Page 6 of Pucking Billionaire

I’m a pacifist.

I abhor violence.

Smacking a man—no matter how much I want to—is an example of violence and therefore would be wrong, both morally and ethically. It would be a bad idea from a practical standpoint as well, seeing that he’s huge and dangerous-looking.

“Let me see if I have this straight.” I feel proud of myself for using words instead of slaps. “You came here to buy a team I’ve just inherited?”

He nods. “I’ll make it worth your while, believe me.”

I snort humorlessly. “Are you completely oblivious to the concept of irony?”

His jaw ticks. “What?”

“A minute ago, you had the balls to call me a vulture.” He winces as I press on. “The irony is that here you are, swooping down right after my father’s death, trying to ‘make a deal.’” I use my most sarcastic air quotes around the last three words.

“I am here to make a deal.” He clenches and unclenches his fists, but the sight doesn’t turn me on… as much as usual. “A fair deal,” he continues as I try to get my breathing under control. “One that’s even better than what I would’ve made with your father.”

“Well, then. Considering that I’m a gold digger who only cares about money, I’m about to blow your mind.” I channel all my violent fantasies into a single withering look. “I wouldn’t sell you a golf club if I were starving and needed money for bread. And in case you’re wondering, I don’t play golf.”

Just like insults, comebacks aren’t my strong suit, but this one will have to stand because I’m done talking to this asshole.

I turn to leave, but there’s a pained grunt behind me.

I glance back.

The pudgy gentleman I saw earlier is clutching his chest.

What the hell?

He slides out of his chair and sprawls on the floor, eyes closed.

I’m rooted to the spot, in complete shock… but the Viking asshole isn’t.

He leaps toward the man, taps his shoulders with both hands, and shouts, “Are you okay?”

No reply.

“He’s unresponsive.” The Viking meets my gaze. “Phone 911 and get the AED.”

The words are said with such commanding force that I find myself running out of the room to comply, only to realize I have no idea what the AED is.

I quickly return and witness my nemesis ripping the man’s shirt off of him with one powerful tug, revealing a hairy chest with man boobs. The Viking then puts one of his hands over the other and presses into the man’s chest so hard I half expect his ribs to break.

Spotting me, the Viking glares at my empty hands. “Where’s the fucking AED? And is the ambulance on the way?”

“What’s an AED?” The question comes out in a panicked squeak.

“Useless,” the Viking mutters under his breath and stops the compressions to breathe into the fallen man’s mouth.

How inappropriate is it that I feel a tiny pang of envy toward the dying man?

“AED stands for automated external defibrillator,” says Mr. Cohen as he rushes out of his office. “I’ll go get it. You call 911.”

“Assuming you can manage that,” the Viking says snidely, then resumes the chest compressions, humming what I could swear is “Stayin' Alive” by the Bee Gees.

Frantically fishing out my phone, I dial 911 and tell the operator what’s happened, where I am, and that someone is already performing CPR. I also go into a number of details that might be irrelevant, like why I was here, and what I had for breakfast earlier. Oh, and on top of telling her my name, I mention Mr. Cohen and ask the Viking for his.

“Mason,” he grumbles. “Mason Tugev, though I have no idea why the 911 operator would care.”

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