Page 46 of Pucking Billionaire

“This is your captain speaking,” says a Russian-accented voice from the sky… or an intercom. The voice informs everyone that his name is Ivan Vorobey, and that we will soon be conducting a muster drill… or passing muster, or possibly, eating something with lots of mustard.

After the spiel is over, I don a yellow (or maybe mustard) lifejacket and make my way to my designated location.

Again, there don’t seem to be as many people around as I would expect—which could be a very good thing when it comes to going on shared attractions such as the zipline and the surfing simulator.

The mustard turns out to be a safety briefing. On my way back to my cabin, I enter the elevator, where I smell ice and birch.

My heartbeat spikes. All of a sudden, I’m thinking of gray eyes, broad shoulders, and Uber.

Dammit. Is this what pining for someone feels like? If so, I hate it, especially since it’s directed at a person who is so wrong for me.

Escaping the elevator, I do my best to relax, a task facilitated quite well by the balcony with the ocean view. Then I eagerly dress up for my first on-board dinner. Given the fact that I booked a suite, I have access to a VIP restaurant where I can sit at my own table. However, I much prefer the option to be seated with people from all over the world—the quintessential cruise experience.

When I get to the dining room, yummy smells make my stomach rumble.

The polite hostess shows me to my table, which, strangely, is completely empty.

Hmm. There are plenty of people at some of the other tables—especially the ones farther away.

Odd.

Someone clears his throat behind me.

I don’t know how, but even from that nondescript sound, I already know whom I will see.

My pulse leaps into the stratosphere as I spin around.

And yep.

There he is.

Mason Tugev pulls out a chair next to me and descends into it like a king onto his throne.

“Hey, Ladybug,” he drawls, sex appeal oozing from his every pore. “What’s for dinner?”

Chapter 19

Mason

What’s for dinner? After all this time apart, I should’ve said something less moronic. Maybe rehearsed a speech. Instead, I kept imagining the indignant wrath that would be written all over her beautiful face when she realized what I’d done, and in that, I was spot on because the expression is there, only sexier than I anticipated.

“What are you doing here?” she demands when her delicate jaw returns from the floor.

I shrug as nonchalantly as I can. “I needed a vacation, so I booked a cruise.”

For a few moments, she seems to be at a loss for words—probably mentally circling through all the angry rebuttals in her repertoire. “But this is my cruise,” she finally says, and out of all the possible responses, this one makes me feel a pang of guilt.

The woman wanted to get away, and I’ve kind of ruined it for her. Oh, well. If she’d just talked to me at any point in the last few weeks, this would’ve been avoided.

I raise an eyebrow while keeping a poker face. “Between the two of us, this is more my cruise than yours.”

She blinks at me in confusion.

I gesture at the empty seats surrounding our table and others nearby. “To make sure we could have privacy, I got myself a few extra tickets.”

Yeah, “a few” is an understatement. I bought so many tickets for this cruise that I probably could’ve purchased myself a private yacht instead.

“Hold on.” Her eyes narrow. “You’ve booked all these rooms?” She waves around our table.

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