pod. You don’t know what bad is until you’re flying coach, sandwiched between two middle-aged men who smell like onions, and the only options to pass the time are to a watch a movie you can’t hear over the damn plane’s engine or sleep sitting straight up like a fucking vampire.

  Me: The pods aren’t that great…and vampires?! I’ve never had a chance at a transatlantic Edward Cullen. Who’s REALLY been missing out? Me or you?

  Pippa: I can assure you, the men I’ve spent my flights with don’t look anything like Robert Fucking Pattinson. Your sense of reality is just distorted from all your flying on HawCom’s private jets.

  I can’t deny that since well before I could talk or walk, I’ve been spoiled with luxury and the kinds of things most people never get to experience. No doubt, having a father who owns a billion-dollar media conglomerate—otherwise known as HawCom—certainly makes things easy.

  Probably a little too easy, if I’m being honest. Hence my whole being twenty-eight years old and finally focusing on creating a career for myself thing.

  Me: Okay. Okay. I get your point. I’m a little spoiled.

  Pippa: LOL. Pretty sure you mean A LOT spoiled. Luckily, despite the golden spoon that’s been in your mouth since the day you were born, you’re one of the kindest, most generous girls I’ve ever known. I wouldn’t have survived the first nine months in Milan without you.

  Me: Or your drunken week on the Amalfi Coast… Definitely wouldn’t have survived
that without me.

  Pippa: Don’t be a wanker! I’m trying to be serious.

  Me: Aw, are you getting emotional, Pip?

  Pippa: I was. Too bad you’re a pisser.

  Me: I miss you too, Pip. I know I just left yesterday, but I’ve gotten used to having your British boobs around.

  Pippa: Same, you perky-titted whore. But I know you’re going to kill it at your internship. Seriously. New York Fashion Week won’t know what hit ’em next weekend.

  Next weekend.

  Holy Italian cannoli, I’m basically hitting the ground running.

  Starting tomorrow, I’ll be in Loro Gianni’s studio, helping him with final preparations for his big runway show.

  I’m nervous. Incredibly nervous. But mostly, I’m excited. I feel like I’ve been waiting my whole life for something like this.

  Me: God, I love you. And, Pip, you’re going to do big things with Vivienne Westin. Big Fucking Fantastic Things.

  When I spot my brother’s Range Rover pulling up to the curb, I send her one final message, letting her know I’ll give her a call once I’ve settled in, and shove my phone into my pocket.

  “Jesus, how many suitcases do you have?”

  They’re the first words that come out of Cap’s mouth when he hops out of the driver’s seat and stops in front of my cart.

  “Well, hello to you, too.” I put a defiant hand to my hip. “And you do realize I was in Milan for nine months, right?”

  He huffs out an annoyed sigh but proceeds to grab each of my suitcases off the cart and toss them into his cargo area.

  “Wait… Where’s Ruby?” I ask, glancing around us. “I thought she was coming too?”

  “She was running behind in the recording studio. But I guess I’m supposed to tell you that she wanted to be here.”

  “Aw, and you say it so sweetly.”

  “Get in the fucking car.” Cap shuts his liftgate and smirks. “Please and thank you.”

  A sarcastic retort is on the tip of my tongue, but with the long flight and the near shakedown at customs, my energy to banter back and forth with my brother is nonexistent. So, I flip him the bird and get in as a conciliatory measure.

  “So, let me get this straight. Ruby is still doing the narrating thing and is now a lawyer, too?” I ask as he turns the steering wheel and slides the Rover back onto the road.

  “Yeah.” He nods, but his voice sounds a little sad about it. “My Ruby is a bit of a workaholic.”

  “Aw, is she not making enough time for you?”

  He rolls his eyes. “For your information, she makes plenty of time for me. And since she decided to go into corporate law, I see her every day at what is now our office, thank you very much.”

  I smile. I can’t help it. “Damn, it’s just all so hard to believe, bro.”

  Bro. That single word, one I’ve used a million times, all of a sudden has a whole other meaning.

  “What’s so hard to believe?” Cap asks, but I’m too busy giving myself a mental lashing to really hear him.

  For fuck’s sake, don’t go there, Lena.

  Do not think about him right now.

  “Hello?” My brother’s voice grabs my attention. “What’s so hard to believe, Lena?”

  I blink out of my stupor and try to remember what in the hell I was even talking about.

  “Uh…” Shit. What’s so hard to believe, again?

  Oh, right. Like a light bulb, my original train of thought shines brighter than all of the racing, confusing things that are cluttering up my head. My brother finding someone who actually likes being around him.

  “That you found a woman who can tolerate you,” I finally explain. “And more than that, one who can stand working with your crazy ass every day.”

  “I know, right?” he tosses back, more amused than anything else. “Now, if only I can get her to move up the wedding date, we’ll be all set.”

  “You guys finally set a date?”

  “Yeah.” He sighs and takes a right turn onto an exit ramp that leads us away from the airport. “May 2nd.”

  A knowing smile consumes my face. “You wanted it sooner, didn’t you?”

  “Damn right, I did,” he states without hesitation. “Hell, I wanted to marry her the day after I proposed, but she was adamant on finishing law school first.”

  “And she probably didn’t want to set a date too close to Milo and Maybe’s wedding, either.”

  “Fuck Milo’s wedding. I want my wedding.”

  I laugh at that. “Add that to the list of words I truly thought I’d never hear come out of my brother’s mouth.”

  Cap just grins as we accelerate onto the highway. “So, I hear you’re working with Loro Gianni for the next three months?”

  “Yeah.” I quirk a brow. “And how did you hear that?”

  “Because I’ve known Loro ever since I helped him finalize a few merchandising contracts when he first started out. Ran into him a couple weeks ago, and he gave me the DL on your internship.”

  Good Lord, sometimes the world is too fucking small.

  “Seriously?” I groan. “I swear, if you secretly helped me get this internship with him, I’m going to be so pissed.”

  “Relax, sis,” he says. “I didn’t do shit. You got this all on your own. When are you going to start realizing you’re fully capable of handling your own shit without any help from me or Dad?”

  I shrug.

  “You gotta stop letting Vicky’s venom infect your fucking head.”

  I know he’s right, but hell, it isn’t easy silencing her constant disapproval.

  “Anyway, I just wanted you to know that since I know Loro, I managed to snag some Fashion Week tickets so I can be there for the big show.”

  “Really?”

  “Of course, I did,” he responds without hesitation. “You might be a pain in my ass most of the time, but that doesn’t mean I don’t want to support my baby sister.”

  “Let me guess,” I say, and a knowing smile crests my mouth. “Ruby had a part in this.”

  He narrows his eyes. “Does it really matter how I came to the conclusion?”

  My smile grows. “Nope. It only makes me more thankful that you managed to find a woman I adore. Ruby Rockford is unquestionably your better half.”

  “Pretty sure you mean Ruby Hawkins.”

  “Nope.” I snort. “I definitely meant Rockford. You two aren’t married yet.”

  “And you’re probably going to get a hell of a lot of joy out of reminding me of the fact for the next eight months and two days.”

  “Oh my God, you even have a countdown!” I cackle. “That’s adorable, Cappy! Now, just so I have the details straight, is she going to be wearing the wedding dress, or are you?”

  “Shut up,” he mutters. “You and I both know I’d look fucking sexy in lace.”

  “Ew, gross.” I cringe. “Never call yourself sexy in front of me again.”

  “Coming from the girl who texted me several weeks ago about banging some Italian Stallion…” He pauses and flashes annoyance out of the corner of his eye.

  I was teasing him about the whole Italian Stallion thing, but still, a lie or not, I can never resist razzing my big brother. But unfortunately for me, he can’t resist doing the same, right now, as he jumps straight into singing his own horrible rendition of “Sexy and I Know It.”

  Someone flipping save me.

  I can only handle one damn chorus before I’m slapping him on the shoulder, holding my ears, and shouting, “Oh my God, stop!”

  Cap laughs. “Karma is a real bitch, isn’t it, sis?”

  “Karma is a real bitch, isn’t it?” I mimic his aggravating voice, and he just keeps on laughing like a fucking hyena.

  Eventually, though, the idiot settles down.

  “I have a question… When you texted me a few weeks ago about Vicky’s hangover cure,” he starts and glances at me out of the corner of his eye. “Where were you?”

  “In Italy.”

 
“Where in Italy?”

  “Where is this coming from, you psycho? And are my whereabouts really any of your business?”

  “Yes, they fucking are,” he retorts. “You were supposed to be in Milan, and you promised me you’d keep me updated if you traveled anywhere else.”

  “First of all—” I point my finger toward him “—I didn’t promise you anything. And secondly, you do realize I’m twenty-eight, right? Pretty sure that means I’m fully capable of handling myself.”

  “Yeah, but you’ll always be my baby sis.”

  My eyes rotate heavenward. “God, you’re annoying.”

  “Only because I’m your big brother. It’s my job to look out for you.”

  “Are we having a moment?” I tease. “Do you need to pull over and I’ll get out some tissues so we can cry into each other’s arms?”

  “You’re a little asshole.”

  “But I love you, Cappy!” I feign a sob. “I love you so much! You’re the best big brother in the whole wide world!”

  He is completely unfazed by my antics. “I know, right? It would make things a lot fucking easier if you’d remember that fact.”

  I shake my head on a sigh.

  “And now that you’re back in New York, I shall regain my role as protective older brother.”

  I snort. “You’re so full of shit. You might act like you’re overprotective, but you’re too damn self-involved to actually play the role.”

  “Not anymore, sis. Consider me a changed man,” he says. “And I’ve decided I’m going to make sure I’m with you every step of the way now, supporting you in your career and preventing you from getting with some dickhead that doesn’t deserve you.”

  “Being in love makes you insane.”

  “It makes me wise.”

  “No, pretty sure I was right the first time,” I mutter. “And while the supportive thing is definitely sweet, you have another thing coming if you think you’re going to have any say in who I do or do not get involved with.”