Page 56 of Pucking Billionaire

Yeah.

I again step out onto the balcony, determinedly splaying out on the comfortable chaise and forcing myself to enjoy the view.

I’m not sure if it’s a food coma from all that dessert, or if I’m better at this relaxation thing than I thought, but my strategy works a little too well in that before I know it, I’m fast asleep.

I wake up to a sunrise over the ocean, feeling way more chilled out.

Should I sell my mansion and permanently live on a ship? No, bad idea. My staff would lose their jobs, the tortoises would lose their home, and my chances of diarrhea (courtesy of norovirus) would skyrocket.

Despite that last thought, my stomach rumbles.

Huh. Even after that huge dinner, I’m ravenous.

I head over to the washroom, and while I go about my business, I mull over a big problem: I need a way to eat without bumping into Mason, at whom I’m still pissed, gorgeous sunrise or no.

Well, he’s probably already had breakfast—and has since jogged, lifted weights, and drunk wheatgrass juice or whatever. But in case he has slept in—or is up to stalking me again—he’ll probably expect me at the restaurant from last night, so I’ll go to the VIP restaurant instead, the one open only to the people staying in the suites.

I dress up extra nicely, for myself, not certain stalkers. True, I don’t wear anything with buttons, but that’s just because there might be someone else with koumpounophobia.

I grin. I know enough about the Greek language to know that koumpouno means “to button,” but the origin for it is the ancient Greek word for bean—which, ironically, seems to be the cornerstone of Mason’s diet.

Dammit. Why is he on my mind again?

I blame the hunger… for breakfast foods, that is. Like sausage. Or a banana—though it being fruit would remind me of a certain someone. And its shape would, too.

Grr.

Mentally smacking myself, I head over to the restaurant, and when I enter, I find it empty… except for one person.

Mason Tugev, of course.

Chapter 21

Mason

“Hello, Ladybug,” I say. “Join me for breakfast.”

She shakes her head, but her eyes dart to the sugar porn that is the buffet at this place—as I hoped they might.

“Please,” I say. “Give me a chance to apologize.”

She storms over, eyes slitty. “Apologize for what?”

“The stalking,” I say earnestly. “I shouldn’t have done it. If someone had done it to me, I’d be as upset as you.” And if they’d happened to be male, they’d be in a hospital recovery room, but I’d better not give Sophia that idea.

She seems to be at a loss for words, which must be a first for her, and maybe for philosophy majors in general.

“I also wanted to tell you something,” I say. “Something I guarantee you want to know.” Actually, I have two such morsels of information, and it’s a wonder I didn’t need to use either of them last night because I fully expected to have to.

“Tell me what?”

She asks the question with feigned nonchalance, but I can see her curiosity is as aroused as my cock is at the sight of her.

I gesture at the table in front of me and smile as if this isn’t a strategic move to earn her forgiveness.

“It had better be something interesting.” She grabs a plate and fills it with enough sugar to make even Buddy the Elf sick.

Setting her plate at my table, she tells the waitress taking our drink orders that she wants a chocolate mocha and looks at me as if she dares me to say something disapproving.

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