The Billionaire Boss Next Door, an all-new hilarious romantic comedy from New York Times bestselling author Max Monroe, is available now!
My new boss has it all. In spades.
Gorgeous green eyes? Check.
Hard-and-sexy body? Check.
Intelligence? Check.
Success? A big fat billionaire… Check.
Too bad I haven’t started out on the best foot.
My big mouth has already turned him against me, and tempting good looks and success aside, Trent Turner is no peach either. He’s stubborn and thick-headed, and son of a fruitcake, he thinks he knows everything there is to know about the hotel business.
With him running the development of the new Vanderturn New Orleans Hotel and me doing the design, our work relationship is far too intimate for two people who absolutely despise one another.
But that’s not all.
See, he isn’t just my billionaire boss from hell. He’s my new neighbor, too.
Same city.
Same building.
Same floor.
Trent Turner is my billionaire boss next door.
Holy moly, let’s hope my career—and hormones—can survive.
Disclaimer: If you generally love to suffer, hate fun of any kind, and are allergic to laughter, this book is not for you.
Download your copy today or read FREE in Kindle Unlimited!
Amazon: https://amzn.to/2Vy4KOk
Amazon Worldwide: http://mybook.to/TBBND
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My Review:
I always enjoy books by the wonder-duo of Max Monroe and this one was no different. Spinning off the Billionaire series, this one includes all the things I loved about those books: Hilarious characters, solid friendships, men who are slightly clueless, and of course, Thatch!
This one focused on Greer, an interior designer that really needs to pull off this job to keep her head afloat, and Trent, the son of a hotel mogul who needs to prove himself worthy of standing on his own so that he can inherit the family empire.
The enemies - to - lovers trope is one that always makes me wonder if two people who REALLY didn't like each other can come together and find their happily ever after. If you trust in Max Monroe, you know that they can make this happen (and they do).
I enjoyed this one, and while most books are told by the two main characters, this one had chapters from several which made it different from the norm. I look forward to more from this new group!
Excerpt:
It only takes five minutes
inside the hotel gym to realize why my original plan was to eat a hamburger in
bed.
I do not got this.
I’m not good at working out, I’ve never been good at working
out, and I’ll never be good at
working out.
I don’t know what to do with the equipment, and it doesn’t know
what to do with me.
Clearly, it’s been designed for people with half a foot more
height and fifty percent more muscle, and even on the lowest of settings, I
fumble my way through biceps curls like an uncoordinated inchworm.
I can barely reach the handles, so I have to kind of stoop to
get in position, but the newly formed curve of my spine makes me have to arch
and wiggle to complete the curl. If it weren’t for my kick-ass Metallica
T-shirt, I might start to worry that I look foolish.
The ten-pound weight clanks as I drop it the inch and a half I
managed to lift it in the first place, and I stand up to find a different
machine. Surely there’s something in here I can operate without having a
special license.
I find some kind of seated thing with weights on one end and a
padded face rest on the other. I sit, lay my face down, and attempt to slide my
legs underneath the weighted bar. But, it’s completely awkward and
uncomfortable, and I start questioning what in the fuck this thing is even
supposed to do.
Just before I give up completely, a throat clears deeply beside
me, and I look up to see a far too muscular man staring down at me in
confusion. “Uh…wow…I didn’t realize you could use it that way…”
Huh?
I nearly ask him what he’s talking about, but his actions
answer any and all questions I might have.
He sits down on the machine beside mine—an identical machine to mine—and it’s then I realize the face rest
is not a face rest.
It’s a seat. For asses.
A seat for sweaty, workout asses.
Jesus Christ. I
shudder and disentangle myself from the machine.
“You okay?” Arnold Schwarzenegger’s long-lost brother asks, but
I just nod off his question and put some much-needed distance between us.
Also, I scrub my face with the hand towel I brought down from
my room like it’s a fucking Brillo pad capable of removing the ball sweat
that’s probably found itself a home in my pores.
Note to self: take one
thousand scalding-hot showers tonight.
With a deep inhale, I try to regain some of the pride I lost
back there by Mr. Muscles and peruse the room until I find a machine that’s
labeled with instructional pictures to boot.
Hip. Abduction.
Do I need aliens to use
this thing?
Against my better judgment, I
study the pictures and peptalk myself into sitting down on the seat and swing
my legs over to the inside of the knee pads.
No face-to-butt-sweat
mistakes happening here, folks!
The weight is set on one hundred and fifty pounds from the
person before me, and it makes me wonder if Thor is staying at this hideous
hotel too.
I pull out the pin and put it on forty instead.
After a quick test push with my legs, the setting seems doable,
so I take out my phone and start scrolling through it to set up some music to
accompany me.
Yes. Yes. That’s exactly
what I need. Some workout jams.
Of course, once I’m on it, I get distracted by Instagram, and
five minutes go by before I realize I’m sitting on a machine, not a couch, and
the purpose here is to do something other than lounge.
I glance up from my phone and scan the room, wondering slightly
if anyone knows how long I’ve been sitting here. Mr. Muscles has moved on to a
new machine, but a different guy across the room makes eye contact and smirks.
Busted.
Normal human decency dictates
he should let me off the hook and go about his day, but this fit,
Adonis-looking, sweat-covered, brown-haired, green-eyed—good God, he’s attractive—man apparently has no manners.
Shit.
His sleeveless white T-shirt clings to his tanned body as he
strides my way, and his athletic shorts conform to a muscular set of thighs and
ass.
I look everywhere but at him, fiddling with the machine as
though I’m doing something productive, but he still doesn’t get the hint.
Raspy and firm, the clearing of his throat sounds right next to
me.
I look up as innocently as I can manage and pull out my earbuds
as though I had music playing.
“Um, hi,” I say with a cute little manufactured laugh. “I’ll be
done in just a second.”
He laughs too, but his seems genuine and undeniably directed at
me. “If you keep up your current pace, I think it’s going to be a little
longer.”
“Excuse me?”
“Come on,” he says good-naturedly—the prick. “You’re just pretending to work out.”
Oh no, he did not just say that….
“I’m not pretending to
work out,” I deny. “I’m just getting warmed up.”
He nods knowingly.
“And setting up my music,” I continue.
He hums.
“I’m just about to catch my stride.”
“Sure you are.” He calls bullshit with his smug, green as fuck
eyes, and for the briefest of moments, they glance down at my chest and my legs
before meeting my gaze again. “But there are people who would like to really use it, so if you’re done…”
What. The. Fuck.
Who does this guy think he is?
“Are you always this rude?” I question, and his green eyes
lighten a bit.
“All right, you’re right. I’m really not trying to be a dick,”
he says and runs a hand through his hair.
Should it really take
that much effort not to be a dick?
“Let’s start over…” He pauses and pushes a small smile to his
full, kissable lips. “How are you enjoying the hotel?”
Start over? How about let’s
never have started at all?
Still annoyed, I don’t censor my answer. “It’s…swell.”
He laughs at first, but when I raise an eyebrow in contention,
he frowns. “You don’t like it?”
“Maybe ugly décor and a whole buttload of pretention are good
for some people, but not for me.”
“Ugly décor? Really?”
How can he be shocked by
this? Anyone with eyes could see the design flaws here.
“Are you kidding? I feel like I’m in my ninety-year-old
grandmother’s living room, except it’s a waking nightmare and I’m about to be
eaten alive by the curtains.”
“I don’t think it’s that bad. It’s timeless.”
Normally, I’m not such a snob about design, nor do I make a
point to make other people feel bad for their likes and dislikes, but for some
reason, this handsome prick and his dickish attitude just bring it out in me.
Before I know it, I’m channeling Regina George.
“Well…” I pause and
scrunch up my nose dramatically. “I’m sorry to break the news to you, but the
design of this place looks like it was done by a blind rat. Gilded sailboat
pictures and tapestries with oxen on them aren’t timeless. They’re old.”
His eyebrows pinch together, highlighting the otherwise perfect
features of his face. Goddamn this ugly
hotel for housing such perfect-looking humans.
“What did you say your name was again?”
Shit. Emory will
absolutely murder me if she finds out I got into some kind of confrontational
tête-à-tête with a random Romeo in the hotel gym.
Let’s also not forget
this hotel gym is located inside a hotel that is owned by the company you’re
about to interview with…
Shit. Yeah. I’d better cut and run while I can.
“I didn’t.” I jump up from the machine with the exact agility
I’ve lacked during the rest of my workout and offer a saccharine smile. “But,
hey, good news. Machine’s all yours.”
“Aren’t you going to wipe it down?” he asks as I walk toward
the door, and I can’t help but turn around for my parting shot.
“Why?” I smirk at the pouty-lipped asshole. “After all, I was
just pretending to work out.”
Because you know what dicks can do?
They can go fuck themselves and
wipe down their own workout equipment, tight asses and chiseled jaws be damned.
Suck on that, workout
Romeo.
About Max Monroe:
A secret duo of romance authors team up under the New York Times and USA Today Bestselling pseudonym Max Monroe to bring you sexy, laugh-out-loud reads.
Max Monroe is the New York Times and USA Today Bestselling author of more than ten contemporary romance titles. Favorite writing partners and long time friends, Max and Monroe strive to live and write all the fun, sexy swoon so often missing from their Facebook newsfeed. Sarcastic by nature, their two writing souls feel like they’ve found their other half. This is their most favorite adventure thus far.
Connect with Max Monroe:
Website: https://www.authormaxmonroe.com/
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Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/authormaxmonroe/
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