Page 13 of Pucking Billionaire

“She sounded hot,” he says. “All breathy and indignant.”

I clench and unclench my free hand. “What she looks like is irrelevant.”

“Is it?” he asks.

Great. Another one. If he asks me to convince her with my “charms,” I’ll introduce him to Jason so they can braid each other’s pubes.

“I need your help,” I grit out through clenched teeth.

“Obviously you do,” he says. “So much help that you’ll have to be more specific.”

My fucking phone case is creaking again. “You have a guy who can find information on people. I want him to make a dossier on her.”

Silence.

“You there?” I growl.

“Yeah, I just can’t believe my ears. Two seconds ago, you said that I was right when I called you a stalker. Now, instead of changing your ways, you’re doubling down on it.”

“What choice do I have?”

He sighs. “Wait till she meets with you and the team? She is the new owner.”

“Fuck, no. If you don’t want to help, that’s fine, but I?—”

“I’m texting you the guy’s info,” he says, and I can somehow hear the eyeroll over the line. “I’ll also tell him to expect to hear from you.”

“Thanks. I owe you one.”

“It’s nothing. Just tell me how it all goes.”

I grudgingly promise that I will and hang up. Then I get in touch with the guy, whose name is Max Stolyar, and pay his exorbitant rate. Max reassures me that no, he doesn’t charge per syllable in the query’s name, and that he’ll have something for me in a few hours.

To bide my time, I turn on the TV and put on the next nature documentary from my very long to-watch list.

The show takes place in the ocean, which would usually be calming as fuck, but the unresolved Ladybug situation is bugging me too much to enjoy anything at the moment.

Finally, after what feels like a year of waiting, I get a text from Max.

Chapter 7

Sophia

“Honey, I’m home.” I step into the tiny studio that I share with my bestie and bump right into our bunk bed.

“What’s with the racket?” Abigail mutters grumpily from the top bunk, the “high station” she received by literally drawing a short straw when we first moved into this glorified doll house. “People are trying to sleep.”

I look at the clock on our dingy little microwave, or as I call it, our micro-microwave. “It’s 3:45 in the afternoon.”

“So? I was cramming for Financial Calculus all night,” Abigail retorts. “And now I need the sleep to consolidate my memory.”

“See? This is why philosophy is a much better major,” I say with a grin. “There’s no such thing as Philosophical Calculus and therefore no need for sleepless nights.”

“Sure, if by ‘a much better major,’ you mean the peace of mind that comes with knowing you’re completely unemployable.” She swings her long, perfectly shaped legs off the bunk bed. “Also, isn’t there Ethical Calculus? Felicific Calculus?”

Should I argue that I will be able to find a job? No. Instead, and not for the first time, I marvel at how incredibly smart Abigail is. She’s just schooled me on my own area of study, because yes, those types of calculus do exist. Our school just doesn’t offer them as courses, and if it did, I’d probably avoid them like a carrot would a bunny.

“Let me make you some breakfast.” I step over to the minifridge, pull out a frozen burrito, and pop it into the micro-microwave.

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