Page 61 of Pucking Billionaire

“I’ve scored a hat trick in many games.”

“Ah.” He downs the drink. “I mean the one where you punched that guy. And that other guy.”

I suppress a sigh. This is going to be a very long morning.

Chapter 22

Sophia

Having booked the excursion, I stroll in Central Park and ponder why and how I’ve managed to forgive Mason so quickly. Because somehow, I have done just that, and I don’t think he deserves it.

Am I being shallow? Am I letting him get away with murder because of his looks?

Maybe. Then again, he did apologize. And he found out about the hamburger guy for me. Not to mention, he also saved said guy’s life in the first place. I just have to make sure not to go any further than mere forgiveness when?—

“Ladybug,” Mason says, jogging up to me without panting in the slightest. “What fun activity did you book for us?”

“Hey.” I was half expecting the good captain to be permanently attached to Mason at the hip, but he’s missing. “Do you like sea life?”

He nods enthusiastically. “Are we going snorkeling?”

“No.” I’m not so foolish as to expose myself to the sight of him wearing only swim trunks. That way lies a repeat of F-Day, or worse. “As soon as we reach the next port, we’re taking a ride on a glass-bottom boat.” Doing my best to simulate the salesy tone of the concierge, I say, “It’s like wearing a diving mask while staying dry.”

Because if Mason gets wet, so will I.

“That’s great,” he says. “We could probably catch sight of coral, fish, seaweed, or maybe even a shipwreck.”

“Speaking of shipwrecks,” I say. “Where’s the good captain?”

“You mean the not-so-good captain?” Mason smiles wryly. “He drank so much I wouldn’t trust him with a paper ship.”

“I know, right?” I say as his smile flutters something in my belly.

I mean, no, it doesn’t. This is fear for my life, given the captain situation.

Mason extends his elbow to me, but I hesitate.

“I’m not sure if it will make you feel better,” he says. “But I confronted him about the drinking, and he assured me that he has a high tolerance and that, and I quote, ‘it would take a lot more than that to get me ship faced.’”

“How reassuring.” I slide my hand into the crook of his elbow—but only because ignoring it is awkward. The action is a mistake, though, because feeling his hard bicep intensifies the “fear for life” flutters.

Mason acts like my hand on his arm was a foregone conclusion. “What might be more reassuring is this factoid: he doesn’t actually drive the ship like you would a car. He uses navigation systems like radar, GPS, and autopilot. More importantly, a team of officers and experienced crew members operates those systems. Many of them are from India, and they are, to quote Jack Sparrow again, ‘Teetotalers with too many PhDs.’”

“Jack Sparrow?”

“His name translated from Russian,” he explains.

I squeeze his arm. “You speak Russian?”

“Enough to translate that name,” he says.

“That’s crazy. Despite taking two years of Spanish in school, I can only say a few phrases. And I only know a few words in Greek.”

This last bit reminds me unpleasantly of my mom. Strangely, Mason’s bicep tenses in my grasp, as if the topic offends him. Yet when he speaks, his tone is bland.

“Most Estonians know some Russian,” he says.

“Ah. Is it the language your parents speak?”

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