Page 19 of Pucking Billionaire

Testudines? Basics? I feel like I could take what she’s talked about thus far and turn it into a biology dissertation.

When we get back into the mansion, I ask Effie what the important business is.

“Oh, I just wanted to save us from a day-long lecture.”

“Thanks,” I say. “Now if you don’t mind, I want to wander around a bit.”

She bows. “It’s your house.”

And so it is, which is why I examine everything, each nook, cranny, and turtle depiction, feeling increasingly overwhelmed as I do.

Before coming here, I wasn’t sure what to do with my wealth, but now I also don’t know what to do with this mansion. There are people depending on me for their income, so if I mismanage my money, they’ll lose their livelihood. Oh, and a cherry on top of that guilt cake would be a species going extinct, and Donatello becoming a very sad tortoise without all that nookie.

My phone dings.

It’s a text from Abigail:

Lunch at 2?

I reply in the affirmative and hope that she’s ready to set me on a righteous financial path.

Returning to the garage, I make Richard’s day by asking him to give me a ride to school.

“Turtle sex?” Abigail nearly chokes on her California roll.

“Tortoise sex,” I correct with a smirk. “There’s a huge difference.”

“Right, one longer than his neck.”

“Let’s please not talk about tortoise cock.” I put a piece of my roll into my mouth and resist cringing. I’m not a food snob, by any means, but college cafeteria sushi is to regular sushi what granola bars are to deep-fried Oreos.

“Got it. No tortoise cock,” Abigail says. “Have you heard from Mason again?”

“No. How would I?”

She shrugs. “He seems like a resourceful man.”

I narrow my eyes. “Speaking of being resourceful, have you thought about my dilemma?”

“Changing the topic?” Abigail says with a slight eye roll. “Fine, here’s what you do with the cash sitting and doing nothing in a bank: invest forty percent into index funds, then twenty percent?—”

What follows is much more boring than the earlier turtle/tortoise treatise, and it includes dreaded math, but I force myself to listen and ask what I hope passes for intelligent questions.

When Abigail is finished, I ask, “Do you think I can afford to have some fun?”

She grins. “You can afford to have so much fun it might just kill you.”

“Then I’m taking a Royal Ruskovian cruise,” I announce.

Ever since a frenemy in middle school went and then told me all about it in excruciating detail, I’ve been wanting to go.

“You can afford to rent a private ship,” Abigail says.

“No, I want that whole experience. I want them to seat me at a dinner table with some random people from Iowa. I want a huge crowd at the nightly magic show. I want?—”

“Norovirus? The flu? Covid?”

“I’ll just wash my hands,” I say determinedly. “I take it you don’t want to join?”

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