Romancing the wrong girl never felt so right…
The Billionaire’s Guide to The Marriage Deal, an all new, spicy, marriage-of-convenience romantic comedy, filled with delicious banter and steam from debut author Piper Marlowe, is out now and we have a look inside!
When my grandparents founded the Taylor Corporation, it was to make life better for future generations of Taylors.
But Grandma Sofia doesn’t think said generations are trustworthy enough to take over.
“Get married and prove you have an eye to the future,” she said.
“It’ll be easy,” she said.
But “easy” is not exactly the word I’d use to describe the new Mrs. Easton Taylor. Phoebe isn’t exactly my type, which is the plan–easy to marry, easy to walk away from. She makes flashcards for fun. She’s mouthy, sexy, and uninhibited. Worst of all, I’m now stepfather to a cat named Roger.
Some would call it a marriage of convenience.
But what I got into is more of a convenience store arrangement . . . an overpriced, fast, knockoff version of the real thing.
So why do I actually like the cat? And why can’t I stop imagining something more real with my fake wife?
“Miss? Can you come over here for a second?”
Even all the way across the clubhouse, I can see her eyes narrow at the gesture. I don’t blame her. But she gamely scoops up the water I asked for and approaches.
“You gentlemen need something else?” she asks, setting the glass down beside me. Her eyes find mine, and I flash an apologetic grimace.
“What’s your name?” Max recaptures her attention.
The wary expression never leaves her face. Clearly she thinks we’re about to complain to a manager or something. “Phoebe.”
“Phoebe.” Max turns on the thousand-watt smile his Midwestern family all share. “My friend here will give you five grand to have lunch with him.”
Under the table, I kick him in the shin. To his credit, that smile doesn’t even waver.
Phoebe narrows her eyes. “Why?”
“Why not?” Max shrugs.
“For starters, because I’m not a prostitute.” She turns back to me, her gaze shifting in the type of once-over I’m more accustomed to giving than receiving. “And he’s not so hideous he’d need to pay a woman for a lunch date.”
My eyebrows rise. Did she just refer to me as only mildly hideous?
“So, I’m assuming the issue is terrible social skills. Still, five thousand seems excessive. Just hire a life coach, bud.” She settles her tray under her arm. “Pretty sure that would cost a lot less.” Then she tilts her head. “Although, I did serve a whole table of them here last week, so maybe they charge more than I think…”
“Told you,” Dylan murmurs to Max.
I need to pull this out of the fire. Otherwise, she’s going to think I really am some socially incompetent psycho—or worse, that I was actually trying to buy sex.
“Just lunch,” I promise. “Nothing a prostitute would do.”
She arches a brow. “Prostitutes don’t eat lunch?”
The assholes I call friends burst into laughter. Even I gotta fight to suppress a grin. Okay. So she’s funny. That’s a start. A start to what? This is a terrible idea, remember?
I suppress my inner critic. “An hour of your time. Five thousand dollars. I’ll write the check in advance if it makes you feel better.”
Suddenly, a look of understanding dawns on her face. “Is this an MLM?”
“MLM?” What the hell is that? I thought I knew all the major kinks. Is she into something even I haven’t heard of?
Promising, whispers the side of me I definitely should not be listening to right now. The side that can’t help noting the way she’s standing, hip cocked to one side, and how it accentuates the curve of her narrow waist and makes her ass jut out even farther in those grotesque uniform slacks.
Never thought I’d appreciate a uniform, but damn.
“You know, one of those multi-level marketing schemes. You recruit me to sell fancy face serums, but first I have to spend the five grand you give me on buying a million myself, and then I have to convince all my closest friends to pour their life savings into buying them from me if I want to make any profit…”
I frown. “Why would I think you need a face serum?”
She shrugs. “I don’t know what you’re into, big guy.”
I stare. No, she really, really doesn’t. Because it’s pretty much the opposite of her. She’s mouthy, suspicious, argumentative. As an actual wife, I can already tell she’d be a complete pain in the ass
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About Piper Marlowe
Piper Marlowe is an absolute legend, if you know where to look. And trust us, you don’t.
For national security reasons, her identity is a secret. As a matter of fact, there’s a good chance that at this very moment, she’s undercover, speaking with a bad Lithuanian accent to a bunch of shady characters. She can neither confirm nor deny that she’s writing ultra-fun, uber-witty, hot-darn-sexy romance to distract from the stress of her current clandestine operation.
Or maybe romance writing is the cover for a cover?
She could tell you, but then she’d have to…you know. That.