Kaitlyn

Christmas will never be what it was when I was a kid, but even though my parents are only here in spirit, I think this Christmas is going to be the best ever.

It’s been a year since that fateful night when my not-always-a-rat-bastard brother tricked me into playing Santa for Zoe’s preschool, and tonight, instead of dodging pick-up lines from her friends’ drunken mothers, we’re all gathered at Jake’s apartment, stringing Christmas lights and baking cookies and drinking way too much hot chocolate and eggnog.

His mother’s here—who knew we’d become best friends?—and so are my brothers, who are arguing over the proper placement of a Christmas wreath.

Jake sneaks behind me and presses a kiss to my shoulder. “More reindeer?” he asks with a finger pointed at the sugar cookie dough rolled out on the island in his kitchen. “I thought for sure we’d be making more Santas.”

“You can’t eat Santa,” Zoe informs him. “Then she won’t bring you any presents, because how can she, if she’s in your belly?”

Did I mention I’m desperately in love with Zoe too?

She makes so much sense.

And she completely understood when we explained that Santa isn’t just one person. Yes, there’s a head Santa who oversees operations at the North Pole, and of course Santa’s a woman, but I had to hang up my own Santa costume when I started dating Jake, because it was a Santa union rule.

“You can eat the reindeer though?” Jake asks Zoe. “How will they fly Santa’s sleigh?”

“You’ll just draw more, Daddy.”

Yep.

Best Christmas ever.

There’s a knock on the door, and I know by Jake’s sudden grin that he’s expecting more company. Who, I don’t know, and I briefly wonder if he’s hired a Santa, or maybe ordered in some reindeer.

But when Ty swings the door open, it’s immediately clear that the two men in Santa hats are not playing Santa.

Or reindeer.

But they might be able to pull off the Abominable Snow Monster.

“Holy fuck, it’s the Berger twins,” Ty says.

“Don’t say fuck,” Zoe calls.

The twin on the right grunts and nods. “No fuck. Kid here.”

The twin on the left holds out a big hunk of meat wrapped in white butcher paper. “You Ty?” he asks.

My brother nods.

“Happy fucking Christmas.”

The twin on the right slugs him in the gut. “No. Fuck,” he repeats.

“Santa’s bringing you coal,” Zoe sing-songs.

Both twins sign Ty’s forehead with a Sharpie, then disappear down the hall.

I look at Jake.

He grins. “Did I forget to tell you my next book is called Kaitlyn the Reindeer Goes to a Hockey Game?”

“Holy fuck,” Ty says again from the doorway.

Luke, our older brother, slugs him much like Ares Berger just slugged his twin. “Don’t say fuck in front of the kid.”

“Yes, you completely forgot to tell me about Kaitlyn the Reindeer going to a hockey game,” I say to Jake.

“Huh. Must’ve slipped my mind.”

“Like the ring, Daddy?” Zoe asks.

My heart sputters to a halt.

Jake peers at his daughter thoughtfully. “Why, do you know what, Zoe? That ring did slip my mind. Now, where did I leave it…”

“In the cookie jar, Daddy?” she prompts.

He cocks a finger at her. “I knew you’d know where I put that. Thanks, Tweety bird.”

“He always messes up the important stuff,” Zoe says on a sigh. “He’s such a man.”

“He’s the very best man,” I whisper to her. I can’t talk any louder, because my heart’s thumping like the Little Drummer Boy’s drum, and something thick is clogging my throat.

“He is,” Zoe agrees. “But he’s still a man.”

“Shush, you.” Jake pulls something out of the Christmas tree cookie jar on the counter, then peers around the room. “Now, there was something I was supposed to ask someone…”

“Kaitlyn,” Zoe says, “before Daddy screws this up, will you please be my mommy?”

Jake takes a knee.

Zoe does too.

And while Jake holds up a beautiful teardrop diamond ring, Zoe holds up a ring pop.

I’m not crying. I just have snowflake ingredients leaking out my eyes.

“And will you do me the honor of being my wife?” Jake asks softly.

I pull him off the floor and wrap my arms around him. “Yes. Oh, yes. Forever and always.”

“I love you, Kaitlyn,” he whispers.

“I love you, too, my Christmas miracle.”

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From , Copyright 2017, Pippa Grant…

Ambrosia May Berger (Bro for short, but only to her enemies)

It’s 3 AM and they’re at it again. I grab my broom and bang on the ceiling. “Some of us have to work in a few hours, you jackrabbits!”

The squeaky-squeaky-squeaky-squeeeeeeak of the bedsprings is followed by a long moan and a high-pitched, come-to-Jesus pig squeal.

Finally.

If I ever meet my upstairs neighbor, I will not be able to look her in the snout.

Eye. I mean eye.

I might offer her some lube though.

For the squeaky bedsprings. Cross my heart.

I roll over in the relative quiet—the city is never fully quiet, which is one of the things I love about it—but I can’t get back to sleep, because I said work, and now my mind is spinning. I’m a social media manager for Crunchy, the second-biggest organic grocery store in New York.

At least, I was yesterday. Tomorrow remains to be seen. Crunchy was just bought out by a soulless dickstool who hides baby powder in unsuspecting women’s hairdryers and who hums the first few bars of “It’s a Small World” to get it stuck in your ear for days and who makes innocent girls take the fall for—ahem.

Hold on. My official Crunchy social media manager hat is here somewhere… Ah, yes. There it is.

Right.

Crunchy has been acquired by an environmentally-conscious, self-made billionaire philanthropist who gives lollipops, puppies, and rainbows to orphans when he’s not personally digging recyclables out of landfills.

It’s not the official party line, but it’s close. I toss to my other side, because I’m gagging now.

I’ve loved working at Crunchy since I landed in New York six years ago, but it’s job hunting time. There are lots of companies in the city not owned by Chase Jett—or anyone else who knew me ten years ago—who would love to hire an experienced social media manager.

And one or two of them might not run a background check, so I might even stand a chance of getting through the hiring process.

Squeaky-squeaky-squeaky-squeeeeeeeeak…

I shove my head under the pillow, close my eyes, and start counting free-range sheep.

* * *

By 10 AM, I’m jacked up on four cups of organic, fair trade iced coffee—Crunchy brand, of course—and I still have nothing on Parker’s emotional jitters.

My work bff is balancing on a yoga ball across the room in our open office at headquarters in Midtown, fingers clicking over her laptop as she texts me on our corporate internal messaging system. She’s afraid she’ll be on the chopping block when the inevitable company reorganization happens.

I snort softly to myself. More likely she’ll get my job, probably by the end of today.

Parker’s message pops up with a goth emoji as her profile picture, even though she’s a freckled brunette with virgin hair that has never been touched by dyes or colors, chemical, organic, or any other way. She calls it being ironic. I call her adorable.

“I can’t lose my job, Sia,” the goth emoji Parker says. “I’m half a paycheck away from moving back in with my parents.”

She’s not the only one who’s strapped for cash. At least three of my four employees are also living on a shoestring budget, including April, resident photographer in the marketing department who’s currently arranging bok choy in a sustainable bamboo bowl for an upcoming feature about the leafy greens we grow in-house.

Seriously. We grow vegetables in our building. It’s high-tech and super cool and I’m so pissed I could spit that it belongs to the Dick now.

“You’ll be fine,” I type back to Parker on my company-issued tablet. “We kick ass. Crunchy needs us.”

Completely true. Also true? The Crunchy marketing department is a great place to work. Our office is open and airy, with couches and beanbag chairs and yoga balls instead of cubes. Modular desks line the walls for people who dig the traditional set-up, and we have a stock of every type of phone, tablet, and computer known to man accessible to us in the media room. Necessity when you’re in modern marketing.

It’s weird, but it works for us. And it works because we’re a Crunchy family.

A family I need to leave soon.

Thanks, dickhead.

In the light of the day—and with the aid of the coffee—I’ve comforted myself with the probability that billionaire organic grocery store taker-over-ers don’t make the rounds to meet all the employees. Or even a fraction of them. Which means I can wait a few days to hear back on a select few feelers I put out this morning before I resort to blindly sending resumes.

“I heard he’s stopping by today,” April says.

I fumble and almost drop the tablet I’m using to check customer comments on our Facebook page.

She shoots me a knowing grin, then tilts a light on the bok choy and looks at it through her Nikon again. “I also heard he can bench a Volkswagen. I’d shoot that.”

I’d shoot him too, but not with a camera. “Better for our image if he benched a Tesla.”

My sarcasm is lost on her. “That’s brilliant. I’m putting it in the suggestion box.”

“We can make life-size cardboard cut-outs for all our stores,” chimes in Madison. She writes the copy for our posts and single-handedly tripled sales of chickpeas with her Funnust Hummust series last year. I’d forgive her for the idea of wasting good cardboard if she were putting anyone but the Dick on it. “Fueled by Crunchy. New slogan. I call dibs on putting it in the box.” A rare frown draws her dark brows together. “He won’t change the employee suggestion box, will he? I like the suggestion box.”

Wouldn’t be the worst he’s ever done.

Four sets of eyeballs swivel my way, and I realize I just said that out loud. “Didn’t his date wear fur to some charity auction last year?” I say quickly.

I have no idea. For the last decade, he hasn’t existed to me. I don’t think about him, my family doesn’t talk about him, and none of my friends know I know him. But my offhand suggestion sends half the social media department scurrying to Google, which gives me a minute to breathe and re-focus.

Think of kittens. And cupcakes. And kittens in party hats made from recycled cardboard posing with cupcakes.

Cake doesn’t have to be made from organic flour, natural food dyes, fair trade cocoa, and free-range eggs.

Cake is cake is cake.

I’m deciding to have a slice of cake for lunch—chocolate, of course, from this oh my god amazing not at all organic bakery two blocks away because today’s a triple fudge frosting kind of day, plus if I bought a slice of cake at the snack bar here, some of my money would go directly into the Dick’s pockets—when the oak door squeaks open.

A moment of deathly silence is shattered by a flurry of squeals that would give my neighbor’s bedsprings stiff competition. Stiff, heh, look at that, I can still make a bad joke today.

Every single member of the social media department lunges for something. April turns her camera to the door and goes paparazzi. Madison tries to hide behind an Apple Watch before she bends her head so her short dark hair covers her face. Parker’s fingers go so fast over her keyboard there’s smoke, and the ding of her message on my tablet rings over every other sound in the room.

Six feet of pure sin stands wide-legged in the doorway. His smile is a lie, his smoky blue eyes a portal to self-destruction, the dimple in his chin twice the size needed to store what’s left of his conscience.

My eyes betray me and drift to his corded arms—I’m a sucker for a guy in gray suit pants with the sleeves of his white button-down shirt rolled up his forearms—and I can see Madison’s right.

He probably could bench a Volkswagen.

Damn him.

There’s a wave of palpable energy when he strolls in flanked by Rod Xavier, VP of Marketing, and a host of other suits who are either lackeys or wannabes.

I turn my back, bury myself in a beanbag chair, and slip on my headphones. Social media waits for no billionaire, and we have bok choy to sell.

That’s when I notice the message from Goth Parker. “Is it too much to offer to have his babies?”

“Sexual harassment will get you fired,” I shoot back.

“Jeez, who put insecticide in your mangoes this morning?”

My fingers hover over the keyboard, the truth threatening to spill out. Sweat is gathering in the bottom of my bra.

No one here knows I’m from Wishberry Lake, Minnesota, home of canned baloney, pineapple tater tot casserole, and the Fighting Dandelions high school football team. It’s Minnesota. Don’t judge.

Also from Wishberry Lake?

Chase Jett.

Number One Dick on my Dick List. He’s the reason I tell people I’m from Pittsburgh. I hope when they put him up at Madame Tussaud’s, they use ear wax. I hope when he goes on Naked and Afraid, they release him in the wilds of Minnesota and someone replaces his insect repellent with pig’s blood. Have you seen Minnesota mosquitoes? They’re horses with wings. It’s like being bitten by a hornless unicorn.

But back to the marketing lounge.

Rod is introducing Chase, and I don’t have to look to know that he’s preening for his adoring fans. I can smell the estrogen his presence has prompted. Half of my coworkers just spontaneously ovulated.

So the guy could buy a small country. Who cares? He’s also been known to pee in cornflakes.

Literally.

I didn’t witness it, but my brothers told me later they didn’t think I’d really eat the cereal.

Now the Dick is talking. I’d turn my headphones up, but Parker spilled her avocado mango acai berry chia energy smoothie on them last week and shorted something in the cord, which means One Direction sounds like they’re being filtered through mashed bananas.

Yes, I like boy bands, and I’m not afraid to admit it. And I do a hell of a lot more than sing along, thank you very much.

“Morning, ladies and gentlemen.” The Dick’s voice is hot chocolate with a triple shot of espresso, and I hate myself for noticing. Why couldn’t the smoothie filter that out? “Just wanted to stop in and say hi. Love what you’ve done here, and I’m excited to be a part of the Crunchy family.”

I snort.

Family.

My brothers thought Chase was family once.

A chill washes over me, making my nipples tighten against my damp bra. Stupid boob sweat. Stupid racing heart. Stupid backstabbing billionaire.

Why did he get to be the one who grew up to become a billionaire?

“O.M.G. He’s watching you.” The message from Goth Parker adds a sour taste in my mouth to my already overactive physical impairments. My boob sweat is starting to stink.

When I don’t reply, another message pops up. “You don’t look good. Do you need an energy bar? Tell me you didn’t go bar-hopping and have a one-night stand with Hottie McBillions last night. Oh, wait. Tell me you did. Then tell me everything else.”

“Ah, Sia, always working hard.” Rod raises his voice. “Sia? Sia! Tell Mr. Jett about the Choy Joy campaign.”

Mr. Jett. Rod has twenty years on Chase, but since Chase has the fat bank account, it’s Mr. Jett.

What would they call him if they knew what he did at the lake with my floaty toy that one summer? Hmm?

I pull off my headphones and mentally prepare myself for a public execution. I lever myself out of the beanbag chair—without stumbling, take that, Mr. Arms—and I turn, making myself stare straight into the pits of hell.

Or, you know, his eyes. Which are more of a Caribbean sea blue than cinder and ash. Deep-set under a prominent brow. Crackling and radiating with suppressed power. Erm, evil. Suppressed malevolence. Fire and brimstone. What’s that, Lassie? Ambrosia’s better sense fell down the well?

His eyes widen in horror before settling into a smarmy, wicked smirk that he probably practices in the mirror every night before swimming through his piles of money à la Scrooge McDuck.

Life is horrifically unfair sometimes.

But two can play the smirking game. I just happen to be saving mine for after I quit.

Or until after I convince him he’s made a terrible investment and should immediately head to the nearest underground gambling hall to shed himself of this horrific burden. Or, you know, burden me with it instead.

Ambrosia Berger, CEO and owner of Crunchy. Nice ring to it. Could’ve happened, too, if he hadn’t stolen my future from me. The bastard.

“The Choy Joy campaign is launching in three weeks across all our social media platforms,” I tell the Dick. And I keep my voice pleasant and modulated as if I don’t know he was the one responsible for what happened to my teddy bear in second grade. And lest you think all my grievances against him are from before puberty, believe me…They. Are. Not. “We’re doing for bok choy what Beyoncé did for kale.”

“Interesting.” He strokes his chin, his index finger brushing over that dimple. I wonder if the lingering bits of his conscience are dried and shriveled enough that the motion dusts them out of their little hidey hole. “Your pairing suggestions?”

I rattle off a half-dozen quick meal ideas ranging from seafood to sweet potatoes.

“And sausages,” he says.

Oh, no, he didn’t.

“Sausages!” Madison squeals. “Oh, Mr. Jett, that’s brilliant. Of course we’ll add a recipe for Choy Joy Sausages.”

Madison just said Joy Sausages in front of our new billionaire boss. Someday, I’ll laugh at that. Today, however, is not that day.

“And bratwurst,” Chase adds.

No.

He.

Did.

Not.

If I hadn’t already seen the inside of a jail cell courtesy of this man—and a bratwurst, and no, I don’t want to talk about it—I’d have my hands wrapped around his neck right now.

His smirk grows like he knows it. Damn him, that’s the same smirk he wore last year on People’s Sexiest Man of the Year cover. Which I only know because I work for a grocery store and we might be Crunchy, but People still sells, and I might’ve had that weird moment of realizing the man who took my virginity and crushed my soul was somehow the hottest rich man on the planet.

How often does that happen?

And because he’s a dick, I couldn’t even enjoy the moment.

“Definitely bratwurst.” He nods to the group. “Appeal to sports fans.”

Sports fans? Is he fucking kidding?

“We sell the best organic turkey bratwurst,” Madison says.

Chase smiles at her. “Good to know, Ms…?”

“Madison.” Her voice is breathy and her teeth are glowing like she’s been overusing vegan tooth whitener again. “Madison O’Connor. The Joy Choy campaign was my idea.”

“Was it now?” Chase’s gaze slides to me. A good boss would give credit where credit is due. “I love it. Good work. Add the bratwurst.”

For the love of Pete. If I’d told him it was her idea, he’d think I was throwing her under the bus. Or the Bratwurst Wagon.

Which I hadn’t thought about in at least four months, jackass.

He waves like he’s the king of fucking England. “Carry on. I look forward to working with each and every one of you.”

Except you, Ambrosia May Berger.

The feeling is mutual, Chases Tail Jett.

Maybe I’ll put off looking for that new job.

Last time, Chase won. He got my cherry, he got my pride, and he got to see me tossed in the slammer.

Now, his billions might stack the odds against me, but this is my home. My city. My job.

And this time, victory will be mine.

From , Copyright Pippa Grant…

Chapter 1

Zeus Berger (aka the biggest, baddest, most spider-fearing mother pucker in the NHL, except for maybe his twin brother)

Coconuts are itchy. I should’ve gone for the watermelons.

But it was a bitch and a half getting that last-minute private fitting at Madame Cosette’s anyway, and the woman probably would’ve had to stitch three bras together and then nailed the damn contraption to my shoulders to get it to hold without losing a melon, so coconuts it is.

Besides, it’s the heels that are gonna be the bigger problem. Damn good thing I have ankles of fucking steel.

And my minidress is stretched to max capacity over the coconuts anyway. It’s also in danger of showing my other coconuts, if you catch my drift. And there’s definitely a drift—or is that a draft?—on my other coconuts.

A wolf whistle echoes through the swanky private clubhouse where I’m strolling in with my twin brother on one side and my brother from another mother on the other. A passing server drops a tray of champagne. Conversation stops. And a bunch of stuffy golf pricks gape at us like we’re a mutant alien circus freak show crashing their million-dollar wedding reception.

We’re three dudes with more money than God, more muscles than all the Kardashians’ bodyguards combined, and more fun than cotton candy and roller coasters.

And this is no wedding reception. It’s a chance for pretentious rich asses to brag to each other about who gave more money to whatever foundation is sponsoring this Pro-Am golf tournament for charity.

Ares is scowling, squinting around the room like he’s looking for the dumbass prince who was stupid enough to bet me ten grand I wouldn’t show up tonight dressed like a chick. Chase is on his phone, snickering like he’s not half a foot shorter and a hundred pounds lighter than me and Ares are.

I swipe his phone from him and shove it between my coconuts. “Quit sexting my sister in public.”

“I was posting that picture of you getting dressed to Facebook,” he replies. “Ares, fetch the phone.”

Ares grunts. “Shut your face,” he tells Chase.

I slap my brother on the shoulder. “Lighten up, bro. I make this shit look good.”

“Hate to break it to you,” Chase says, “but your sister actually makes a better woman.”

“You saying you wouldn’t tap this?”

“Saying she gives a better blow job.”

He easily ducks my fist, because the fucker’s known me too long. Plus, my heart isn’t in taking him out. Chase is good for my sister, and he’s a damn good friend to boot. Not that I’ll ever tell him that to his face. Again.

Ares quits scowling enough to snicker too. “Girls don’t hit,” he tells me.

“You gonna let him talk about Ambrosia like that?”

“I know where he sleeps.”

People think Ares is dumb because he doesn’t talk in big words. But he’s one of the smartest fuckers I know, in his own way.

Only dude in the world as big as me too, but in these heels—special ordered Mablanoks something or others—I’ve got him by four inches.

“Gentlemen.” A half-british, half-ice king voice intrudes on our private party before we reach the food table. Never met the dude in person before—all our shit-talking happened over the phone—but I’ve seen his picture and I know his stepsister. “And… I’m sorry, madam, it seems I’ve missed your name.”

Like Chase, he’s tall and beefy enough for a regular dude—comes from some friggin’ cold northern Atlantic nation with enough sheep for his own harem—but Ares and I are towering over him too.

“This is Ambrosia,” Chase offers. “I have terrible taste in women.”

“Lick my tits,” I say to Chase before I grab the fucker and rub his face between my coconuts.

Ares grins.

Chase pinches my ass and I let him go. Two more servers do an about-face and scurry away with their trays of little vegetable appetizers that apparently pass as food at these things.

“You can call me The Goddess,” I tell the prince.

Manning Frey’s royal features split into a grin as he rocks back on his heels. Where I’m in a girdle, size 18 fuck-me pumps, and coconuts, he’s in some tan suit and white shirt getup that was probably picked for him by some royal ninny. “Overselling ourselves, are we?”

I like the fucker already. Not because he owes me ten grand, but because I’ve got a feeling he’d be a good companion in his own coconut bra and minidress if we wanted to crash another snooty function tonight. “Not if a pansy-ass like you passes as a prince. I’m still taking home the hottest girl here tonight.”

He juts his chin up, grin going wider. “You’re going to get a woman. While you’re dressed like that.”

Yeah, I know what it looks like. Me and Ares, we’re the biggest mother puckers to ever strap on skates and wield sticks in the NHL. I’m sprouting a five o’clock shadow before I’m done shaving every morning. Each one of my thighs is the size of one of those European sissy cars. Solid muscle too. My ma calls us big-boned. My sister calls us overgrown apes. I make one ugly-ass woman.

“Damn fucking right,” I tell Prince Manning anyway. Because you don’t get to be the biggest, hairiest, most feared badass on the ice by owning up to your shortcomings. No, I bear my teeth at those fuckers and take them down. If you ain’t got your balls, you ain’t got anything. “I’m gonna make her switch sides, then when we get back to my hotel room, I’m gonna make her switch back, and I’m gonna rock her fucking world.”

“As completely wrong as that sounds, I’ve seen him do it before,” Chase says.

Ares grunts an agreement, even though both of them know I’m full of shit and I know they’re each looking forward to watching me fail. I share a look with my twin.

You’re such a fucking dumbass, his says, because he knows it’s biologically impossible for any woman in this stuffy, exclusive clubhouse to seriously be attracted to me like this. I flunked biology, and I still know it too.

Two words, my look replies. Endorsement. Dollars.

I don’t give two shits if I score a chick tonight. I score plenty, on and off the ice, and everyone knows it.

The other thing everyone knows?

Zeus Berger doesn’t back down from a challenge. And I smell a challenge coming on.

“Care to put some money on that?” Manning says, right on time.

“Double or nothing,” I reply. Win or lose, no man will ever say I didn’t put my heart in it. And I’ve got my winning personality on my side. I might be ugly, but I’m not out.

Ares snickers again.

“Go on and pick the girl,” I tell Manning. “Wouldn’t want you to think I planned this.”

He rubs a hand over his dark blond beard while he scans the room. “I’m beginning to see why Willow speaks so ambiguously of you.”

“That means she only half-likes us,” I translate for Ares. “Probably intimidated by our awesomeness.”

“Or the fact that you threatened her fiancé with a ten-pound wheel of moldy cheddar,” Chase muses.

“Fucker needs to put his foot down with his mother.”

“On that, we’re in complete agreement,” Manning says crisply. He stops and nods toward the wall of windows overlooking the golf course with the Blue Ridge Mountains to the west. “Her.”

I squint, because that half of the room is backlit by the light glaring in. “The chick who just shoved her finger into Levi Wilson’s beer bottle?”

Ares perks up. “Boy band Levi?”

“Aw, shit, Bro’s gonna be pissed she missed this,” Chase mutters.

That’s right—my sister is a boy band ho. Got a thing for Levi’s old band, Bro Code—which she swears is a total coincidence, considering Chase has called her Bro since we were kids, a nickname she claimed to hate until she realized how much she liked Chase.

“Not the beer bottle-finger,” Manning says. “The woman with her.”

I shift my attention from the woman trying to shake a beer bottle off her finger while obviously stuttering apologies to the world’s reigning pop rock god, and a familiar beat takes up residence in my pulse.

Long, dark hair. Tall. She’s built—not heavy, but not turn-sideways-and-she’d-disappear slender either. She’s in pants that accentuate her curves and a no-nonsense blouse that can’t hide her rack. Even in the backlight, there’s a feline grace to her movements as she efficiently grabs her companion’s arm, neatly twists the stuck bottle off her friend’s finger, and hands it back to Levi Wilson.

I do love me some feline grace.

And even though she has the bearing of a woman much smarter than my usual type, there’s some stirring over my southern coconuts that suggests I might be about to start a bigger scene.

These rich mofos would shit a brick if I popped a boner in this dress.

Heh.

But while I’m damn proud of my Neanderthal heritage—gets me a big paycheck on the ice every year, and sponsorships for everything from deodorant to car jacks off the ice—even I know the quickest way into a lady’s pants isn’t always showing her the goods. So I tell Jupiter to cool it down there—what? You’re damn right both me and my junk are named after kings of the gods—and nod to Manning. “You’re on.”