Page 25 of Pucking Billionaire

“Yes, you can. You’re helping me with this team business for free, or did you forget?”

“How about we have a few more sleepovers at the mansion?” she says in a tone that tells me her mind is set in stone. “Then we’ll talk.”

Translation: after said sleepovers, she will tell me what’s what—which is fine.

“Do you have a parking spot?” Richard asks, and I realize we’re pulling up to our street.

“A parking spot?” Abigail grins. “Sure, it’s next to the stables.”

“Can you drop us off and look for a paid parking garage?” I suggest.

Parking here will cost an arm and a leg, but I need to start thinking like a wealthy person.

Richard nods, but because there’s a big truck sitting by the building’s entrance, he lets us out down the block.

As we head down the street, I notice a man walking a strange spotted dog, and something about the man’s broad back seems familiar.

“Hey,” Abigail says, following my gaze. “Isn’t that?—”

Yep. The stranger turns, and it’s Mason, in all his virile glory.

“Are you stalking me?” I demand, advancing on him.

Mason raises an eyebrow. “I’m just walking my cat.”

I pause my glare to check out the strange dog I saw earlier, who, in fact, does turn out to be a large cat. An adorable cat, with pointy ears and leopard-like coloring.

I narrow my eyes at Mason. “How did you know I like cats?”

Because I do, and I’ve always dreamed about getting one, except it’s never been possible. Before our landlord’s rules got in the way, it was my mom’s cat allergy, not to mention her inability to keep even the single human in her care, i.e. me, properly nourished.

Mason’s dark eyebrow arches higher. “How could I know that you like cats?”

“The same way you know where I live,” I snap, motioning to my building. “And where I go to school.”

Mason squeezes his hand over his cat’s leash, a gesture that makes his hand look too much like a fist for my panties’ comfort. “Spike and I have been together for four years. I just met you. I’m not that good of a planner.”

“What kind of a cat is he?” Abigail croons, staring down at Spike.

“A Savannah,” Mason says proudly. “Before you ask, he’s a rescue, and I know the city doesn’t allow his breed, which is why I have a special license for him.”

“He’s super cute,” she says.

“It’s true,” I say grudgingly. I have no idea how much said license cost or how it was even obtained, but a woman with giant turtles who fuck nonstop shouldn’t throw stones.

“Thank you.” For the first time since our meeting, Mason smiles, and I wish he wouldn’t, because it makes his already attractive face too much so, to the point where it affects my lady bits in the same way that a premium fist would.

I do my best to shake it off. Sternly, I say, “Seriously, what are you doing here?”

“I came to apologize.” His hand dives into his tracksuit pocket. “And to give the two of you these.” He hands me two papers.

“Tickets?” Abigail exclaims. “Are they for?—”

“End-of-season,” he says. “Center ice, right by the glass.”

They must be good seats because Abigail’s eyes widen to comic proportions. Just as I open my mouth to reject the shady offer, she starts jumping up and down like a teen about to go to her favorite boyband concert.

“Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!” she gushes. “I was dying to go!”

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