The Billionaire’s Forbidden Little Sister

by Monroe, Max

  [deep breath]

  Okay, so where was I?

  [distinct pause]

  Oh yeah, May 30th. That’s right.

  I’d driven to JFK airport that day with a heavy heart and a head filled with doubt and uncertainty.

  Goodbyes have never been my strong suit, but goodbyes amidst horns honking, airport security yelling, and the stench of sweat and gas fumes are markedly worse.

  Sure, in the movies, the swoony goodbye on the sidewalk of a bustling airport is a picture-perfect representation of how two people can seem like the only people in the world, even among a crowd. But JFK, on its best day, will never be the best setting for real-life romance.

  Sounds of luggage wheels scraping across the concrete. Spit, dirt, and grime on the sidewalk…it’s not exactly a regulation bed of roses, guys.

  Summer hadn’t even officially started, yet it felt like we were right in the middle of it. A record-long heat wave by May’s standards appeared to be running full steam ahead, without any sort of reprieve in sight.

  It was one of those days where if I’d managed to keep my makeup from melting off my face, it would’ve been a God-ordained miracle.

  Spoiler alert: I didn’t. But the need for a quality setting spray is absolute peanuts compared to the way I would need Jesus to keep me from committing one of the cardinal sins when the rest of the shit with Tiago played out.

  [laughs]

  Yeah, you’ll see.

  Anyway, the early summer sun was glaring—real, steal your vision and make spots dance The Nutcracker behind your eyes kind of shit—so by the time I stopped squinting and made it outside, I was just in time to see Tiago lifting his suitcase out of my car.

  My heart clenched at the sight of it all.

  As I’ve established, I hate goodbyes. But this goodbye…well, it felt way too permanent. For the first time ever, I was ending a relationship on good terms, and for all intents and purposes, before I was ready.

  This was it. Most likely, the last time I’d see him. Sure, we’d only been dating for six or so months, but I’d really grown to enjoy, and even anticipate, his companionship.

  And now, I’d be back to square one.

  Back on the dreaded dating scene.

  He wheeled his cracked, dark leather suitcase a few feet from my white Honda Civic and lifted it up onto the sidewalk, and when his dark, nearly black, brown eyes met mine, I had the urge to cry.

  “So, I guess this is it?” he asked, and I hated the way that Brazilian accent of his caressed my skin.

  It had the power to make my knees weak and my heart race and my damn panties disappear into thin air. Combine it with those endless eyes and that sexy smile, and I was a goner. A woman with a complete lust-induced brain malfunction.

  “Yeah.” I shrugged and glanced down at my feet when my voice clogged with discomfort. “I guess this is it.”

  “I’m going to miss you, Luciana Wright,” he whispered, and my full name rolled off his tongue like he actually loved saying it.

  “I’m going to miss you too,” I whispered back. “Call me when you make it to Brazil, okay?”

  He smiled. I swooned. It was a regular romantic drama playing out before hundreds of New Yorkers’ eyes. “You don’t even have to ask. Yours will be the first call I make, gatinha.”

  Gatinha. Tiago’s Portuguese term of endearment for me meant kitty or kitten—or something revolving around cats. Honestly, I wasn’t sure what it stood for—in fact, I’m still not—but it sounded good leaving his lips, and that was all the moony, pathetic version of me cared about.

  “Have a safe flight, okay?”

  “I will,” he said and stepped forward until our chests were mere inches from one another. “Lucky,” he whispered, and his mint-scented breath brushed across my cheeks. “Before I go, I need to do one last thing.”

  I quirked a brow, but he didn’t give me time to ask.

  Within the blink of an eye, he wrapped his arms around me, pulled me tight to his chest, and leaned down to place his lips against mine.

  A little moan left my throat when he slipped his tongue inside my mouth and kissed me in the way only Tiago could.

  Good God, the man could kiss.

  In fact, I often wonder if it was his sexual prowess that attracted me to him the most. I’ll probably never really know, but thinking back on the kissing as a measure of research is always worth it either way.

  It’s worth reiterating. The kissing was good.

  [pauses on a sigh]

  So, he kissed me until my knees felt wobbly and my arms and legs turned to pliant, jelly goo. And when he pulled away, a despondent sigh got caught in my lungs.

  “Yeah.” He nipped at my swollen lips. “I’m going to miss this.”

  I was completely and utterly kiss-drunk, but I managed to whisper back, “Me too.”

  One more soft, tender press to my mouth and he pulled away for good.

  “Goodbye, Luciana,” he said and stepped up onto the sidewalk platform of JFK’s departure entrance.

  “Bye, Tiago.”

  He wrapped his knuckles around the handle of his suitcase, and after one last, fleeting glance in my direction, he was gone, through the automatic entrance doors and into the terminal.

  I know. At this point, you’re probably feeling confusion.

  A sexy Brazilian photographer with dark brown eyes and cute terms of endearment and mastery-level kissing, and yet…we were saying goodbye forever?

  How did it all go wrong?

  Well, if I were you, I’d hold back on your Tiago-love because there’s still a hell of a lot more to this story.

  And it starts with a girl-date to Yankee Stadium.

  * * *

  Two days after Tiago left, I found myself stuck inside Yankee Stadium with the same old, angry sun pelting my skin thanks to my ride-or-die, Allie Wilson, nee Arsen.

  I don’t know about you, but I have a feeling the sun is the biggest scorned woman of all. She’s hot and temperamental, and fuck all if you try to look at her directly without permission.

  I don’t know, maybe she’s just another love-lost wanderer, trying to figure out the trick to it all, but her attitude is spicy.

  Kind of like Allie. She’s the best gal pal a girl could hope for, but I often find myself suffering in her company. See, thanks to the agreement we swore in blood—don’t worry, it was actually red wine we convinced ourselves was blood while drunk one night—we’re both required to tag along any time one of us has field research to do for our jobs at a popular website named Scoop.

  Allie’s articles are all sports and booze—clearly, she’s just one of the guys—while mine are usually about fashion, love, and dating.

  I know jack shit about baseball—or anything sports-related, for that matter—but I was there for my best friend. She needed moral support while she did reconnaissance for a New York Yankees-themed article, and I, in the name of friendship, was sweating my metaphorical balls off.

  “Stay hydrated, Yankees fans,” the announcer boomed through the stadium speakers as the game headed into another inning. The one millionth inning, if I remember correctly. “It’s already ninety degrees, and with only sunshine in the forecast, it looks like we’re still in the middle of our sweltering early summer heat wave.”

  His words resonated with my overheated body and dreaded boob sweat acquired at a staggering pace, threatening to permeate my bra and tank top.

  Trust me, it was Girls Gone Wild: Body Odor Edition.

  [giggles]

  “Over ninety degrees and rising,” I muttered and glanced over at my content companion. She sat perfectly relaxed in her seat, apparently not suffering from the early effects of heatstroke like me. “Yeah, that sounds like the perfect day to go to a Yankees game and slowly watch your skin melt off.”

  Allie’s green eyes met mine. I’m sure if my vision hadn’t been drowning in salty sweat, I would have seen the compassion. “I know. I know. It’s a little hot today.”

 
“A little hot? Satan turns on the AC when hell gets this hot.”

  “Don’t be so dramatic, Lucky.” She laughed and rolled her eyes at the same time. “If my memory serves me right, last week I attended that god-awful speed dating extravaganza with you, and I’m still dealing with phone calls and text backlash. Not to mention, my husband isn’t too keen on random men calling me.”

  I grimaced. She had a bit of a point.

  Not that I admitted it to her. We’re close enough that my silence was all the confirmation she needed.

  She hummed her victory and forced her long, blond locks into a messy bun.

  My hair was the least of my concerns at that point in our day. It was already up, and it was beyond a frizzy mess.

  My skin, on the other hand? Well, it needed my full attention.

  Where Allie is blond with tanned skin and a badass Aussie accent, I’m a native Long Islander with freckles, wavy red hair, and a skin tone that rivals Casper.

  Come to think of it, it’s no wonder I care enough about my relationship with the sun to go off on a weird tangent about her need for anger management.

  I grabbed my sunscreen out of my purse, and my best friend giggled when I squirted a healthy dollop into my hands.

  “What?” I asked, smearing the white cream across both of my arms and shoulders. Her face said it all, and I rolled my eyes. “Don’t mock the pale-skinned girl.”

  [audible sigh]

  Sunscreen is such a foreign concept to Allie, she probably doesn’t even know what SPF stands for.

  “Not all of us are tanned goddesses, ya know.”

  “Like you should talk! The guys at work call you Christina Hendricks because you could literally be her doppelgänger. Trust me, honey, you may not be tan, but you’ve got nothing but goddess vibes coming off you.”

  “Christina Hendricks, my ass.” I rolled my eyes and slid the bottle of sunscreen back into my purse. “I’m certain she has an easier time with men than I do.”

  Sidenote…I’m not sure if you know this, but Christina Hendricks is a famous Hollywood actress. A total bombshell by beauty’s standards. I, however, have nothing in common with her besides red hair and porcelain skin.

  [muffled interjection from producer]

  Ha! Well…thanks. But I don’t see it.

  Anyway…

  [clears throat]

  Allie’s eyes turned serious at my words, and she reached out to put a gentle hand to mine. “How are you doing, by the way?”

  And, just like that, it was time—time to fill the masculine stadium space with a load of hormonal garbage. If her words were a dart, she would’ve hit a bull’s-eye right between Tiago’s eyes.

  “I’m okay.” I shrugged. “I mean, it’s not like it’s my first breakup, and Lord knows, with my track record, it definitely won’t be my last.”

  She frowned at my words. “Don’t say that, Lucky. You’ll find someone. The right someone. I’m sure of it.”

  Let’s face it, this is the typical line that every person in a stable, committed relationship says to their single friend. Of course, they mean no harm, but when you’ve been through as many failed relationships as I have, it starts to sound a lot like a broken record, hideous scratching and all.

  Obviously, I love Allie to death, but she hasn’t been single for years, and all of the happily married vibes were clearly clouding her judgment. My future with relationships looked pretty damn grim from where I sat.

  Still, I refused to drown her in my pessimism. Just because misery loves company doesn’t mean you should call ahead to the restaurant and make a damn reservation.

  “Did you see a future with Tiago?” she asked.

  “Honestly? I’m not sure.”

  I wasn’t sure about the future, but I knew my breakup with Tiago felt harder than all the ones before.

  I’d really liked him, and at one point, I’d even allowed myself the faux pas of picturing little Brazilian babies somewhere in the distant future. I mean, it was a really far-off future, but every woman knows, once you open the latch on Pandora’s Box of Future Planning, time morphs into a vacuum.

  Nevertheless, he was a freelance photographer who traveled a lot and had decided to move his home base back to Brazil. It was easier to cut ties before attempting to make an impossible long-distance relationship work.

  Whether I’d started the proverbial journey into the pool of love or not didn’t matter.

  He’d made his decision, and I’d done too good of a job at pretending to support it.

  “Did you like him more than Josh?” Allie asked with a little smirk, and I rolled my eyes.

  “Uh, yeah,” I said with a snort. “Josh was a total dick.”

  “And what about Ronnie or Mac? Was Tiago higher up on the boyfriend list than those two?”

  “Yeah, how about we not reminisce on all of my ex-boyfriends?”

  She smirked. “You know what I think you need to do?”

  “What?”

  “Stop falling for jerks.”

  Dun-dun-duh-dunnn!

  And there you have it, ladies and gentlemen. The magic words.

  Stop falling for jerks.

  I knew she was right, and I still know she’s right. But sometimes, it’s way easier to avoid the truth than face the painful facts head on.

  If only I were better at confrontation. Maybe I would have been able to spare you all from this podcast.

  [sardonic laugh]

  “Tiago wasn’t a jerk,” I retorted. “The rest of them? Yeah, you’re definitely right. But Tiago was different.”

  “I think if he’d hung out for a couple more months, you would have found he wasn’t boyfriend material either. I mean, if you really felt like he was The One, don’t you think you would’ve at least tried to make the long-distance relationship thing work?”

  I didn’t have the words to respond, nor did I want to find the words to respond, so I did what I do best and ignored the question entirely.

  “What time is our meeting with Vanessa today?” I asked instead. Allie’s lips curled up into a knowing smile.

  “Okay, I’ll raise the white flag…for now.” She gave in with a wink. “And we have to be back at the offices by four.”

  I checked the time on my phone and realized it was a little after two.

  I only had to risk sun poisoning for one more hour, and then we’d head out.

  Thank God for that.

  Allie lifted up her binoculars to her eyes and pointed them directly toward the Yankees’ dugout. “I really hope Crew’s publicist will follow through next week. An exclusive interview with him would earn me some serious brownie points with Vanessa.”

  Vanessa is our editor in chief at Scoop. And while she’s a Miranda Priestly in the Devil Wears Prada kind of badass bitch, I actually really like her. She gave me my start, and since I was hired on as an in-house writer and didn’t have to handle her schedule or deal with her complicated morning Starbucks orders, it’s pretty easy to overlook her tough as nails attitude.

  Plus, I’m one hundred percent certain she’s going to listen to this, and I’d have to have half a brain to say something to the contrary in this forum.

  [chuckles]

  Hey there, Vanessa. Love ya!

  Anyway, back to the stadium.

  “Who is Crew?” I asked because, yeah, I had no clue. He could’ve been the mascot for all I knew.

  Allie set her binoculars in her lap and looked at me with a smirk. “Your ability to know literally nothing about popular sports is inconceivable to me.”

  I just shrugged. “Whatever you say, Ms. My Family is an Australian Rugby Dynasty.”

  She, of course, laughed at that.

  Allie was born and raised in Sydney, Australia and was surrounded by rugby gods from the minute she entered the world. Her father. Her brothers. Hell, even her uncle James is a sports commentator on the Australian Sports Channel.

  I, on the other hand, grew up as a simple New York girl with a veterinarian fath
er and a rarely punctual dance teacher mother.

  While I had been learning how to pirouette, Allie had probably been busy attending her dad’s professional rugby games.

  The crack of the ball against the bat and the crowd’s responding cheers pulled Allie’s attention back to the game. Her yells were wild, and the feel of the seat under her ass was a memory.

  I, however, stayed put in my seat and guzzled from my bottle of water like it held the power to teleport me into an air-conditioned room.

  “This is their year,” she said exuberantly when she sat back down. “I really think the Yankees are going to bring the championship back to New York come October.”

  I snorted. “Yankees fans say that every year.”

  Allie gave me the side-eye, but the conversation promptly ended when the Yankees’ announcer prepped the crowd for the infamous “Kiss Cam” between batters.

  Now, this was more my speed. Give me couples and awkward strangers finding their way to sucking face any day of the week.

  “I wonder if someone will propose today,” I said with a grin as I watched the camera flitter over the crowd.

  She scoffed and rolled her eyes. “I would’ve been so pissed if Sam proposed to me in the middle of a Yankees game.”

  Sam and Allie have been together since we’d both started at Scoop three years ago.

  They were as thick as thieves and had just gotten married about six months prior to that day in a private wedding ceremony with just the two of them in the Bahamas.

  If I’m honest, I’m still a little pissed she didn’t invite me to the celebration and sand in the Bahamas, of all places, but in the name of being a bigger person, I’m ready to let it go.

  Or, at the very least, keep it to myself.

  I didn’t know what kind of proposal I preferred, and I still don’t. I’m perpetually locked inside the hell of step one—searching for the right man.