The Last Eligible Billionaire Read Online Pippa Grant

Categories Genre: Alpha Male, Billionaire, Contemporary, Funny, Romance Tags Authors:

Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 107926 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 540(@200wpm)___ 432(@250wpm)___ 360(@300wpm)

Read Online Books/Novels:

The Last Eligible Billionaire

Author/Writer of Book/Novel:

Pippa Grant

Book Information:

Emotionally unavailable doesn’t even begin to describe my new fake boyfriend. He’s cold. He’s distant. He has more defenses than a nuclear missile silo. And he’s the ultimate catch of the century. At least, according to his bank statement.
My job’s simple: Keep Hayes Rutherford’s matchmaking relatives and all interested ladies away from the cranky, grumpy, walled-off heir to my favorite movie empire, and in return, he won’t ruin my life over a teensy, tiny little misunderstanding.
But the more I sneak past Hayes’s walls and fences, the more I realize that while we might be from different worlds, we have more in common than either of us expected. The man under all the glitz, glamour, and dollar signs could be the real love of my life.
But you know what they say about fake dating a billionaire—it’s all fun and games until the scandals start.
The Last Eligible Billionaire is a swoony, laugh-out-loud romance featuring a botched wax job, a woman in over her head, a man in over his heart, and the sweetest misguided dog to ever play matchmaker…or at least make sure these two anti-love birds never have clothes when they get out of the shower.
A new stand alone romantic comedy from Pippa Grant.
Books by Author:

Pippa Grant


Hayes Alexander Rutherford, aka a billionaire who would give his fortune to never see another single woman again in his life

There’s exactly one thing a man wants after two weddings, a funeral, a clandestine overnight drive, and an unfortunate incident with roadkill, and it is not more drama.

It is never more drama.

Or more people.

Or a complete and total disaster in what’s supposed to be a haven.

Yet instead of falling into bed at my private retreat on a small island off the coast of Maine, with the French doors of my bedroom balcony open to let in the sound of the ocean waves rolling to shore while I escape into a mindless oblivion to recover from the past few weeks, I’ve arrived to a problem.

Someone has broken into my estate just as surely as the sun is breaking over the clouds off the horizon as it rises over the water.

The back door to the main house is unlocked, the lights are on, dirty dishes and clothing are scattered all over the covered porch, someone’s piled paint-stained rags outside the laundry room, and the refrigerator is gaping open.


There’s cheesecake in my refrigerator.

Cheesecake, pink wine—no, I don’t care what kind it is, not if it’s pink—three bags of peanut butter cups, two Styrofoam containers of god only knows what, a massive raw steak, a bottle of Tabasco sauce, and a stick of butter. All inside the refrigerator that should have its doors closed but doesn’t.

I stick my hand into the fridge.

Room temperature.

The wine bottle isn’t even sweating anymore, which means the doors have been open so long the damn refrigerator has ceased to function at all.


This means whoever broke into my house ruined cheesecake.

How is it that the cheesecake is the most egregious of my intruder’s sins?

My head aches. My body is stiff and sore. I might have a touch of whiplash, I definitely smell faintly of skunk, I’m exhausted, and someone—an unauthorized someone who should not be in my sanctuary after all the lengths I went to in order to reach this place anonymously and undetected—is letting cheesecake go bad in my open refrigerator.

This should not be the most appalling error of the morning, yet here we are.

I’m rapidly becoming irrationally angry over spoiled cheesecake.

One hand on my phone, the other wrapped firmly around my regrets in ditching my security detail, I make my way through the living room to the staircase. There’s a subtle hint of music drifting from somewhere above, mud prints on my wood floor—both human and animal—and a maroon jacket embroidered with a smiling hot dog hanging on the banister.

This keeps getting worse.

For god’s sake, Hayes, call the police, my mother would say. You’re already not the catch your brother was. Don’t ruin what little good looks you have left by confronting the ruffians.

Reason enough to do this myself.

If I were a tad uglier, perhaps the fortune-hunting bachelorettes that I can’t seem to avoid would be less inclined to bat their lashes my way.

Not that their attention has anything to do with my looks.

Who needs looks when your bank account has as many zeroes as mine, and when your mother is as encouraging as mine? Provided you have the right pedigree and pass her background check, that is.

The scent of something sweet and unexpected tickles my nose, and not the way cheesecake would.

This is a nose-tickle of perfume. Given the increasing volume of the echoing music—is that “I Will Survive”?—and the yowling to go along with it, I don’t believe I’m about to find my property manager here taking advantage of my absence to live it up.

While I’m hardly an expert on the man, I’m positive he’s not the girl power song type.

Which means I’m about to find my squatter in the bathroom.

I make my way down the hallway to my suite and gently press the latch. The door swings easily and soundlessly as I push it open, revealing another disaster of clothing strewn about my bedroom and increasing the volume of the singing drastically. Two bras dangle off the mirror over my armoire. A box of tampons sits open on the floor outside the bathroom door. Four pairs of muddy shoes are scattered about the floor, perilously close to the Turkish rug beneath my bed.

But the mess is nothing compared to the singing.

Dear god, the singing.

There’s not a human in my bathroom. There’s a hyena stuck in the awkward stage of puberty, sucking down a helium balloon, and then letting it all go in an off-key rendition of the world’s worst karaoke song.

Not helping the headache.

Not helping the bone-deep exhaustion from the travel to get here stealthily.

Not helping my desire to be completely alone, away from the world, away from scheming socialites and my mother and wedding cakes and funeral flowers and the weight of generations’ worth of expectations that have landed squarely on my shoulders now that I’m not only the new chief financial officer of my family’s company, but also, rather quickly and unexpectedly, the final unmarried male billionaire under the age of eighty-three on this entire planet.