Page 20 of Pucking Billionaire

She shakes her head. “I already have plans for the break.”

I open my mouth to ask her what said plans are, but someone clears their throat.

A masculine throat.

I turn toward the sound and nearly choke on my sushi roll.

It’s him.

The Viking.

Mason Tugev.

The hockey player billionaire whose looks I’ve been doing my best to forget, but now that said looks are in my face, I can’t help but stare at their fierce beauty.

And then it hits me.

I’m at school.

He’s not a student.

Frowning, I demand, “What the hell are you doing here?”

Chapter 8

Mason

An hour earlier

“I’ll take whatever your easiest course is,” I tell the confused child working in the bursar office. “Introductory Astronomy, Music Appreciation, or Intro to Russian. I’m not picky.”

After some back and forth, I find myself enrolled in “Introduction to Physical Education”—a course that I could probably teach much better than the professor. The reason for my sudden interest in adult education is simple: the security at the university is pretty tight, so this is the easiest way to get a valid student ID and access to all the buildings.

Once inside the campus, I head over to the cafeteria, and as I go, I can’t help but wonder how Max found out what time Sophia and her friend have lunch every day. Sophia doesn’t seem to be on social media, so unless he learned it from the friend’s feed, he must’ve accessed the school’s cameras or something like that.

As I approach Ladybug, I see that she’s in the middle of a conversation with a blonde friend of hers.

Fuck me. Said friend is wearing something that might as well be a gross Halloween costume: a shirt with giant pink buttons.

I take a soothing breath. I’m here. I might as well get this over with.

Feeling a modicum less grossed out, I open my mouth to clear my throat, but before I get the chance, Ladybug says, “Then I’m taking a Royal Ruskovian cruise.”

What the fuck? Why? Theodore owned a yacht, which is now hers.

“You can afford to rent a private ship,” the blonde replies.

Or use a better cruise line, or?—

“No, I want that whole experience,” Ladybug says. “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 blonde counters. “The flu? Covid?”

Not to mention filthy idiots hitting on her non-stop, an idea I passionately dislike.

I have no time to clear my throat before Sophia replies, “I’ll just wash my hands. I take it you don’t want to join?”

The blonde shakes her head. “I already have plans for the break.”

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