Page 24 of Pucking Billionaire

Effie shuffles from foot to foot. “You saw the dining room.”

I frown. “Right, but where do I go when I get hungry?”

“Well, duh,” Abigail says. “You go to the dining room and tell your amazing butler what you want.”

Given the grateful look Effie shoots at my friend, I bet if there were a tattoo-covered butler brother, she’d offer him as thanks.

I turn to Effie. “I don’t get to raid the fridge?”

Effie wrinkles her nose, clanking her jewelry in the process. “Just tell me what you’d hypothetically be looking for, and I’ll get it.”

“What if it’s the middle of the night?” Not that I’ve decided if I’ll sleep here on a regular basis, but I will tonight.

“She does get hungry for sweets at the weirdest times,” Abigail whispers to Effie conspiratorially. “It wakes me up every time she opens the stupid fridge.”

“You can still call for me,” Effie says, but she looks less sure now.

“I wouldn’t feel right doing that,” I say.

“Therefore, she’ll go hungry,” Abigail chimes in. “Which means she’ll be cranky the next time you see her.”

Effie seems horrified at the idea of a cranky “mistress.” “The kitchen is this way, but please only use it in case of emergencies.”

So we visit the kitchen and explain to the cook—an older lady we met earlier—that she’s not going to be redundant and that I’m only going to show my face in this room when craving a doughnut at night.

“Okay,” the cook says. “What kind of doughnuts are your favorite?”

I tell her, and she promises to make a couple to keep in the fridge at night.

Wow. Whoever says money can’t buy happiness clearly hasn’t considered homemade doughnuts as a variable.

“Can you make us some dinner?” I ask the cook. “With popcorn as an appetizer?”

When Abigail looks at me questioningly, I explain that I want to watch a movie with her in the “media room” and then have dinner.

“Yes!” Abigail pumps her fist. “This is going to be the best slumber party ever.”

“So,” I say to Abigail the next morning as Richard drives us back to our micro-apartment. “Do you want to move into my mansion with me?”

She furrows her perfect brows. “Commuting to school will take forever.”

I gesture at Richard. “But we’ll do it in style.”

Abigail puts a hand on her belly. “I’ll gain four hundred pounds.”

She’s got a point. Last night’s dinner and today’s breakfast were fancy-restaurant quality but fast-food quantity. And I won’t even count the midnight doughnut I had, one that I still think might’ve been a wet dream.

“There’s a gym,” I remind her. “We can work off the meals.”

She cocks her head. “If I say no, will you leave me on my own?”

“No. But I’d want to rent us a better apartment.”

She shakes her head. “I can’t afford to pay half of anything better. Not unless I get a job.”

“That’s fine,” I say.

“No, it’s not.” She tucks a strand of blonde hair behind her ear. “Crashing in your mansion would be one thing, but an apartment is a whole different story. I can’t let you?—”

---