Page 31 of Pucking Billionaire

A blush spreads from her face down to her breasts, and it makes me want to toss her over my shoulder, caveman-style.

“Doesn’t vodka have a ton of calories?” Sophia gestures at my drink.

“Touché,” I reply. “A single shot is about a hundred calories, which is why I only indulge on a rare occasion.” And I don’t want to develop an addiction like my grandfather—the one who supposedly died of alcohol poisoning before I was born.

Good. Thinking about my family has slightly dampened my libido… that is, until Sophia takes another breath, causing her breasts to rise and fall.

Abigail sets her empty glass on the bar with a thud. “I hate to interrupt all this diet-oriented flirting, but I really have to go.”

“Good luck,” Sophia says.

“Thanks,” Abigail says and rushes away.

Sophia turns back to me and takes a big sip of her so-called drink. “Do you think there was a job thing, or was she just trying to leave us alone?”

So she’s not as gullible as I thought. “The latter, I’m sure.”

She cocks her head—and even that gesture is sensual when she does it, which is insane. “Could you really help her get a job at Octothorpe?”

“Of course.” I take out my iPhone. “Let’s exchange our contact information so you can pass me her resume.”

“How very Machiavellian.” She pulls out her phone. “You just want my number.”

I shrug.

She downs the rest of her dessert, then texts me and makes sure I text her back.

“Let me get you another drink.” I warily eye her empty glass. “Do you want the same thing?” I hope she says no because if she stomachs another one of those things, she might become diabetic and go into a coma on my watch.

She examines the bottles behind the bar. “Want to do tequila shots with me?”

I wince. “Tequila doesn’t agree with me.” In that the alcohol tolerance afforded to me by my Estonian genes goes out the window when I drink tequila—and this is after accounting for the fact that most brands of tequila have higher alcohol by volume content than most vodkas.

Sophia’s sexy evil grin makes me regret my admission. “It’s either tequila or another milkshake. Your choice.”

I wave at the bartender. “Two shots of your best tequila.”

“I can’t believe it,” Jason says, arriving with Parker just as the shots hit the bar. His speech is slurred. “You said you’d never drink ‘worm piss’ again.”

Fuck. I forgot the team was here, and now these two bozos have snuck up on us.

“Jason, Parker, this is Sophia,” I say pointedly. “The new team owner.”

“Oh,” Jason says stupidly.

“We’re going to be leaving,” Parker says, sounding much soberer than Jason, though that’s a low bar.

“Before you go.” Sophia downs her shot like it’s water. “It’s not a worm that you see inside bottles of mezcal. It’s moth larva.”

Why doesn’t mention of worms or moth larva help my stupid erection subside? Did one of my children—I mean, teammates—slip me some Viagra?

Jason elbows Parker. “Even the women he likes sound like nature shows.”

I glare at them both. Parker quickly gets the picture and drags Jason away to the dance floor, where they immediately start grinding on the blondes.

“Is Jason on the team?” Sophia asks. “I don’t remember seeing him on the ice.”

“He’s the goalie, so his mug is thankfully covered by a mask during games, sparing our fans the horror.”

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