Page 32 of Pucking Billionaire

“Is that a joke?” Sophia cocks her head again. “His face is actually quite handsome.”

It won’t be after I punch said stupid face, even if I have no idea why I suddenly want to. “You want an introduction?” After he sobers up, of course, and checks out of the hospital I’ll put him in.

She shakes her head. “I don’t date brutish men. Or even find them attractive.” She doesn’t add “present company included,” but I can tell she wants to.

I grit my teeth and take the shot, then grimace.

Whether we’re talking worm or moth larva, it’s still insect piss.

Sophia seems to enjoy my expression. “Another shot?”

“Is this a challenge?”

She replies by ordering four more tequila shots, “the cheaper the better.”

Fuck me. I’ve never tried the cheap stuff, but I’ve heard it tastes even worse, as hard as that is to believe.

“Cheers,” Sophia says and throws back the first shot, her face gleeful instead of grossed out.

How bad can it be?

I take the shot and gag. It’s like someone extracted the needles from the fucking cactus this drink was made from, dipped them into sewage, and scraped them down my throat.

And yet, miraculously, I’m still turned on.

“Another?” Sophia asks with a hiccup.

I glare at her. “Bring it on.”

What am I doing? She’s twenty-four and has the excuse of her frontal lobes still developing. I’m over a decade older and supposedly wiser, so I should put an end to this… but I take the shot glass, close my eyes, and experience the horrific taste once more.

“Admit defeat?” She gestures at two more shots.

Does she not understand what it means to be a competitive athlete? I drink not just the shot designated for me, but hers as well—and surprisingly, the last one doesn’t seem as bad as the rest.

“Give up,” I say when I catch my breath. “You’ll get alcohol poisoning way before I do.”

“Yeah, no.” She orders four more shots, uses two to catch up with me, then nods at the next one. “Want to give up?”

“No, but if that’s what it takes to save you from getting your stomach pumped tonight, so be it.” I push the tequila away.

She bats her fluffy eyelashes at me. “You care about my wellbeing that much?”

“No,” I lie. “I just figure that if you were to kick the bucket, whoever would inherit the team after you might be an even bigger pain in the ass.”

“Ah,” she says over a hiccup. “I’m the devil you know?”

“Exactly,” I reply, then realize I’m talking to her boobs instead of her face, so I lift my gaze.

“Sounds more like a bunch of excuses.” She grins devilishly—which hopefully means she didn’t notice where I was looking. “Lightweight.”

I’m the adult—or so I remind myself, over and over. “How about we pause our drinking contest for a few minutes and have a dance-off instead?” I suggest.

Given how much she’s had to drink, she’ll have enough trouble getting up from that chair, let alone managing a dance move.

To my shock, she gets to her feet with only a slight wobble, though even that might be my slightly blurred vision playing tricks.

Hmm. Maybe the last few drinks haven’t hit her liver yet?

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