Pucking Billionaire

22. Sophia

Chapter 22

Sophia

H aving 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?”

He comes to a jarring halt and frees his arm from my touch. “Did you feel that?”

I frown. “Feel what?”

“The ship stopped.”

As if to confirm his words, the intercom comes to life, and the cruise director welcomes us to go ashore.

“Where do you want to meet?” Masons asks as soon as the announcement is over.

“At the entrance to the port?” I’m still confused by his behavior.

“Right,” he says. “See you there.”

With that, he jogs away without a second glance.

Only after he is gone do I realize that the weirdness coincided with my bringing up the topic of his parents.

When I meet Mason down by the port entrance, he seems fine.

More than fine.

He’s changed his shirt for a tight muscle tee and his trousers for swim trunks, a combo that is unfairly distracting.

“Where do we board the glass-bottom boat?” he asks, looking around with curiosity.

“There.” I point at a boat that looks like a children’s toy next to the Wonder of the Oceans .

Mason cocks his head. “I’m not sure I’m going to fit inside such a small space.”

I have no idea why that statement makes my cheeks burn, but it does. “Luckily, your ego doesn’t take up any space, so we should be fine.”

“Touché.” He extends his elbow for me once more and—purely out of expediency—I put my hand on his bicep and lead him to our destination.

Hmm. As we get on board, I realize our ride-to-be isn’t just small in proportion to the cruise liner. It’s small when compared to other large things, like, say, Uber.

“Did you book up the whole boat?” Mason asks, scanning the empty seats. “I thought that was my move.”

“No, I didn’t.” I guess this excursion didn’t appeal to anyone else.

Oops. Spoke too soon.

An older couple walks on holding hands, the wife smiling like her life depends on it and the husband looking like he’s just swallowed a rotten lemon.

“Hi,” says the woman with a Southern drawl. “I’m Martha, and this here is Andrew.”

Andrew grunts something in a heavy Brooklyn accent.

“Hello,” Mason says in an unusually friendly tone. “Come sit next to us. Sophia here has been wanting to chat with perfect strangers.”

Is that a dig at my desire to eat at the shared tables on the cruise, or a genuine wish to help? It’s hard to tell with this guy.

“Hi.” I extend my hand to each of the newcomers. “As Mason said, I’m Sophia. We’re both from New York.”

“I’m also from New York,” says Andrew, and I don’t point out that I could’ve guessed based on his accent.

“But now he lives in Florida,” Martha says. “With me and our sixteen Siberian huskies.”

Sixteen?

If his arching eyebrow is any indicator, Mason is also impressed with the number.

“You could run two sleds with that many.” Mason scratches his head.

When we all look at him questioningly, he explains, “Dog sledding is a popular activity in Estonia.”

Ah. Right. From what little geography I know, Estonia is somewhere cold.

If Andrew and Martha have questions about Mason’s motherland, they don’t voice them. Instead, they look warily out the window in time to see our little boat begin moving.

Following their gaze makes me feel odd, so I look at the main attraction of this excursion, the glass bottom.

Except there isn’t much to see yet.

Crap.

I hope something shows up and soon.

Our boat picks up speed, and I wish it hadn’t. I can feel it moving a lot more than I could feel the cruise ship. Come to think of it, on the cruise ship, I hardly noticed that it was sailing at all.

When I glance up from the glass bottom, I find Martha and Andrew looking uncomfortable, so I make conversation by asking no one in particular, “Huskies like the cold, right?”

Martha narrows her eyes at me. “What are you trying to say?”

“Our dogs are very happy,” Andrew says challengingly. “They like the sunshine.”

Are they protesting too much?

“Huskies have a double coat,” Mason chimes in. “It helps with the cold, but in a pinch, it can also protect from the heat. Still, I doubt they should overexercise outside in the Florida sun.”

“They are happy,” Martha hisses. “Happy, I tell you.”

Oh, crap. What did we say?

“We have the AC set to sixty-five for them,” Andrew says. “They never overheat.”

“Okay. Cool.” I smile weakly. “No pun intended.”

Ignoring me, Martha whispers something into her husband’s ear.

Looking like the lemon he ate has suddenly became sourer, Andrew stands up and clears his throat. “I’d feel more comfortable if I sat over by the entrance,” he says. “Come, honey.”

They both get up, clearly eager to be as far away from us—or me—as possible.

Note to self: when meeting people with dogs, never ask any questions, or else.

Crap.

As I watch the couple’s wobbly gait, something quivers in my stomach, and I don’t mean the guilt about the social faux pas.

“How was that?” Mason whispers sarcastically when the Floridians are out of earshot. “You sure you’re still upset I deprived you of more of the same back on the cruise?”

I shrug, then point down. “I see something.”

The something is less murky waters that get bluer and more see-through by the minute. Soon, the view becomes actually interesting, or as interesting as fish, seaweed, and coral can be.

Then again, going by the expression on Mason’s face, you’d think we were watching an action-packed summer blockbuster.

Suddenly, I hear a retching sound.

Oh, no.

Andrew leaps to his feet and runs out to the deck, with Martha after him.

Something they ate? Norovirus? Either way, I hope they’re not on our cruise.

But no.

I realize that I’ve been feeling progressively woozy myself. I just haven’t allowed myself to dwell on it… but it’s getting harder to ignore by the second.

It’s a feeling a lot like my post F-Day hangover. Only my world is spinning more right now, and the nausea is sharper. Not to mention, I have a desperate desire to be on dry land that wasn’t part of my post F-Day experience.

“Are you okay?” Mason asks, sounding worried.

“Sure.” I take a deep breath. “Why do you ask?”

“You’re looking kind of green.”

“I’m fine.” I make the mistake of looking out the window, and as soon as I see the ocean move, my seasickness intensifies.

I suck in a couple more deep breaths.

“You don’t look fine,” Mason says.

“I could use some fresh air.” Except I feel bad interrupting his nature-show-like fun.

“Great idea.” He helps me get up. “Let’s get you some.”

We walk out onto the deck, and at first, the fresh air seems to help, but then I overhear sounds from another part of the boat that remind me of the projectile-vomiting scene from The Exorcist .

“Fuck,” Mason growls. “You want to go back?”

I shake my head and swallow the drool pooling unpleasantly in my mouth.

“Here.” He takes off his shirt, wets it using the water from his bottle, and presses the cold compress against my forehead.

Okay. Between seeing shirtless Mason and the cold, I feel a tiny bit better, but then the sounds resume, ruining everything.

I can’t even tell who is making the sounds at this point: Martha, Andrew, or—most likely—Pazuzu, the demon antagonist from The Exorcist.

Mason looks at me worriedly as I feel Pazuzu slither into my own body and use his gnarly fingers to squeeze the nausea center in my brain. Heaving, I bend over the railing so fast Mason must think I want to fall overboard. He grabs me with a strong grip, but then Pazuzu’s possession takes hold and he switches to holding my hair.

Fuck me. I’m going to die. My insides are coming out of my mouth. It goes on and on until I feel like my spleen is swimming with the fishes.

When it’s over, I finally feel a little better. But I’m mortified, even more so than the time I reached into a sample box next to a doughnut shop, only to realize it wasn’t a sample box. The woman holding said box was a doughnut shop employee on her break, and the box was her lunch.

“Drink.” Mason extends his water bottle to me, his expression worried instead of grossed out.

“You’ll have to burn this bottle,” I mutter.

“Stop being silly and drink.” He thrusts the bottle into my hands.

Fine. I force myself to take a sip. Then another.

“Good job,” Mason says. “Now look toward the distant horizon.”

I do so, and that helps a little more.

“Stand here.” Mason moves me over a few feet, arranging me in such a way that I feel wind on my face.

Yeah. That’s better—except the sounds resume.

“Don’t worry,” Mason says. “I’ve got this.”

He’s got what? Holy water?

To my shock, Mason starts singing at the top of his lungs. The song is in a language I don’t recognize—perhaps Russian or Estonian. It’s slow and repetitive, and Mason sings offkey, but he does a great job of drowning out the sounds of Pazuzu. Combined with the horizon watching and the wind on my face, it makes me feel almost human.

After about a minute, Mason stops singing, and I hear someone ask, “Should we head back?”

It’s the boat’s captain. Unlike our cruise ship’s counterpart, he doesn’t look drunk out of his mind.

“Yes, fucking please,” Mason barks. “Get her to the shore as soon as possible—and sail smoothly from now on, or I’ll rip off your arm.”

Rip off his arm? Sounds like something a Viking would say… and I shouldn’t find it hot. At all. I’m a pacifist, or so I thought. Also, is it even possible to sail smoothly? Not sure, but given the frightened expression on the captain’s face, he’ll certainly give it his best.

As Mason turns back to me, his fierce expression morphs back into worry, and he resumes his singing—just in time too, as Pazuzu attempts to possess me again.

After what feels like four hours of torture, we dock and Mason carries me off the boat clasped against his chest like a bride. I’m so nauseated that I don’t even find the strength to protest. All I can do is pant, “Don’t take me back on any ships. I’m not ready.”

“Of course. Want to sit on that bench?” He gestures at one that is so far away I wouldn’t even see the ocean from it—a huge plus at the moment.

I nod. “Let’s swing by the bathroom first, please.”

By now, I’m pretty sure I can stand on my own two feet, but he carries me there anyway. He’s about to step inside the ladies’ room with me when I finally find my spine.

“I can use the bathroom by myself,” I say, wriggling free. “Thank you.”

He sets me down and watches skeptically as I take a few (admittedly unsteady) steps.

“I’ll be fine.” Thrusting his wet shirt that had been my compress back at him, I hurry into the bathroom.

Damn. When I check myself out in the mirror, I’m paler than the nearby toilet. Oh, well. I do my business, wash my face with hand soap, and then do my best to make myself as presentable as is possible after a Pazuzu attack.

When I walk out, Mason has his shirt back on—a pity. He’s also holding his phone to his ear, and his back is to me, so he doesn’t realize I’m behind him.

No idea why, but I softly approach to listen in on his conversation—only to realize that if our roles were reversed, I’d call it stalking behavior and never let him forget it.

“Sure, tickets for your wife and mistress as well,” Mason says, and I exhale a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. A part of me thought that he might be speaking to either a wife or a girlfriend that he never mentioned, but it’s unlikely either of those entities would have a wife and a mistress—not unless she was especially French.

“But,” Mason continues, “in that case, you’ll have to delay departure by three hours.”

Oh. Is he talking to the?—

“Thanks, Ivan,” Mason says, confirming my guess. “After the game, I’ll sign the puck for you.”

I can tell he’s about to hang up, so I tiptoe backward to the bathroom so that it looks like I’m just exiting by the time he turns my way.

“Hey.” Approaching me, he unceremoniously picks me up again and carries me to the distant bench. “How do you feel?”

Now that I’m not sick, his touch sends tendrils of heat into all my secret places—but I’m not about to admit that. Instead, I swallow and say huskily, “Better.”

I’m also touched that he’d go through the trouble of stalling the cruise for me, but I don’t tell him that either in case he’s about to use it as a bargaining chip to get me to sell the team. More importantly, I’m not about to admit that I eavesdropped—I enjoy my position of high moral ground too much for that.

“Just sit, breathe, and relax.” He lowers me onto the bench and sits next to me, draping his arm across my shoulders.

This is nice… but it’s too much like being at the movies with my sweetheart, so I should tell him to stop.

Any moment now.

Then again, his arm is somehow helping me recover, which I think justifies allowing the embrace for a little bit longer.

For a couple of minutes. Or a dozen minutes.

He also smells really good, like a winter forest. There is such a thing as aroma therapy, so I just inhale deeper and let myself enjoy it.

He glances at me and nods approvingly. “Your color is returning.”

Maybe. Or maybe it’s the foundation I applied while I was in the bathroom. “What was the song you sang to me?”

He abruptly removes the comfort of his arm, and through the wet tank, I can see his muscles tensing. “Estonian Lullaby. My mother would sing it to me when I was little.”

Oh, shit. I think I finally get it. “Something happened to her, didn’t it?”

Mason’s expression turns stormy. “No.”

“Oh.” What then? Because his parents seem to be a touchy subject, to say the least.

I must be staring at him expectantly because he scrubs a rough hand over his face and blows out a breath before looking away. When he looks back at me, his expression is carefully blank. “My mother and father are alive and well,” he says evenly.

I bite my lip. I can still sense something there, and some devil prods me to ask, “Did your dossier mention my mother?”

He shakes his head. “It really wasn’t as in depth as you think. Mainly, I learned your credit score, how much income you had prior to your inheritance, and most importantly, the places where I might bump into you.”

Oh. So… nothing about Rupert. A huge weight lifts off my shoulders. I’d rather puke in front of Mason a dozen more times than have him learn about how I was duped like a lovesick fool. I do feel the urge to tell him something more, though—if only because I’m certain there is something complicated going on between him and his parents… just like between my mother and me.

“When I turned eighteen, my mother opened a bunch of credit cards in my name and used the money to pay for her drug addiction,” I say, matching his even tone. I don’t know why, but I don’t find this as embarrassing as the Rupert situation—maybe because in this case, I didn’t participate in my own destruction. “Needless to say,” I continue. “We’re no longer on speaking terms.”

Mason’s hard features soften. He takes my hand and gives it a reassuring squeeze that is a touch too hard. “I’m so sorry. I know exactly how you feel.”

“You do?” I stare at him.

Mason’s jaw tenses. “What I am about to tell you, I’ve never told anyone.”

I don’t blink. I even momentarily stop breathing.

“My parents do not want me in their life.” The words are loaded with so much pain my throat burns on his behalf. “Remember when I told you how Estonia is the least religious country in the world? Well, as irony would have it, my parents found religion and turned into the kind of zealots who give you two choices: join us or we never want to see you again.”

That is the last thing I expected to hear.

Speechless, I gape at him.

“I actually tried. Went to services with them and read their holy books—but of course, enthusiasm is very difficult to fake. It didn’t help that they thought I was up to ‘debauchery’ based on the bullshit they read about me in the tabloids. Even if the stories were true, for them to judge me is hypocritical to say the least—my father used to drink more vodka than our captain, and my mom had at least two affairs that I know of. But anyway, eventually they sat me down and told me they decided it would be best for them if they didn’t have a son, and requested I never call or visit.”

This time, I’m the one who grabs his hand. It’s ice cold, so I rub it between my palms, using friction to return some warmth to his skin.

“I’m so sorry,” I say earnestly. “And I hope you realize that it’s their loss.”

And I mean it, too. He’s an attractive, successful, wealthy man who is, some stalking aside, also genuinely nice. At least insofar as taking care of a seasick woman. Or saving a man’s life.

Yeah, that last one is kind of a biggie.

“Same goes for you,” he says. “Your mother is the one missing out.”

I swallow a sudden knot in my throat. “Yeah, sure.”

“I mean it,” he says.

I sigh. “Rationally, I know that’s true, but I often feel shitty regardless.” And have issues that led to me ending up with someone like Rupert.

“I understand.” He covers my hands with his. “Just like how I know that someone else won’t hurt me in the same way my parents did, but I still often feel like they might.”

Trust issues. Should I tell him that could be my middle name?

“Is this why you haven’t had a serious relationship?” I blurt, then wince at my own awkward bluntness. “I’m asking on behalf of all your rabid fans.” Nope, that didn’t make it better.

He arches an eyebrow. “So… you looked me up?”

He told me he doesn’t date, but I wanted to dig deeper into it. “It’s not stalking,” I say defensively. “You’re a public figure.”

He sighs too. “I’ve never thought about it that way, but maybe you have a point. I certainly don’t trust people easily… but I somehow feel like I can trust you. Maybe because you’ve told me your biggest secret?”

Except I haven’t. Rupert is my biggest secret, and I haven’t mentioned him.

“What about you?” Mason asks. “Have you had any serious relationships? And before you bring up the damned report I ran on you, it didn’t say anything about that, or else I wouldn’t ask.”

If I were going to tell him about Rupert, this would be my chance. He’s certainly shared something very painful and personal.

But apparently, I can’t, which is why my mouth says, “No. I haven’t had any serious relationships.”

If I were Pinocchio, my nose would be the length of Uber.

Mason’s sympathetic expression makes me feel like a piece of Pazuzu for lying. “Do you think it’s because of the thing with your mom?”

I shrug. “That’s what any therapist would say.”

He waves his hand dismissively. “Coach made us all see one of those. She tried to seduce me.”

“That bitch.” Oops, that just slipped out. “I mean, seducing a patient is against all the rules.”

A devilish grin twists his lips. “Are you jealous?”

“Why would I be jealous?” Seriously, I’d like to know… because I totally am.

“I don’t know.” He cocks his head. “It just sounds like you’re jealous.”

“I’m not.” Time to change the subject. “Have you ever heard of the Pinocchio paradox?”

Hmm, the first thing I do after lying is mention a famous liar? Smooth.

Mason puts his arm around me again. “What, pray tell, is the Pinocchio paradox?”

“Well…” I do my best not to sound like Professor Ambien. “This paradox arises if Pinocchio ever says, ‘My nose grows now.’”

Mason frowns. “Because if what he says is true and his nose is growing, that would be breaking the rule of it only growing when he lies. But if what he says is false, and his nose isn’t growing, then he’s telling a lie—” He rubs his temples. “This is why I’d never major in philosophy. It can give you a worse headache than a puck to the head.”

“Apologies. I didn’t realize that using your brain might give you a headache.” I’m actually not a fan of paradoxes myself, and for similar reasons to his, but they provide a great distraction—case in point: no more talk about jealousy.

Mason rolls his eyes. “Did you know there is a Russian version of Pinocchio? His name is Buratino, and his nose is permanently long—not because he’s a liar, but just because that’s what the author, Tolstoy, decided. The tale is very popular in Estonia.”

I gape at him. “Tolstoy? As in the guy who wrote War and Peace ?” That would be like Disney producing The Texas Chainsaw Massacre , musical edition.

“No, not that one, but a distant relative of his,” Mason says. “There are actually three famous Tolstoys: Lev Nikolayevich, Aleksey Nikolayevich, and Aleksey Konstantinovich.”

“Not confusing at all,” I say with a grin.

“Not as confusing as the Pinocchio paradox,” he retorts.

“Touché.” I look at the large clock above the building where the bathrooms are. “Shouldn’t we head back?”

I ask for two reasons: I genuinely have no idea how long of a delay Ivan granted him, but more importantly, I’d like to see if he’ll try to cash in on what he did for me.

“Oh, you didn’t get the text?” he asks.

I pat my empty-of-phone pockets. “I’m on a digital detox.”

He waves his phone at me. “For some reason, our departure was delayed by three hours.”

Some reason? So he isn’t taking credit, which is to his credit. Unless… does he know that I overheard and is thus being Machiavellian?

“How do you feel?” he asks.

I scan myself for any remnants of Pazuzu, finding none. “Better. Why?”

“It might do you good to take a stroll,” he says. “There’s a botanical garden nearby—no ocean in sight.”

“Yeah. That might be nice.” The farther away I am from boats, the better.

We head out and chat about our likes and dislikes as we stroll. Turns out, we’re both into video games, his favorite being a hockey game—of course—while mine is The Talos Principle , a philosophical puzzle game. Furthermore, we are playing the same video game franchise at the moment: Assassin’s Creed , except my game deals with the Vikings, whereas his is set in Ancient Greece.

“Are you feeling well enough now to get back on the cruise?” he asks when we return to the garden entrance.

“Yes, I think so.” As in, I completely forgot about Pazuzu.

“Which restaurant should we have dinner at?” he asks while we make our way back.

I know I should object to spending so much time together, but I don’t. “How about the VIP one?”

And I’m not choosing it because it’s more romantic. It’s just closer to my suite, that is all.

“Good choice,” Mason says. “It’s Captain’s Night at the other restaurant.”

Hmm. This was another chance to brag about what he did for me, but he kept mum. Also?—

“Does ‘Captain’s Night’ mean everyone has to dress formally?” As in, I could see Mason wearing a suit or a tux?

“Yes.” He winces. “With all those fucking buttons.”

Ah. “Yeah. No. Let’s stick to the VIP restaurant.”

He looks relieved, which warms me for some unfathomable reason.

“So…” he says. “Is it safe to say our excursion was a bust?”

I chuckle humorlessly. “A bust would be watching some muddy water. What we had was a clusterfuck.”

“In that case, I say it doesn’t count, and we do something else tomorrow.”

Wow.

Another date… I mean, excursion.

I want it so badly that it’s scary, which might be why I say, “No. But nice try.”

He turns to me, gray eyes gleaming. “Why not?”

I shrug. “We never agreed to a do-over if the glass boat ride sucked.”

He nods knowingly. “What if I told you another interesting bit of information?”

There it is. Is he going to fess up about the delay now? “What kind of information?”

“Oh, it’s something juicy,” he says with a seductive wink. “I was going to use it the first night, to get you to stay for dinner but thankfully, I didn’t have to.”

Oh, so he’s not coming clean. But then, what could it be? “Fine. Tell me.”

“Not so fast,” Mason says. “We do the excursion first; I give up the goods after—and only if it’s not another clusterfuck, so choose the activity wisely.”

I sigh. I hope I don’t end up giving up my goods as the result of all this. Also, curiosity is killing me. “How about you tell me now, and I give you my word to do the excursion?”

“No,” he says. “But nice try.”