Time for another book recipe! This week I’ll be looking at the ever-popular ‘romance with a billionaire’ genre. Grab your credit card and get ready to smoulder.
- One ridiculously sexy billionaire
- One transparently obvious stand-in for the reader
- A team of highly-trained professionals the billionaire can order around
- A token rival
- Fancy parties
- Enough money to last forever.
- Introduce your transparent stand-in. She’s just your everyday girl who enjoys normal human activities, like breathing and having no opinions of her own.
- She has to go to a fancy party, because the plot says so! Make sure the reader knows how much she hates getting dressed up by describing her outfit in loving detail.
- Feast your eyes on the most jaw-droppingly hot man you have ever, EVER seen.
- And he’s also rich. So rich.
- They meet! Even though the protagonist has all the personality of a wet flannel he’s totally into her.
- The rival is there. They don’t do anything, this is just so we remember their name for later on.
- She goes home, utterly convinced she’ll never see him again. For they live in different worlds, and how could she ever hope to –
- PSYCH! Look who it is!
- The sexy billionaire is here to take our formless amoeba of a protagonist on a date. It’s the best date in the history of all dates, ever.
- Agonise about whether the sexy billionaire likes the protagonist or not. Sure, he’s taken her out on several diamond-encrusted dates and bought her the planet Jupiter, but how does he really feeeeeeeeeellll?
- The sexy billionaire just buys her stuff.
- The rival shows up, oh no! Now the protagonist feels all insecure.
- But wait, here comes sexy billionaire to turn all her problems into gold. Yay!
- Makeover scene!
- There’s a big fancy party coming up. It’s super important, for business reasons. But it’s also on the same day as protagonist’s other thing. Make sure the two romantic leads never discuss this like adults.
- Sexy billionaire and protagonist have a third-act argument, because we need enough tension to spin out the ending until step twenty.
- And then the rival appears…with the sexy billionaire!
- Protagonist goes to her other thing by herself, mopily, and is sure she’ll die alone.
- BUT LOOK WHO IT IS! Sexy billionaire turns up at the last minute to fix everything. He explains the stuff with the rival and it’s never a sex thing.
- And they all lived happily ever after.
THE END. Serve on a bed of jewels.
- The less time you spend developing your protagonist the better. Don’t waste time on showcasing her personality and get straight to the shirtless billionaire parts.
- If your sexy billionaire wants to do something nice for the protagonist, he can’t do it himself. Always remember that he is far too busy and important to actually make anything – he can just send an assistant to buy something better instead.
- The rival is always, always blonde.
- Don’t worry about the logistics of how your romantic leads meet. It doesn’t have to make sense, as long as it’s hot.
- If your characters have sex, remember these two rules:
- The heroine is always a virgin, so we don’t have to witness any adult conversations about past relationships
- The sexy billionaire is always the absolute best at sex in the entire world
- Give your protagonist a relatable flaw, like clumsiness, to distract from the fact that she is essentially a damp slice of bread.
- Make sure your protagonist complains about her newfound wealth all the time, so everyone knows she’s not a gold-digger.
And here’s one I prepared earlier…
Even though I’m sitting in the ballroom of the Gold Hotel, I still can’t believe I agreed to do this. I should’ve told my boss no. But the features editor got sick at the last minute and here I am, plain old Bianca Slate, trying to act like a real reporter and cover the annual Billionaires’ Ball.
Nobody’s fooled. It doesn’t matter that I’m all dressed up in a sparkling silver floor-length ballgown with a slit up the side that’s held up by a diamond necklace, and my chestnut-brown hair is pulled into an elaborate updo with a few elegant curls tumbling around my face. I just don’t fit in here. All the other guests are tanned and sparkly, and know how to use a bouillabaisse whisk. It doesn’t matter that some of them are chinless from centuries of inbreeding. They belong.
The sooner I can leave, the better. I don’t like fancy parties. I don’t even like getting dressed up. Letting the professional make-up artist create a personalised look for me that perfectly complemented my features and outfit took oceans of patience I didn’t know I had. And I made a fool of myself. I cringe just thinking about the conversation we had:
“What’s that?” I’d said, pointing to a weird thing on the make-up artist’s table. It sort of looked like a fuzzy stick of broccoli.
She stared at me. “It’s a brush.”
God, how stupid! How could anyone not know that? She probably told everyone, and now they’re all laughing.
I get up to leave and trip over my sparkly dress. My glass of champagne spills all over a blonde woman but before I hit the floor, someone catches me.
“Careful,” he says.
It is, without a doubt, the sexiest way someone has told me to be careful in my whole life. I look up, into the face of the most attractive man I have ever seen. Obsidian hair, jade-green eyes, perfectly chiselled cheekbones and designer stubble. I’m blushing just looking at him.
And then he smiles at me and suddenly I’ve forgotten how to speak.
“Are you OK? That was quite a fall,” he says, sexily.
He grins, scoops me up in his arms and there’s this strange tingling feeling everywhere. Everywhere. I really wish I’d paid attention in Sex Ed. “You know, I really ought to thank you for throwing champagne on Gloria. I didn’t think I’d ever get away from her.”
“I didn’t catch your name, by the way,” he murmurs, putting me down on a red velvet chaise longue. “I’m Jack Roman.”
Jack Roman. Jack Roman, the billionaire, who owns all the world’s shipping companies, the patents for drones, smartphones and zips, and South America. Jack Roman who I’ve been sent here to interview. I try and unstick my jaw.
I clear my throat, face burning. “Um, sorry, no. It’s Bianca. Um. Sorry.”
He grins at me. Later on, I’m going to have to look up if it’s possible to get pregnant just from eye contact. “Well, Bianca,” he says, handing me a gold-plated business card, “if you’d like to continue this conversation somewhere more private just let me know.”
I drop the business card, nodding frantically. He hands it back with a flourish, kisses my hand, and walks away. My face is still very red.
I bet he thinks I’m a total idiot. He probably hates me.
My full book-cookbook can be found here. Let me know what you’d like me to look at next – and as always, take this recipe with a pinch of salt.