Page 3 of Pucking Billionaire

I mean, I guess I could’ve pushed harder, but Theodore had enough shit to deal with, so I didn’t.

“And you think the daughter will work with you?”

“That’s why I’m here.” I look around the waiting room of the law office and regret doing so instantly.

There’s a guy here who’s buttoning and unbuttoning his shirt.

So fucking gross. I loathe buttons. They are disgusting, constantly being touched by everyone’s fingers and getting swallowed by children who then poop them out—that is, unless they get stuck in their intestines forever.

Looking away, I take a calming breath just as my therapist taught me. I remind myself that buttons are benign objects. This is merely my koumpounophobia fucking with my brain. It’s a rare condition that usually makes you fear buttons, but since I fear nothing, I feel disgust instead.

“At the law office?” Landon clarifies, bringing me back to reality.

“Yeah. I plan to make her an offer.” And I’ll have to be extra careful to be very civil with the woman, despite how she treated poor Theodore.

Hell, for my team, I’d make a deal with the devil if I had to. This is that important to me.

“What a bad idea,” Landon says.

“Why?” Irritated, I squeeze my phone in my hand but force myself to relax. This is probably still the fucking buttons pushing my buttons, not Landon.

My hold loosens.

That’s better. Just like hockey sticks, phones need a firm grip, not a crushing one—something I learned the hard way by once destroying an iPhone.

Fun fact: If it weren’t for koumpounophobia, the iPhone might not even exist. Steve Jobs had the same phobia, and I presume that was why he didn’t want buttons on his devices—hence the touch screen.

Landon sighs. “How did you even know where she’d be and at what time?”

My phone case creaks. I guess I’m still not fully over that button sighting—or Landon’s annoying self is just getting harder to ignore. “The lawyer is a huge Yetis fan, else I wouldn’t have known about the fate of the team.”

All it cost me were a few end-of-season tickets.

From the corner of my eye, I spot the man futzing with his shirt again.

Fucker. I wish it were socially acceptable to walk up to a stranger and rip their buttons off.

“And people question my emotional intelligence,” Landon mutters under his breath.

“I’m about to hang up.” By destroying another fucking phone.

When Landon says people question his emotional intelligence, what he probably means is that they compare him to Patrick Bateman, the preppy suit-wearing serial killer from American Psycho.

“Just look at this from her perspective,” Landon says. “You show up there like some weird stalker and?—”

“This is my lawyer’s office too. A stalker would wait inside her apartment.”

Landon sighs. “She’s just lost her father. And she’s only learning about the will today. I doubt she’ll be in the mood to discuss any sort of business.”

As if Landon’s words aren’t enough of an irritant, the buttons guy is at it again, more vigorously this time.

Why is this okay?

It’s grosser than picking out belly button lint in public.

“Oh, please.” Despite my best efforts, my voice rises. “She shunned him all those years, but as soon as he got sick, there she was. You think she was interested in reconciliation? No fucking way. She didn’t even come to his funeral. All she wanted was the money, like a gold-digging vulture.”

I hear an indignant gasp nearby.

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