20. Sophia
Chapter 20
Sophia
I know Mason is just kissing me, but I feel on the verge of an orgasm.
I blame all the build-up. The way he smelled during dinner, the way he looked at me, and particularly the way he flashed me his fist so many times—as if on purpose—turned my brain into a panna cotta.
Wait a second.
Why am I letting this happen?
I shouldn’t.
But it feels so good. His lips are soft, but the rest of him is hard. Speaking of hard, Uber is pressing against my belly, making my insides flip.
But no.
Unlike on F-Day, alcohol won’t be able to serve as an excuse today. If I go through with this, I will have slept with him of my own free will.
Then again, many philosophers don’t believe in free will. Many consider it an illusion.
No.
Free will is real, or else I would not be able to summon mine and use it to push Mason away from me—even though I desperately don’t want to.
“Are you going to invite me in?” His eyes are wild, his breathing shallow.
I manage a shake of my head.
“You sure?”
No, I’m not sure. But I intend to fake it until I make it. “Is this your way of trying to sweet-talk me into selling you the team?”
He frowns, the wildness in his eyes dimming. “What?”
“Isn’t that why you’re on the cruise? To get me to sell you the team… by any means necessary?” And hey, if I had a cock like Uber, I could probably get women to sell me whatever team I wanted, be it hockey, basketball, or toe wrestling.
Mason steps back and looks like I’ve slapped him. “Look, Ladybug… Yes, I’m on the cruise to try to talk to you about selling, but what happened after the bar that night had nothing to do with that, and if?—”
“That’s a lie,” I interject forcefully. “You gave me the tickets to the game as part of your quest to get me to sell. If it weren’t for that, I wouldn’t have ended up at that bar and F-Day wouldn’t have happened.”
“F-Day?”
Shit. I shouldn’t have shared that moniker. “It doesn’t matter what I call it. It’s not happening again. But even if it were to happen, it wouldn’t help your cause. You’re not that good.”
Actually, he’s very close to that good. I just have more experience with deceitful seducers than the average person.
Mason’s expression turns thunderous. I guess that was a hit below the belt.
“You know what? Fuck this,” he growls. “Don’t sell me the fucking team. I don’t give a shit. But at least sell to someone else.”
I draw back. “Why?”
“You don’t exactly have the best track record when it comes to financial matters.”
My pulse spikes as I process what he’s implying. “I what?”
He winces. “Never mind. That’s not what I meant to say. Look, the truth is, the owner’s job is challenging even for people in the hockey industry. Since you?—”
Keeping him under an unblinking glare, I tune out the rest of his words as a few little things that had bothered me through the night click into place. That “track record” bit is a dig at my abysmal credit score, which he isn’t supposed to know about. He also knew which suite door was mine, then pretended not to, and before that, he knew my major—even though I don’t think I ever told him about that.
“—not to mention experience managing large budgets, understanding regulations, and?—”
“You had me investigated, didn’t you?” I poke him in the chest with an accusatory finger. His muscles feel like steel, but for a change, this doesn’t make me want to drop my panties right here in the hallway.
Mason sighs. “You wouldn’t even talk to me. I was desperate.”
He admits it! I thought maybe I was just being paranoid. My whole body flushes with heat—and not the way it did just a few moments ago. This time, it’s not the idiotically misguided arousal but an anger so righteous it could quote biblical verses… in tongues.
“You’re a stalker,” I hiss at him. “And I want you off this cruise.”
He curls his hand inward, like he’s on the verge of making a damned fist again. “Sell the team, and I’ll get off at the next port.”
“No.” I’m so pissed I feel like a vein may pop in my brain.
Mason grimaces. “In that case, my answer is also no .”
“Fine,” I grit out. “Then I’ll get off.”
He shrugs, which probably means that he’ll end up on the same plane as me, likely as my seatmate.
“As soon as I’m back on land, I’m going to get a restraining order,” I warn.
“The first stop on this cruise is a Royal Ruskovian private island,” he says. “I doubt they have a police department.”
I take a deep breath and remind myself that I’m a pacifist, and more importantly, that hitting is morally wrong, no matter how tempting. Instead, I turn on my heel and angrily wave the card to my suite over the lock, then rip at the door handle.
Nothing happens.
Seething, I slam the card against the reader, again to no avail.
“You have to tap it,” Mason says.
I tap the damned thing, but still no luck.
“Tap gentler and wait until you see the light flash green,” Mason says with the most irritating calmness. “Then turn the handle.”
I do as he says, and my anger doubles when it works.
Once in the suite, I bang the door shut so hard it’s a marvel it doesn’t go flying off the hinges. I take a few deep breaths and step out onto my balcony, but unlike the door, I feel unhinged, so not even the gorgeous view is relaxing me. Fuming, I grab my phone to call Abigail and vent, but then I recall my stupid decision to have a digital detox—and I don’t feel like dealing with buying onboard Wi-Fi right now.
Grr.
The nerve of that guy.
It’s bad enough he’s stalked me and followed me onto a cruise, but to have me investigated?
I pace the room back and forth in an effort to calm down, but it’s futile. The fact that he learned about my shitty credit— and then made those assumptions—is what really pisses me off. Mom really did a number on my score, and Rupert finished it off.
I groan. The idea that Mason knows about what happened with Rupert—even indirectly—makes me want to jump into the ocean and swim to the nearest shore.
No.
Screw that.
I’d sooner toss Mason overboard than let him ruin this vacation for me.
Yeah.
I again step out onto the balcony, determinedly splaying out on the comfortable chaise and forcing myself to enjoy the view.
I’m not sure if it’s a food coma from all that dessert, or if I’m better at this relaxation thing than I thought, but my strategy works a little too well in that before I know it, I’m fast asleep.
I wake up to a sunrise over the ocean, feeling way more chilled out.
Should I sell my mansion and permanently live on a ship? No, bad idea. My staff would lose their jobs, the tortoises would lose their home, and my chances of diarrhea (courtesy of norovirus) would skyrocket.
Despite that last thought, my stomach rumbles.
Huh. Even after that huge dinner, I’m ravenous.
I head over to the washroom, and while I go about my business, I mull over a big problem: I need a way to eat without bumping into Mason, at whom I’m still pissed, gorgeous sunrise or no.
Well, he’s probably already had breakfast—and has since jogged, lifted weights, and drunk wheatgrass juice or whatever. But in case he has slept in—or is up to stalking me again—he’ll probably expect me at the restaurant from last night, so I’ll go to the VIP restaurant instead, the one open only to the people staying in the suites.
I dress up extra nicely, for myself, not certain stalkers. True, I don’t wear anything with buttons, but that’s just because there might be someone else with koumpounophobia.
I grin. I know enough about the Greek language to know that koumpouno means “to button,” but the origin for it is the ancient Greek word for bean—which, ironically, seems to be the cornerstone of Mason’s diet.
Dammit. Why is he on my mind again?
I blame the hunger… for breakfast foods, that is. Like sausage. Or a banana—though it being fruit would remind me of a certain someone. And its shape would, too.
Grr.
Mentally smacking myself, I head over to the restaurant, and when I enter, I find it empty… except for one person.
Mason Tugev, of course.