Page 48 of Pucking Billionaire

She looks at me as if for the first time. “Did something happen to make you feel this way?”

I force my tense shoulders to unclench. As much as I hate this topic, at least we’re talking. “I’m not sure,” I say. “My father did once button my dress shirt too tight, and I thought I would suffocate, but I think I was already not a fan of the fucking things and that was just another example of how they can kill you.”

Sophia’s gaze looks peculiarly soft. Must be those long, sooty lashes of hers. “That sucks,” she murmurs, and I could swear her hand moves toward mine—only in that moment, Helena arrives at our table, smiling as manically as if she were auditioning for the role of the Joker.

“Hello,” she chirps in a hoarse voice that hints at two packs of cigarettes a day. “Let me tell you about your menu options tonight.”

She slowly recites the menu. When she gets to the sides, she looks at me solemnly. “In your case, I’d recommend skipping the sides altogether, though if you’d like, we can offer you hummus as a substitute.”

“Why?” I ask. I mean, I was likely to skip the sides and get something healthier anyway, but how does she know that?

“The options are mashed potato with mushrooms, or pasta,” she says, even more solemnly.

“And that’s a problem, why?” As she asks this, Sophia’s boobs bob up and down most distractingly.

“The pasta is wagon wheels,” Helena says, as though that explains anything. “And I’m so sorry about that. The chef didn’t know about your situation; otherwise?—”

“What are you talking about?” I glance at Sophia in case she has any clue, but she looks as puzzled as I feel.

“Rotelle pasta,” Helena clarifies. Seeing our continued blank stares, she blurts, “It kind of looks like buttons.”

I clench and unclench my fists, an action that draws a rapt stare from Sophia. “Doesn’t that kind of pasta look like the wheels of a wagon, which is why people call it wagon wheels?” Did someone hire Helena to ruin pasta for me… and wagons?

“My apologies,” Helena says. “So you’ll be getting the pasta then? It’s definitely a better choice than the potatoes, on account of… the young cremini mushrooms.”

“What’s wrong with them?” Sophia asks, nose wrinkling in more confusion.

“They’re also known as button mushrooms,” Helena explains.

I exhale an annoyed breath. “Helena, if you’re trying to be helpful, please stop. I don’t usually eat things like that anyway, but unless your chef is insane enough to deep-fry up some actual buttons, there’s no need for you to ruin perfectly fine foods for me by making associations that aren’t there.”

“I’m sorry,” Helena says.

“It’s fine,” I say. “You said hummus was an option, right?”

Helena nods.

“Do you make it here, on board?”

Another nod, but more uncertain this time.

“I’d like the chickpeas you make the hummus from, just the chickpeas themselves, with five of your side salads without the dressing, and four sides of steamed broccoli—also unadulterated.”

As I go on, Sophia’s eyebrows turn into question marks.

I answer her unasked question. “I’m an athlete. We have to watch what we eat.” I also eat like this in the hopes of aging slower and more gracefully, but I don’t mention that because it will make me sound ancient in the eyes of twenty-four-year-old Sophia.

Helena looks at me pityingly. “I take it you won’t be having dessert?”

“Bring me whatever fruit you have in the kitchen,” I say. “Berries are particularly welcome.” I mention that last part because berries are extra healthy, and in case Helena thinks they look too much like buttons for my liking.

After nodding solemnly, Helena turns to Sophia. “What about you, dear?”

“Oh, I’m not staying,” Sophia says, but tellingly, she isn’t getting to her feet—which means I might have a chance here.

I turn my best puppy eyes on her. “Please, Ladybug, don’t go. I promise not to talk about the team or anything else you don’t want to talk about.”

Sophia sighs. “Do you realize that you’ve ruined my chance to meet people from around the world? I was looking forward to that.”

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