Billionaire Romantic (New York Billionaires #4)

Chapter 1

As I weave my Ducati through the usual madness of New York City traffic on a Wednesday morning, I make a decision.

It’s safe to say I’m different to my brothers in many ways.

My brothers always describe me as the “nice” one out of the four of us.

The “romantic” one. The one who’s most likely to believe that something like true love actually exists, despite the train wreck of our parents’ legacy.

I’m the one who supposedly still has faith that good things can happen.

According to my brothers, they’re the cynics and I’m the optimist.

But the universe has a twisted sense of humor. Because over the past few months, all three of my cynical-to-their-bones brothers have fallen head over heels in love.

I’m happy for them. I’m over the moon that fate has somehow proved them wrong.

That each one of them is capable of falling so hard and so fast that all three of them had rings on the poor girls’ fingers before they even knew what hit them—and, in at least one case, or possibly more, they’ve already knocked up their wives-to-be because they’re incapable of thinking about anything except getting that particular job done.

And I, the only one of us who isn’t—at least wasn’t—allergic to the words “relationship” and “commitment,” am still thoroughly unattached, disillusioned as fuck and pissed off that my “optimism” has obviously jinxed me.

Here I was, thinking it was worth waiting for The One. I’m the only brother who hasn’t relentlessly slept my way around the island of Manhattan because I idiotically convinced myself that I’d prefer to actually feel something for the person I’m having sex with.

No longer. That game plan has done nothing except provide me with endless disappointment.

The decision locks into place, right here on the corner of Fifth Avenue and East 34th Street.

I’m no longer going to wait for that one elusive, perfect woman who never shows up for me. My brothers can drool all over their one-and-onlies, freeing up the New York dating pool for yours truly.

Fuck it.

I’m going to go out and find myself some unsuspecting girl with fake tits and dollar signs in her eyes, like they all seem to do. I’m going to stop pretending that the woman of my dreams exists.

And I’m going to get fucking laid.

It’s been way too long.

It’s not that I can’t get women to fall in love with me.

I can, very easily. The only problem is, most of them are after me for my looks or, obviously, my money.

My brothers and I happen to be some of the wealthiest and most successful investors and businessmen in New York City.

So was our father and so was our grandfather.

It’s well known that a shitload of zeroes are attached to my many bank accounts, which of course is a super-powered magnet for every woman with a heartbeat.

Being the fool that I am, I’ve mostly avoided meaningless sex because I was hoping I would find…well, meaning . Love. True love, even. The kind of love you’d kill or die for. The kind that completely blinds you to everyone and everything except the one true love of your life.

The kind of love that staunchly, relentlessly eludes me.

Unfortunately, my brothers know me too well. I am a fucking romantic. I crave it. I want to fall in love so badly I feel like I can’t breathe some days. Like there’s a huge hole in my heart and my life that only she—a phantom lover who probably doesn’t even exist—can fill.

It’s depressing. And infuriating.

Where the fuck is she?

I’ve clearly got it all wrong. The only people around here who are falling in love are the die-hard skeptics who don’t even believe in it.

I pull my Ducati into my parking space in the private parking garage under our building so abruptly I can smell burnt rubber.

It’s another point of difference between me and my brothers.

All three of them prefer to be chauffeured around in their limos.

I like the chaos of the traffic. The soundtrack of the city reminds me that there’s a world outside our glass box that doesn’t give a damn about our investment portfolios or our share values.

Not being a slave to city traffic also means that on mornings like today when I’m earlier than usual, I can stop in to get coffee at the coffee shop around the corner from our office that has proven to be by far the longest relationship of my life.

It’s the first place I became a regular when I started working in the city, long before Cash poached me to be CFO of his company.

Our family company, Maddox Equities, which owns its own city block including the skyscraper that houses the company’s headquarters, is directly across the street.

I started working at Maddox Equities the day after I graduated from Harvard, as we all did.

As we were all expected to do, whether we chose it or not.

Alexander, the oldest of the four of us, still runs the family business. It was always his destiny to be CEO.

Cash and our father butted horns too often to work together easily and Cash wanted out.

Since there were more crazy family dynamics than even I knew what to do with, especially before our father died—and I’m considered the “diplomat” and the steadying force in our family—Colton and I jumped ship as soon as Cash offered it.

The skyscraper across the street from the main hub of my family’s empire happened to be for sale.

So we bought it and began building Invested Enterprises from the ground up.

It’s been incredibly hard work. We’ve worked our guts out and weathered more than a few storms, but it’s all been worth it. Business is most definitely booming.

So the Daily Grind and I go way back.

I pull off my helmet and secure it to the bike, glancing at the watch Alexander insisted on gifting me last Christmas. A Rolex. It’s not usually my style to wear half a million dollars on my wrist but even I have to admit it’s a nice watch.

It’s almost nine.

As I make my way out onto the street and around the corner, I vaguely notice as traffic stops and the rush of the crowd hurries across the crosswalk.

But something’s holding them up. A frail-looking elderly woman wearing a bright yellow headscarf is being very nearly trampled by corporate assholes.

She’s hunched over a cane, barely a third of the way across. The light’s about to change.

Despite my mood, I can’t help myself. I walk over to her. “Excuse me, do you need some help?”

Her eyes narrow as she stares up at me. “If you’re thinking of mugging me, Buster, I don’t carry cash and my diamonds are locked up in my son’s safe in Hoboken.”

I like her feistiness. “I promise I’m not going to mug you. I’m Noah. Let me help you across the street.”

“Enid,” she replies, sizing me up and apparently finding me trustworthy enough. When I offer her my arm, she takes it.

We start our slow, slow journey across the street. The traffic light turns green before we’re even halfway and horns blare. Enid grips my arm tighter, using my support and her cane to take another step. “If I wasn’t holding onto you, dear, I’d be giving those morons the finger.”

This makes me smile. “Maybe let’s not give any pre-caffeinated New Yorkers the finger until we get you safely across.” A driver revs the engine angrily and screeches past us.

“Assholes. Everyone is always in such a rush these days,” Enid sighs, continuing at her snail’s pace.

“Big plans today, Enid?” I ask, in an attempt to distract her from the cab driver who’s wound his window down specifically to yell obscenities at us.

“Oh, you know, the usual. Judge Judy and Jeopardy with my sister Mabel, then maybe I’ll go shoplift some Tums later.

Just kidding, they’re locked up like Class A drugs these days.

Mabel is ninety, a spinster and ornery as hell, but she insists I visit her every morning.

And I have to be nice to her in case she dies first. She keeps threatening to leave her fortune to her hairless cat Nigel. ”

I didn’t think I was capable of laughing this morning but Enid has proven me wrong. “Quite the agenda you’ve got there, Enid.”

We finally reach the other side.

“Are you going to be okay getting to your sister’s, Enid?”

“Oh yes, I’ll be fine from here. I’ve walked to Mabel’s every day for fifty-seven years. I could do it blindfolded.” Enid steadies herself. “I’m sure you have places you need to be, looking like you do.”

“I’m happy to help if you need it.”

She squints up at me. “Whoever gets to keep you is one lucky lady. If only I’d met you when I was a looker in my twenties.”

“You’re still a looker, Enid.”

She cackles nostalgically. “And you’re a good liar. And very charming. Not to mention tall, handsome and well-dressed. And built , good Lord. Tell your lucky lady she better appreciate the catch of New York City.” She pats my arm and begins shuffling away. “Have a good day, Noah. And thank you.”

“My pleasure.” I watch for a moment as she makes her way down the street, concerned she’s going to be knocked over by a guy who’s reading on his phone and not looking where he’s going.

But Enid’s ready for him. Before he can barge into her, she gives his leg a well-aimed thwack with her cane.

He jumps back, letting out a little howl.

Limping and glaring, he gives her a wide berth as he hurries away.

Enid’s going be just fine.

I make my way back across the street and hear someone yelling my name. Colton steps out of his limo. “Tell me you did not just help an old lady cross the street.”

I don’t bother confirming or denying.

“Dude, you’re a walking cliché,” Colton laughs.

“And you’re an ego-inflated asshat, but we love you anyway.” We make our way inside the Daily Grind.

“Hi, Noah.” It’s one of the baristas who knows me by name.

Because I have to give a name for my order.

I make a point of asking theirs because I come here a lot and it seems like the right thing to do.

I happen to know her name is Elli with an i, because it’s how she introduced herself. She blinks blue-tinted eyelashes at me.

“Hey, Elli with an i.”

Her smile is doe-eyed. Colton elbows me but this girl is so not my type. She has piercings all over her face and a goth look that’s never really floated my boat. “Can I get you your usual, Noah?”

“Make it three, please.”

They always get my order first, no matter how long the line is.

Elli hands me my coffee, making a point of placing it in the cardboard three-cup-holder so I can see she’s written her number on the side. “Thanks, Elli.”

She bites her lip, blinking at me again. “Bye, Noah. See you again soon, hopefully.”

We get out to the street and Colton is still laughing. “Jesus, she might as well have had ‘Fuck me’ tattooed across her forehead. You should call her. Getting up close and personal with a chick with that many piercings could be interesting.”

“Give it a rest, Colton.”

“Just go with it, bro.” Colton keys us into our private elevator. “You’re too wholesome for your own good.” Not entirely true. There’s a side to me my brothers definitely know nothing about. “Unless the rumors are true,” he smirks.

I don’t bother taking his bait. “You’re in a good mood,” I observe.

“It’s called getting laid, Noah. You should try it sometime.

” Ever since he met Lila, Colton has been insufferably happy .

Cole was always the fun-loving Casanova of the pack of us, but now there’s a new, fervent light in his eyes which, considering both his past and his usual devil-may-care attitude, is probably the best advertisement for true love I’ve ever seen.

“I’m not taking your place as the family fuck-boy, so you can drop it,” I tell him. Then again, that’s exactly what I just made a decision to start doing.

The elevator dings and the doors slide open. Directly opposite the doors is one of our main boardrooms, which Cash happens to be walking into. “Better than the Maddox Monk,” Colton replies.

Which of course is all the invitation Cash needs to join the conversation. “How’s the vow of celibacy going?”

“Fuck off,” I tell him, handing him his coffee as I walk past him into the boardroom.

“Good morning to you too.” Cash smiles at how easy it is to rile his usually zen brother. He sets his coffee and some folders at the head of the table, pulling out a chair. “The mood hasn’t improved, I see.”

“My mood is none of your—or his—business. Let’s just get on with the meeting you insisted we come to.”

More grinning, but Cash tunes in to the fact that I’m really not in the mood for their rainbows and unicorns happiness right now—because they happen to be right. My epic dry spell is getting way out of hand.