Page 47 of Pucking Billionaire

“Those and a couple of others,” I reply, continuing the business of understating.

Again, she seems at a loss for words, but my attention is diverted by our waiter… or more specifically, by a row of giant white pustule-like buttons adorning his uniform.

Fuck me. I was ravenous a second ago, but now my appetite is but a distant memory, similar to how it would be if someone brought the feces of maggots or the deep-fried poo of a dung-beetle to our dinner table.

I frantically scan the room and spot one of the waitresses. Thanks to her dress, I’m spared the horror show that are the buttons.

“Good evening, Mr. Tugev,” our waiter says to me. “Good evening, Miss… Papa-Christ-Almighty-birth-doula-Lou.”

“Hello,” Sophia says, completely unfazed by the butchery of her name.

“We’re going to be served by a female member of your staff,” I state tersely. “Leave. Now.”

The waiter blinks, and Sophia looks on the verge of exploding.

“I assure you I can do as good a job as any of my female colleagues,” the hapless waiter says. “Also, sir, you should know that Royal Ruskovian is an equal-opportunity employer that?—”

“You can stay if you ditch that.” I point at the jacket while trying to avoid looking at the buttons on it.

“I don’t understand,” he says.

“This is beyond rude,” Sophia hisses at me.

Fuck. If she was going to run back to her room before, she’s doubly likely to do that now.

I grit my teeth. No choice but to fess up. “I have koumpounophobia.”

Sophia and the waiter gape at me with incomprehension.

“A fear of male waiters?” he suggests tentatively.

“Or is it their jackets?” Sophia offers.

“Neither.” I gingerly point at one of the vomit-inducing white circles of hell. “Those.”

“Buttons?” Sophia asks.

I nod, keeping my gaze away from the damned things.

The waiter looks down at his jacket with a horrified expression. “I can’t take it off. I’m not decent underneath.”

Sophia meets my gaze, and I could swear that for the first time, we agree on something. Namely, an unspoken question of, “What could he possibly have under there that wouldn’t be considered ‘decent?’”

“I’m going to switch with Helena,” the waiter says before we can delve deeper into the mystery. Running for the matronly-looking waitress nearby, he whispers something to her. There’s a lot of pointing at his outfit and at our table.

“Fucking hell,” I mutter under my breath. “This is going to be in the tabloids, isn’t it?”

“Is it actually true?” Sophia asks, her brow furrowing. “You’re afraid of buttons?”

“Not afraid. I merely see them for the disgusting petri dishes of germs that they are.” Also, what has possessed me to admit this, of all things?

“Germs?” She cocks her head.

“They’ve got all those holes for microbes and dust mites to crawl into,” I explain.

Sometimes, it’s up to four fucking holes.

Way too many holes.

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