If she’s all wrong for him, why does it feel so right?
The Billionaire’s Guide to The Marriage Deal, an all new fun and flirty, fake relationship romantic comedy filled with spice from debut author Piper Marlowe is coming April 28th, and we have your first look!
YOU KNOW WHAT’S REALLY IRRITATING?
Realizing a bee stuck is in your jock strap as you’re stepping up to the plate. Very irritating.
Tying a girl to the bedpost with an Hermes tie and forgetting it when you leave in the morning. Irritating and also annoying.
But making a presentation to the board of directors, describing why the Taylor Corporation needs to get with the 21st century and how they—we— should do it, only to have your own grandmother murder you in front of the entire room and step over your dead body to state that nothing’s changing?
There isn’t a word in the English language to strong enough to describe this feeling.
Even two hours later, I step out of the glass-and-gold elevators of Murray Loft with an angry black squiggle over my head, stride across the plush velvet carpet, and throw myself into the corner booth like I want to break it.
As usual, I’m the first to arrive, because my two closest friends are degenerates.
That’s usually not a big deal, but today? It’s annoying.
Growing up in Manhattan and spending most of my adulthood in loft after penthouse after rooftop bar with similar scenery, the view’s become an old friend. The East River wants to know why I waste my time at Taylor. The increasingly infamous bridges ask if I’ll ever replace my grandmother as CEO of Taylor. Closer to hand, the Chrysler and Empire State buildings have nothing to say, because a throat-clear over my shoulder captures my attention.
I don’t recognize the brunette at attention beside me. I thought I knew all the waitstaff here by now. Then again, I’m usually not at Murray Loft on weekdays
—too busy squeezing in every hour of face time I can in the family offices in order to convince my grandmother that it’s time for me to take over and listening to her tell me it’s not. She thinks I’m a kid.
You’d think, given that she’s nearing a hundred, she would leap at the chance for some R&R. And yet, here I am. Annoyed.
“Can I get you something to drink?” the brunette asks. Unlike most servers at this club, her voice doesn’t have that cloying, faux-sweet customer service tone I’ve come to despise. In fact, if anything, she sounds gruff. Annoyed.
Like an actual New Yorker.
I suppress a smile. Murray Loft isn’t my first choice of hang, but Dylan and Max enjoy the rich asshole vibe. This poor girl won’t last long, but while she’s here, the annoyance in her tone soothes mine. “Just a Coke,” I say. It is only noon.
She arches an eyebrow, as though she doubts my plan to stay sober until a sane drinking hour. “Sure,” is her only comment, before she reaches for the menu laid face-down on the table.
I catch her wrist before she can whisk it away. “I’m waiting on a couple of friends.”
I shouldn’t touch her. Women either hate it or drop right into my lap, and the former often gives way to the latter. But the new waitress seems immune to my charms.
She drops the menu and pulls her hand free without so much as a flush or a stammer. “Be right back with your Coke.”
Then she strides across the floor—and I can’t lie, it takes effort not to stare too much. She has some serious curves. I’m trying to work out the mechanics of that—does she work out to get her ass that tight, or is it a genetics thing?—when a hand waves in front of my eyes. Two familiar barking laughs ring out in unison.
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A FAKE WHIRLWIND ROMANCE AND MARRIAGE OF CONVENIENCE WITH THE WRONG GIRL NEVER FELT SO RIGHT
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?
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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.