Question: What do you do when you fall for your best friend’s little sister?

More important question: How long can you keep it a secret before it all goes up in flames?

The Billionaire’s Forbidden Little Sister, an all-new brother’s best friend rom-com from New York Times bestselling author Max Monroe, is available now!

Lena Two hours and another two shots for Pippa later and she’s in full-on dance mode. Shaking her hips and tits like she owns the joint. It only took one intense shimmy during “Gonna Make You Sweat” to understand what she meant—her boobs, left braless, would absolutely be a lethal weapon. I’m pretty sure the sweat between them even vaporized into a misty Mel Gibson mirage, they shook so hard. And not once has she wanted to stop for a break. She’s in the running to be the next Energizer bunny, but my bladder is full, and I’m dehydrated. For the love of God, I need something to drink other than Mel-flavored sweat mist and gasoline. Thankfully, when Pip spots Sophie and Frederick on the other side of the dance floor, she does some weird version of the robot, spins in their direction, and makes like the wind through the crowd while letting her arms trail behind her. It’s so fucking strange, it’s hilarious, and I can’t help but laugh. Sophie feels the same, covering her mouth comically as she spots Pippa. I wave my hand, hoping to get her attention, and by some miracle, she spots me through the strobing lights and writhing bodies. I jerk my chin and swipe a hand across my chest before tapping the skin next to my eye and doing the walking symbol with my fingers. Sophie nods, interpreting my baseball-esque code, regardless of its lackluster delivery. If I were on the other end of things, I’d be waffling between second and third base right now, trying to figure out what to do. “I’ve got her!” she whisper-yells toward me, and the weight of drunken-friend-motherhood lifts off me in a flash. I’m sure my friends with kids would tell me this is how they always feel when they actually make it to the bathroom. I didn’t think it was a possibility for a female living on planet Earth, but when I make it to the toilets—as the Italians call them—the line is short and speedy. I’m standing at the bar again, waiting on a bartender to take my order in under five minutes. Of course, the bar takes so long, I have to sit down on one of the stools to bide my time. And just like that, the timetable of the universe has been righted. While I wait, I glance back toward the dance floor to check on Pip, the dancing queen—who is now showing off her twerking skills to a cute twentysomething guy. If I had to guess based on his appearance, I’d peg him as one of the locals. But for all I really know, he hails from the Jersey Shore. Thankfully, Sophie and Frederick are sticking close to Pip’s side, and her dance partner of unknown origin isn’t getting too handsy. All is well. I breathe a sigh of relief and turn back toward the bar to resume my quest for a drink and, like magic, lock eyes directly with a bartender. Thank God! He jerks his chin up to head my way, and I climb to stand on the rung of my barstool with glee. But when he’s five steps away, his attention swings back to a point down the bar, and immediately, he diverts. What the hell? I glance down at my perky, tight-nippled breasts and frown. How in the hell did he see these fuckers and not come in for the landing? Annoyed, I follow him with my gaze to what I’m sure must be a woman with three tits and an exposed pussy. I pause. Stop. Go completely still. Wow. That is definitely not a woman with freakish anatomy. In fact, that’s no woman at all. Midnight-blue eyes, a little scruff on his strong jaw, and the kind of lips that I instinctually know will be good at kissing, the man who stole my bartender warrants more than a double take. Hot damn. He’s clad in a smart suit but no tie, and his collared shirt is loose at the neck but perfectly fitted around the tight, firm muscles of his chest. The suit is obviously tailored and screams of money, but I have a feeling not even gold-plating would be able to disguise the spectacular body he’s got underneath. His face is serious—but God, even serious, he is handsome as fuck. The urge to find out what he looks like when he smiles is both overwhelming and terrifying. I mean, how would I even quantify anything beyond perfection? A shiver runs up my spine. I really want to see what this guy is all about. I imagine if I could remember Pippa existed at this point, I’d try to thank her for insisting I celebrate our accomplishments by lifting the man ban for the night. As it is, I’m not sure anyone but me and the hottie with the sparkling eyes are left on the planet. When he finishes talking to what I can only assume is the bartender who abandoned me, he turns back toward the dance floor and rests his hip against the bar. His still-serious eyes scan the joint, moving from the dance floor to the VIP section to the intimate booths scattered along the walls and then back to the line of the bar, all the way back to me. My breath catches in my throat when he meets my curious gaze and pauses. Yes, please. Drink forgotten, I mouth the word “Hi” toward him, and the slight hint of a smile threatens to quirk up just one corner of his lips. God, I want to see him smile. He mouths “Hi” back before pulling the center of his bottom lip between his teeth and dragging it back out. One perfect dimple pokes out from his cheek. Hell’s bells, that’s one dangerously sexy look… Unconsciously, I lick my bottom lip, and without hesitation, he shoves away from his spot at the bar and closes the distance between us. “Hi,” I repeat when he stops within hearing distance—and in this club, with this crowd and noise, that’s pretty fucking close. With full lips, white teeth, and two dimples, he smiles the sexiest smile I’ve seen in my life at the single-syllable word. And as a bonus, I can see now that his sparkling eyes are midnight blue, like the deepest part of the ocean. “Hi,” he responds, rounding out our freak cycle of hellos, and it’s instantly evident he’s an American like me. “You should do that more.” He raises a questioning brow, leaning just one hand into the lighted marble bar top behind me. It makes his size feel impressive, makes me feel enveloped. My whole body spasms, and I take a deep breath to control it. “Do what more?” “Smile,” I clarify. A soft but deep and raspy chuckle leaves his perfect, kissable mouth. “Who says I don’t?” I reach up toward the skin between his brows and his gaze follows my hand skeptically, but he doesn’t back away. “This little, almost nonexistent line right here,” I say softly, running a finger across it. His eyes search mine in the kind of hot and sexy way that makes me wonder if my panties are still there, but I do my best to keep my voice even as I explain further. “I bet you furrow your brow all the time.” He leans closer to me, and my fingers slide into the lush, dark locks of his hair on accident. “Is that right?” “Uh-huh,” I answer simply, unable to form words until my hand finds its way back to the safe space of my lap. It’s purely circumstantial that my fingers graze his cheek and then his neck along the way. I clear my throat and look up to meet his eyes again. “I mean, here you are, in a club, at a bar with beautiful women all around you, and until you came over here, I couldn’t tell if you were having a good time at all.” He laughs a little and then asks, “You know what’s funny?” Completely oblivious to the answer but equally eager to find out, I shake my head. “Neither could I.” “And now?” I challenge with one inquisitive eyebrow. “Now, I definitely am.” I smile then, allowing a cascade of goose bumps to cover my arms from my shoulders to my fingertips. Goddamn. He’s trouble, and I like it. In fact, I like it way too much. “Well, in that case…” I pause and bite down on my bottom lip. “Since you stole my bartender, I think it’s only fair that you buy me a drink.” He searches my eyes, a small smile once again lighting his own. “Stole your bartender?” “Yep. Plucked him right from my braless grasp.” He laughs again, shaking his head and fighting like hell not to look down. I’m immediately impressed by his level of self-control. Nine out of ten of the men I’ve been with in the past would have focused in on my buzzword and failed to look away from it for the rest of the night. But not this guy. He’s interested—I can tell by the way his pupils have dilated—but for now, he’s content to focus on my eyes. Irony at its finest, as that simple behavior actually increases his chances of seeing my nipples later. “Okay, then. I guess I owe you one. What’s your poison?” That handsome grin of his grows wider, and I swear to God, I can feel it all the way to my damn toes. Tell him gin and tonic because it will taste good when you get him to kiss you later, my horny, sex-deprived subconscious instructs. The other side of my brain—the rational side—suggests something low in alcohol content—something that promotes good decisions. I think it over for a brief moment, scanning the features of his too-handsome face and landing on his luscious smirking lips once again. The answer pours out of me like a benediction. “Gin and tonic, please.”