Zeus Berger (aka the biggest, baddest, most lovesick motherpucker on the ice)

The only thing I want after an ugly game is to climb into bed with Joey, but that’s not happening tonight.

Yeah, yeah, she got her way.

I reported to the Rangers three days late. Meant it when I told her I wasn’t leaving, and I parked my ass in her office every minute of the day to prove my point.

When we weren’t at her place banging our brains out.

But she finally wised up and threw down a bet. If I won the best sixteen out of thirty games of darts, thumb wars, and boy band trivia, I’d hang up my skates, forfeit the end of my contract, and bake her cookies every day. Sounded pretty fucking awesome to me.

If she won, I’d report to the Rangers.

Fine. It was supposed to be best two out of three, and I refused to concede until game seventeen.

But I was having fun. And who the fuck knew how much she knew about boy bands? That’s sexy shit right there.

And considering every time she beat me, I distracted her with sex, she wasn’t exactly complaining.

Until that one time Gracie caught us in the fridge.

Don’t ask. It’s not exactly what it sounds—never mind.

Point is, tonight, we barely pulled off a win against the Predators—yeah, that felt fucking good, even if it was ugly—and since the game was in Nashville, it was easy for Joey to drive up.

She flew instead, which is good for everyone.

She’s a real terror on the roads.

We should be headed back to the hotel so I can bang her brains out. But no. She shoved me in a Lyft and dragged me to the airport, and now she’s landing the small private jet Weightless owns at a dinky airport in the middle of nowhere while stars sparkle overhead.

Because I promised to be good, I got to sit in the cockpit with her.

Because watching my girlfriend fly a plane is fucking hot, I’ve got a titanium two-liter in my pants.

“Where are we?”

“The middle of nowhere. I’ve decided to sex you to death and dump your satisfied body as a warning to all the wolves to not challenge my alphaness.”

“I knew that fucking shapeshifter romance was a bad idea.” Yeah, I’m in a romance book club. And yeah, Joey is too now. You got a problem with that, you’re reading the wrong fucking epilogue.

“Bad idea for you maybe.” She howls in the cockpit, and fuck, if I could fit, I’d be crawling into her instrument panel to lick her pussy until she howls again.

Don’t ask what happened last time I tried.

“Can we go somewhere we can fuck?” I ask.

She grins. “Soon.”

Right.

The problem with dating a pilot? They have to do all this post-flight shit.

Which is really hot.

But not as hot as we make a dinky little hotel room an hour or so later.

Too soon, she’s poking me awake. “Come on, sleeping beauty. Time to go.”

I’m on a rare day off, and I know she knows I’m probably gonna get my ass chewed six ways to Pluto for not riding back to New York with the team, but I don’t mind an ass-chewing if it means I get more time with Joey.

I make her scream my name in the shower before we get dressed, because I’m Zeus Berger, and that’s what I fucking do for my woman.

But I don’t like the looks of the rental car sitting in the parking lot. Yeah, it’s big enough, but— “You driving that?”

“Depends. Can you take orders?”

“Just did, didn’t I?”

You know what’s different in the three months I’ve been dating Joey?

She’s getting laugh lines around her eyes.

That’s what’s different.

She surrenders the car keys, and she directs me through a modest town on a gray, chilly morning to a community center.

The Seven Foxes Community Center.

I know that name.

I grab her wrist before she can climb out. “What are we doing here?”

“In the parking lot? Sitting in a car.”

“Joey…” I glower.

She smiles.

Sweetly.

Fuck, I hate when she does that. First of all, sweet’s just not her. And I don’t want it to be. Second of all, it still makes the demigod in my pants surge to attention, because he’s fucking helpless.

“An old friend asked me to drop a puck to start her first hockey game,” she says on a shrug. “And she asked if you would come along to watch me do what you’d fuck up.”

Bailey.

That little turd.

Trash-talking me through my own girlfriend.

“That all?” I ask.

“You think I’m going to put either of us through a parade in your honor?”

Yeah, I do. I know she knows why Bailey has a hockey team. And I don’t want to talk about it. Sometimes kids need a hero, and sometimes that hero doesn’t want the world to know he’s a good guy, because it’s way more fucking fun to let everyone think that planting obscene flamingoes in the shape of a Z on a sports reporters’ lawn when he calls me washed up is the only legacy I’ll leave behind when I’m done at the end of this year.

Which mattered to me a fuck-ton more a year ago than it does today.

Doesn’t mean I want a parade though.

“You can sit here if you want,” she says, “but I’m going to go see Bailey.”

She climbs out like it doesn’t matter if I don’t go with her.

I let her get almost to the door before I climb out too. “Hey, Fireball,” I boom.

A dozen little girls and their families, all tromping through the misty morning to get inside, turn and look at me. A few of the mothers gasp and cover their kids’ ears like they’re afraid I’m gonna start flinging fucks and turdwads and all kinds of profane ideas all over the parking lot. A couple of the dads get that look in their eyes that suggests it’s a good thing I still keep a Sharpie in my back pocket.

And no, I don’t want to talk about how many of those fuckers have gone through the wash and ruined half my wardrobe.

“Get your sass back here,” I yell at my girlfriend. “I left my bodyguard at home.”

She cocks a hip. “Protect your own sass, Berger. Mine’s worth more anyway.”

True enough.

I saunter through the parking lot and consider bending over to eat a few rocks out of the asphalt, but that’s more Ares’s style. If there weren’t kids present, I’d drop trou and streak.

“Making me boring,” I grumble to Joey when I meet her at the door.

She slaps my ass. “Nah, it’s called getting old.”

I love that she doesn’t take my shit and gives it right back. Which is why I’m still grinning when a blondie streaks by me to tackle my girlfriend. “Joey! You came!”

Bailey’s mother eyes me with a cross between healthy fear and grudging admiration. Like maybe she knows, too, why her daughter now has more tools in her arsenal of weapons.

To beat the boys off, I mean. Naturally.

Like Fireball used to have to.

Joey squats to Bailey’s level while the kid rattles off all the ways Joey’s her hero and how many drills she’s done this week and how much better she’s getting at reading since the foundation hooked her up with a tutor who gets the way her brain works.

“Come on, come on, it’s game time.” She snags Joey by the hand and pulls her through the crowded hallways to the rink. I contemplate signing Bailey’s mother’s forehead, but decide against it.

Fuck, maybe I am getting old.

“Holy shiii-take mushrooms, it’s the Brute,” a girl who can’t be more than twelve says as I walk by. “Will you sign my forehead?”

“Mine too?” another kid says.

Soon I’m surrounded by a pack of Zeusleaders all wanting to give me shit about last year’s play-offs and me being late reporting to the Rangers, and also whisper in awe about the three hat tricks I’ve pulled in the last month.

Yeah.

I got my game back. And then some.

But I’m still done when the Rangers win the Stanley Cup this season. Just for the record.

I got cookies to bake for my hot girlfriend every day.

“It’s time!” someone hisses. “Come on, Fireball’s gonna drop the puck!”

Fuck if I’ll miss that. I hustle along with the girls, pulling my phone out. I want video of this shit.

Bailey’s mom signals me from down the hall. “Here. The view’s better,” she says.

I bypass the double doors everyone else is streaming into to follow her, and two seconds later, I’m standing at the edge of the ice.

Fuck.

Joey’s not out there yet. No, she’s right next to me, with Bailey all suited up and a guy who’s probably the coach.

Also there?

Ares.

Ambrosia and Chase.

My parents.

Gracie.

Peach.

“Joey…”

“Shut the fudge up, Berger,” Bailey says. “Your stick work stinks this season, and you’ve got weak ankles. If you hurt Joey, I’ll rack you in the pucks.”

“Scary short one,” Ares says.

“You surround yourself with the best women,” Ambrosia says while Chase snickers. “Seriously, Zeus. They keep getting better.”

“What are you doing here?” I ask her.

“Watching Joey drop the puck. Like family does.”

Oh.

Huh.

Even I can’t argue with that.

I clap her on the shoulder. Maybe a little too hard. “Nice of you.”

“You ready, Joey?” Bailey asks. She’s a mini badass in her pads and gloves and helmet, and I can’t help grinning.

Kid’s going places.

And when I hang up my skates at the end of this season, I know exactly what I’m gonna do.

When I’m not baking Joey cookies.

Because hockey’s still my life.

Time to take the Zeus Berger school of ice to some smaller places. I don’t need to live large.

Just need to live with my Joey.

* * *

Want to know a little more about Zeus’s next encounter with spiders and what happens when Joey takes him for another ride? (In her AIRPLANE, of course…) Click to register for the Pipster Report, and I’ll send you three bonus epilogues! I’ll also send you terrible love advice and torture you with those unfortunate times Zeus, Ares, and the gang steal my passwords to share their favorite fucked-up cookie recipes and their own bits of worldly wisdom!

If you’re the awesome type of person who likes to leave reviews, here are quick linkies for you to and .

Keep reading for a sneak peek at , featuring Gracie and Prince Manning! Want to know more about Zeus’s book club? Check out ! And if this is your first time meeting Chase and Ambrosia, snag a copy of to find out where that glitter in his chin came from!

Hugs and cookie kisses!!

Pippa

* * *

f you love royalty, filthy cookies, and accidental pregnancies (in your romances, of course), read on for an excerpt of Royally Pucked…

Chapter

Manning Frey (aka a royal heir so spare he’s been donated to the NHL for a year)

Spare heirs are rarely well behaved. Causing scandal is practically an extension of our limited royal duties. Dress the part, kiss the king’s knuckles, get caught with your trousers around your ankles to give the world some juicy gossip.

Hockey may be my first love outside the palace walls, but enjoying myself comes in a close second. So it’s safe to say I’ve seen a variety of interesting things in a variety of interesting places.

An eight-foot tall inflated Tyrannosaurus Rex holding a bakery bag and walking in place in the tunnel leading out of a hockey arena?

This is a new one. So is the stirring in my royal jewels at the sight of said T-Rex.

I lift a finger to tell my royal guard to halt. In principle, were I nearer the top of the list to inherit the crown one day, I might agree that a suspiciously cloaked—or dinosaured—figure in a secured part of a hockey arena should be investigated. However, I’m fourth in line to the crown, destined only to a small dukedom created solely to provide the youngest son of the king a dukedom, banished to America for a year on the pretense of playing in the NHL for a year for the Copper Valley Thrusters, when in fact, my father is smoothing things over with all the politicians and royal ass-wipers appalled by my lack of judgment in, shall we say, keeping appropriate company.

In other words, I’m rather expendable at the moment.

We’ve just finished a pre-season game against the Predators in Nashville. Neither the Thrusters nor the Predators use dinosaurs for mascots or crowd entertainment, which is one more reason my guard has reason for concern.

But this particular T-Rex is sporting the most brilliant platform trainers I’ve ever seen.

There’s a whole bloody rainbow under those casual shoes. Six layers of colors, each thick as a normal sole, so that the T-Rex is literally walking on half a foot of rainbow.

I know a lovely young woman who would favor such a pair of shoes, and who also cannot stand still for the life of her.

And as luck would have it, I have plans to rendezvous with said young woman after the game tonight.

For cookies that, in theory, could be delivered in exactly such a bag.

Hence the stirring in the royal jewels.

If someone’s stolen her shoes—and her bakery bag, and I suppose her unexpected dinosaur costume—well, as we say back home in Stölland, the sheep shall bleed tonight.

“Pleasant night for a raw leg of lamb,” I say to the dinosaur. “Or perhaps a meaty bite off a hockey player.”

“Shove it,” comes the muffled voice of one Gracie Diamonte. Her order is colored with that subtle Southern drawl of hers, as though even telling someone to shove it cannot possibly be done without a relaxed tongue and take-your-time drawl.

I’m fond of smiling—it’s my fourth favorite pastime behind hockey, sex, and tormenting the hell out of nearly everyone I meet—and her voice prompts my lips to spread wide enough to make my damned bloody nose ache.

In the best possible way, of course. I earned that bloody nose fair and square on the ice by insulting Zeus Berger’s girlfriend when the brute tried to stop me from scoring.

“This is literally the only thing I have in my closet that my sister wouldn’t recognize,” Gracie continues, “and she’d shit a brick if she knew I was meeting you here to swap cookies.”

She makes our plans sound so wonderfully filthy. I’d happily swap cookies with this woman if she gave the slightest signal of interest, but other than a stroll across a golf course under a starry sky last month in which she confessed to her interest in me being a ruse to irritate that dear sister of hers, she’s been nothing but professional in our communications.

And a fact I may have lied about on the ice tonight, since her sister is Zeus Berger’s girlfriend.

Both of whom are so very, very easy to bait.

I nod to the bag and wonder if Gracie can actually see me. “Let’s have a taste then.”

She tries to grasp a door handle off the hallway with her adorable little Tyrannosaurus arms and fails with a lovely combination of grace and muttered profanities. The grace, I’m certain she’s gotten from her name. Having spent a fair amount of time with her sister, I have strong suspicions about the origins of the profanity as well.

“Allow me, my lady.” I easily turn the knob and gesture the dinosaur into an empty locker room. It smells of sweat, sticks, and bloody noses—no, wait, that’s mine again.

The locker room also smells of my royal guard not being allowed to join us. Viktor’s a decent man, and it’s hardly his fault my father insists he shadow me everywhere—no, that would be my own bloody doing—but our relationship has its limits.

I shut the door in his face and lock the door, which I’ll undoubtedly hear about later. “I must say, you are by far the most dashing Tyrannosaurus Rex with whom I’ve ever had the pleasure of sharing cookies.”

She tosses the bag onto a bench near the door, then pats up and down her chest with her short little hand. Or tries her best, I should say.

“Cut the flattery and help me get out of this blasted thing,” she says. “I can’t find the zipper.”

Her proposition—and my memory of what her chest looks like outside of a dinosaur costume—makes my royal jewels ache. The lady has no idea how much I’d like to help her get out of all of her clothing. Those lovely curves hiding inside that T-Rex have haunted my memories and kept my hand occupied on several occasions since we first met.

I’m nearly certain my fascination with her isn’t merely because she’s the only woman I’ve managed to spend more than two minutes with alone since I arrived in America two months ago.

Bloody crown. Bloody royal orders for how I’m to live my life.

Bloody Prime Minister and his bloody minx of a daughter.

I oblige and tug down the dinosaur’s zipper. Gracie’s pretty face peeks through the dinosaur’s chest. Her thick dark hair is tangled, her round cheeks flushed, her full lips parted as she takes a deep breath. Her pure cocoa eyes are alight with a natural glow that would make her the belle of any ball even if she showed up coated in mud and dressed as a pauper.

She fans her face with her lovely, delicate dinosaur paw. “Shew! It’s warm in here.”

It’s rather warm out here as well. For reasons she’s most likely completely oblivious to.

I help her step out of the dinosaur chest. She emerges in a skin-tight, creamy sweater, low-cut jeans, and mismatched ankle socks that perfectly showcase her delicate feet. The shoes stay tangled inside the costume.

The amusing thoughts of my brothers’ and father’s reactions if I were to show up to formal dinner at the palace dressed as a blow-up dinosaur are replaced with the more pressing need to remember that much as my Viking heritage demand that I pillage and plunder, Gracie is a polite young woman whose only interest in me is an opportunity to sell more cookies.

And I am the third son of a king, banished to America for a year while he sorts out the troubles my pillaging and plundering caused back home.

“Did you lock that door?” she asks, and—is that a wish lingering in her words?

I smile at her. “I’m not fond of sharing my cookies.”

Her dark eyes settle on me as though she’s weighing her thoughts carefully. “You’re not talking about the cookies I baked in my oven, are you?”

The question sparks an arousal that instantly hardens my dick to the point of fossilization. “Would you prefer I speak of your other cookies?”

She tilts her head as though she does, in fact, understand the question. “Are you asking because you like the idea of pissing off my sister?”

“Frankly, I don’t give two figs about your sister.”

“You like baiting her.”

“I enjoy baiting anyone game for being baited. But do you know what I like more?”

She winces. “Sheep?”

I laugh. Wasn’t expecting that from Gracie. “Tell you a secret?”

She winces harder. “Does it have to do with sheep?”

So few women would ask a prince about his proclivities in the bedroom. Or the meadow, as the case may be. She’s a refreshing combination of honesty, innocence, and bloody hilarity. “My brother is the sheep-herder of the family. I have little to do with the wooly beasts. My interests lie with honey.”

Or so I’m to say. Bloody crown. Bloody cover story.

If she doesn’t stop studying me with those delicious midnight eyes, I’m likely to drive a stake through the amicable part of our relationship. Which would be far from the worst I’ve ever done, except I’d rather hate to give Gracie any reason to sever this unlikely friendship we’re slipping into.

“Honey,” she repeats slowly. “Is that another code word?”

“If the lady wishes.”

Her gaze drifts south, to the battle being waged between my royal member and the denim trapping it, and she slowly licks her lips.

“The lady wishes,” she whispers.

* * *

If you love hot billionaire bosses, wronged heroines out for revenge, and horrifically mortifying situations, read on for an excerpt of …

Chapter One

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.

* * *