Anyone But The Billionaire

Sara L. Hudson

Description

A steamy, hilarious read! Perfect for fans of Meghan Quinn and Penny Reid.

What happens when a New York City playboy, a Southern spitfire, and a hairless cat walk into a coffee shop?

Self-made mogul Chase Moore is a charming hound dog with a hairless cat and a family business to save.

He was fine being the spare to the heir until the family's billion-dollar business threatens to go belly-up.

Now Chase will need more than his rakish good looks to fight his father for control.

Powerhouse marketing guru Campbell King returns to Texas and launches her own company after being chewed up and spat out by the city that never sleeps.

One phone call makes all the difference when a suave and sexy male voice offers her the chance to redeem herself and help him save his swanky Manhattan store.

When the sexy redhead finally runs into her new billionaire boss, they’re both in for a shock.

But there’s no way Campbell is dating the boss. In fact, anyone but the billionaire would be better...

Previously published as A Little Moore Action by Sara L Hudson.

Sujets

• Policier & Thriller
• Thriller
• Mashups
• Billionaires
• Holidays
• Humorous
• Women
• Coming of Age
• Nueva York
• Friendship
• Contemporary history
• Workplace
• New York City
• Billionaire
• Romantic Comedy
• General officer
• Woman
• The Women
• City Life
• Animals
• General
• Holiday
• Contemporary
• Southern
• Romance
• Fiction
• New York

Informations

• Publié par: Boldwood Books
• Date de parution: 31 janvier 2023
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781837517268
• Langue: English

Extrait

ANYONE BUT THE BILLIONAIRE


SARA L. HUDSON
To the women who love to laugh while having both their hearts and their panties melted. You are my people.
CONTENTS



Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Epilogue


More from Sara L. Hudson

About the Author

About Boldwood Books
1
CHASE

My pussy is anti-social.
Don’t be crass. I mean my pussy cat.
He’s a sphynx, so basically a hairless pussy. Yeah, I know. There are a lot of jokes there. They’re all funny. But that isn’t the point.
Right now, the point is I’m sitting on a bench in Central Park watching all these beard-growing, man-bun douchebags score with the ladies all thanks to their playful puppies jogging up to everything with boobs. Boobs encased in wonderfully tight and revealing Spandex. And I’m stuck with a hairless cat that refuses to budge from under my hoodie.
Yes, I put my cat under my hoodie. What would you do with a hairless cat on a cool spring morning? Let him freeze his hairless balls off? You’re heartless.
Anyway.
You might be wondering what a thirty-five-year-old heterosexual man is doing with a hairless cat. I wonder that every morning when I wake up to his wrinkly butt in my face at the crack of dawn.
Pun intended.
Truthfully, he’s my ex-girlfriend’s cat. Well, I got him for her ’cause she was crazy allergic to everything. Ownership had been iffy until she gave me an ultimatum—marriage or it’s over.
I chose over.
She tried to backpedal real quick, but it didn’t work. Especially as I’d found out she was banging my business partner. When confronted, she broke down, saying I’d forced her to cheat on me. That I had commitment issues.
Commitment issues? Hello? I bought you a cat.
Also, I hadn’t been the one with a side piece. And my business partner? When you stoop that low, you better sure as shit know that I’m taking said cat. Hairless or not.
So now here I am, trying my hand at rebounding with Mike Hunt, the sphynx.
See what I did there? Yeah, I know. Not very mature. But considering my ex had named him Fluffy, which I thought demeaning rather than ironic, I think Mike Hunt is an excellent upgrade.
I hunch over and talk to the bulge under my hoodie. This causes a few passersby to give me the side-eye.
Whatever, keep jogging, man-buns.
“Listen, Mikey. You’re not doing either of us any favors right now.” The wrinkly ball of skin burrows deeper. “Okay, you asked for it.” I fish my phone out of my back pocket and start an online search for cat sweaters. This is what my life has come to. Buying sweaters for hairless pussies.
God, that’s depressing.
But just as I’m about to PayPal an entire wardrobe for Mr. Hunt here, my phone vibrates, and my father’s name flashes on the screen.
Not “Dad” or “Father,” but his legit, legal name: Stanley W. Moore. That should give you some clue as to how close we are. Or aren’t, as it were.
Since my outing today seems to be a lost cause for all types of pussy, I slide my thumb right and answer. “Stan.”
“Chase.”
“To what do I owe the pleasure of your cheerfulness on this fine spring morning?”
“Jesus.”
I love riling the old man. It’s the only thing he’s ever let me know I’m truly good at. Gifted even.
“Shareholders’ meeting at noon today,” he barks into my ear. It’s the same tone he’s used with me since I was a kid. When I accidentally (on purpose) blew up my science fair project by mixing too much vinegar and baking soda. When the police brought me home for toilet papering the principal’s house. When I got caught in tenth grade with my hand up Megan Dumphrey’s blouse in the janitor’s closet. It’s even the same tone he used when I graduated high school with a 4.0 GPA, was voted valedictorian, made varsity soccer all four years of high school, and went on to graduate at the top of my class at University of Pennsylvania on academic scholarships.
Growing up, I quickly learned that no matter the situation, I’d be thought of as the flunky, the spare, the good-time kid. So why not act like it? Way more fun than trying to please the perpetually disgruntled Stanley Winston Moore.
“So a family lunch?” I muse into the phone. “Considering all the shareholders are family members. Right, Pops?”
I can almost hear his teeth grinding. “You are required to be there.”
He says it like if it were up to him, I wouldn’t be there. Which is probably true. Color me surprised when at eighteen I inherited shares in the family company, Moore’s, a luxury retailer world-renowned and based in New York. Think Harrods, but American. I love the damn store, even though it was drilled into my head from a young age that it wasn’t my destiny. I was the second son. The spare. The just-in-case. They let my younger sister Liz and me know, repeatedly, that our older brother would be given the reins. Liz, because not only was she third in line, but worse, a girl. Me, because… well, I’m me. My father had no choice but to divvy up the shares. My maternal grandfather made sure of that. But control? Hell to the no.
I blow out a quick breath and force a smile into my voice. “I’ll be there, Daddy-O.”
“Thomas has some information he wants to go over. Try to at least act professional.”
Professional like having created a multimillion-dollar app? Like successfully investing in start-ups since I was twenty, without a dime of family money?
But I refuse to take the bait. Instead, I reply cheerfully, “Will do, Stanley.”
Dead air. No goodbye.
Nice.
I wish I could say that this type of passive aggressive conversation is unusual between the old man and me. That Stan is normally a friendly, loving father, proud of my accomplishments and always inviting me over for family lunches and golf outings with his cronies.
But if wishes were real, I wouldn’t be sitting on a park bench ordering argyle sweaters for Mike Hunt.



* * *


Bell

Momma always said there’s an Elvis lyric for every situation. And right now, sitting in my lawyer’s office, in front of the man representing a thief and my former employee, I can surely feel my temperature rising. Well, temper is more like it. And he for sure isn’t a hunk of burning love.
Not with more hair on his upper lip than a 1970s porn star .
“Listen here, little lady…”
Annnnnd, I zone out. It’s either that or strangle the bastard.
Look, I live in Texas. The odds are stacked against me that at some point I’ll be referred to as “little lady.” If I was lucky, it would have been by a cute, wizened old man playing chess in a rocking chair who means it with dignity and respect. However, luck is not on my side today.
Reminding myself that lawsuits are serious, even if his has no real foundation, I try to refocus on what the pompous, beer-bellied lawyer across the table is saying. But all I see is his 1970s porn ’stache and fake gold Rolex. John, my former employee, is underestimating me if he thinks he’ll win his ridiculous countersuit with this ambulance chaser.
“So if you drop the suit, my client will—”
“No.”
Porn ’stache blinks. “Excuse me, missy?”
“My name isn’t missy, and it sure as hell isn’t little lady. It’s Campbell King. Ms. King to you. I’m not dropping the lawsuit. And frankly, your client’s countersuit is laughable at best. Your client, my ex-employee, is guilty of corporate subterfuge. There are records, emails, and security footage.” I glance over at my lawyer, Leslie Peterson, who is trying to hide her smirk by looking down and shuffling the stack of evidence in front of her.
“This is simply a misunderstanding. My client assures me that you just didn’t know the system in which he was—”
“Trying to take credit for my work and poach clients? Yes, Porn ’stache, I one hundred percent understand the system he was using.”
A laugh bursts from Leslie, and she tries to hide it with a cough. Shoot, I said Porn ’stache out loud. Not very professional. When provoked, I have a tendency to say what’s on my mind without much thought. It’s a habit I developed after staying quiet one too many times in the past.
But seeing as Porn ’stache isn’t a client, has called me little lady and missy, and works for my asshole ex-employee, I don’t have one fuck to give.
Leslie clears her throat and addresses the ’stache. “On top of which, your client, Mr. John Dudley, who, I may add, didn’t even bother to show up at this meeting he requested, signed an ironclad agreement not to compete during his two-year contract with King Marketing.” Leslie’s crisp East Coast accent cuts through the room. A clear contradiction to ’stache’s and my Southern drawls. “So Ms. King’s lawsuit will stand. Mr. Dudley will cease his unlawful marketing start-up with King Marketing’s client information, which was taken illegally, and he will pay the penalty for his subterfuge against my client’s company.”
Porn ’stache narrows his eyes. “This is what happens when you let women in business. They make a play for a guy and then get all emotional when he doesn’t feel the same way.” His cheeks get bigger, his eyes smaller, so I can only assume he’s smiling under that overgrown caterpillar on his lip. “Oh yes,” he says, looking at me, “Mr. Dudley told me all about your little crush on him, Ms. King. ” He looks at Leslie, who is no longer smiling. “We could always add sexual harassment to this suit if this is how your client wants to play it.”
I choke down a surge of outrage at Porn ’stache’s blatant lie but remain visibly calm. John had been hired as an intern. When my former assistant left on maternity leave, then fell in love with being a stay-at-home mom to her sweet little girl, John applied for her