Page 15 of Pucking Billionaire

“He was rude and obnoxious.”

She waves that off. “Does he have any ink?”

Now it’s my turn to grin. When it comes to men, tattoos are Abigail’s Achilles heel… made out of kryptonite. She’d date—and I use that term loosely—any loser with a nice picture on his skin for her to gawk at, even a telemarketer who cold-calls people early in the morning to sell them fidget spinners.

“No tattoos,” I say. “None that were visible anyway.” But damn her, she’s got me wondering what he looks like under that track suit.

“No ink is good,” she says. “Given that he’s yours, and I don’t want the temptation.”

“Can we have a serious talk for a moment?” I ask, my burrito suddenly losing its sweetness.

She cocks her head.

I pull out the papers listing all my inherited stuff. “How can I make sure not to squander all this new money?”

Abigail snatches the papers and reads carefully, forehead furrowing.

A couple of times, she whistles, which must be a good sign.

After a few minutes, she hands me the papers back, eyes shining. “You’re super rich. The kind of rich where it would be a serious challenge to squander it all.”

I sigh. “I don’t want to take on that challenge. Quite the opposite.”

She nods. “I think I can give you a few pointers. Let me have a think.”

“You’re the best.” I grin at her. “Tomorrow at the cafeteria, lunch is on me.”

Abigail tsk-tsks with mock disapproval. “Already squandering money on luxuries, are we?”

“Yeah. I’m also taking a cab to see my new house—and my new turtles.”

My new house isn’t a house.

It’s a mansion, and I don’t use that word lightly. It’s like if the Downton Abbey home impregnated the White House, and then severely overfed the resulting baby. The mansion is surrounded by countless acres of perfectly maintained gardens, a big chunk of which are covered by a see-through dome—making it the biggest greenhouse I’ve ever seen.

“Are you expected?” the cab driver asks when we approach the tall, ornate gate.

“This place is mine,” I say with uncertainty. “But… I don’t know.”

With a confused expression, he pulls up to the intercom that’s right next to the gate and rolls down my window.

I press the button.

“Hello,” a posh female voice says with a British accent. “How can I be of help?”

“Hi. This is Sophia Papa?—”

“Ah, Mistress Papachristodoulopoulou,” the woman says. “Please come inside.”

I gape at the intercom. That was the closest anyone has ever gotten to pronouncing my last name correctly, and the first time anyone has called me a mistress.

“You want to get out here?” the cab driver asks.

Is he joking? The driveway is a mile long. “Please take me to the front door.”

He does so, and as I pay, a woman in her late twenties runs to the cab to get the door for me.

I climb out and try not to gape at her. She’s wearing a lot of black leather, has more piercings than a pincushion, and is covered in so many tattoos that, if she were a dude, she’d have a hall pass into Abigail’s vagina.

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