Page 60 of Pucking Billionaire

Her eyes widen. “You said that correctly.”

“Why wouldn’t I?” All it took was a lesson with a private speech coach who’s fluent in Greek—no biggie.

“Very few people are able to do that,” she says. “Until now, it was just my butler who could. Not a single professor can do it in school.”

“A shame for those so-called philosophy professors. Greek to them should be what Latin is to Catholic priests.”

She smiles. “I believe they do the Mass in English nowadays.”

“Ah. Right.” I shouldn’t have used an example related to religion—it makes my parents spring to mind.

“Are you okay?” she asks, her eyebrows pleating in a small frown. She must’ve picked up on my change in mood.

Should I tell her about my parents? I feel like I owe it to her after everything. But no. I can’t. There’s a reason I’ve never told anyone. Not to mention, it’s not a fair trade. All I learned about her from the investigation is ultimately minutia: where she goes to school, her credit score, and her plans to go on this cruise. Max didn’t tell me anything deeper, and nothing like her most painful secret. Not that I think she even has such a thing, given how cheerful she?—

“Mason Tugev!” slurs a vaguely familiar accented voice. “As I live and breathe. It is you.”

I spin in my seat and take in a super-thin guy in a rumpled uniform, a bottle of vodka in his hand and two liters on his breath.

Sophia gives me a questioning look, and I shrug, as confused as she is.

“It is I,” the guy says after a hiccup. “Your biggest fan.”

Well, that explains why he’s here.

“Hi,” I say in the friendliest tone I can muster—because you have to be nice to the fans. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.” As much of a pleasure as it’d be to search for alcoholic ticks in the folds of a drunken tortoise’s skin.

“Wait, you don’t recognize me?” He slams his vodka on the table and extends his cadaver-like hand to me. “I am Ivan Vorobey.”

Sophia’s eyes widen, so I start to suspect he’s a celebrity of some kind, but I don’t have any clue as to how I know him. I mean, I’d remember that name: if translated from Russian, it’s Jack Sparrow, which is the name of the pirate played by?—

“He’s the captain,” Sophia says, just as I was about to make that leap. She lowers her voice and leans closer to me. “And he’s drinking.”

Ivan gestures at his bottle dismissively. “Just a little digestif after breakfast.”

He takes my water glass, spills its contents on the floor, then fills it to the brim with vodka. “Have a shot with me,” he says. “To honor our meeting.”

“Sorry, I can’t drink that,” I say.

“Stomach ulcer?” he asks in a horrified whisper usually reserved for discussing conditions like cancer. “It happened to my old man. The doctors forbade him to drink.” He shudders. “I believe you can still take your vodka rectally, but my papa refused that option, worried it would make him gay.”

There’s a lot to unpack there, but I simply push the vodka away and, keeping my tone fan-friendly, I say, “My coach forbade me—and I respect him more than any doctor.” It’s not even a complete lie: Coach always tells us not to binge drink, and such a “shot” would qualify as that. More importantly, I need to stay sharp to keep up with Sophia.

“But of course! Of course.” Ivan downs the glass he poured for me in one long gulp. “One should always listen to one’s captain, coach, wife, and mistress.”

I can tell that Sophia, like me, is wondering if he means the BDSM-type of mistress or the woman he’s cheating on his wife with.

“So,” Ivan says. “I wanted to ask you about that game where you scored three goals.”

Fuck. I look at Sophia for help, but she’s clearly still holding a grudge because she says, “Ah. Great. You boys have your talk. I’m going to go select that excursion.”

“Thanks,” I grumble.

“No problem.” She leaps to her feet, blows me a sarcastic goodbye kiss, and departs, leaving behind a faint scent of mango and watermelon.

I turn to Ivan. “Can you be a little more specific?”

He pours himself another glass of vodka. “What do you mean?”

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