12

Ambrosia

Chase Jett just smiled at me. It’s not enough that he tortured me through childhood. It’s not enough that he has enough money to buy a jet to fly to his personal Caribbean island and build his own private Disney World on it. It’s not enough that I’ve been wondering how deep I could shove my tongue into his chin dimple.

When he smiles, fairies sing and the sun shoots glitter on its light beams and magical, happy, non-possessed unicorns fart rainbows across the sky.

I’ve never seen him smile—excluding all the times he did his evil overlord laugh whenever he’d get one up on me—and I don’t like it.

And no, I don’t want to discuss if it’s his smile I don’t like, or the fact that I’ve never seen it.

I also don’t like that he’s wormed his way into the seat beside me, with his long legs stretched out and crossed at the ankles, his wide shoulders edging into my personal bubble, with a swell in his crotch that’s making me unfortunately horny. Just a little. Like a subtle swelling in my breasts that are making my barely tight nipples strain sort of-kind of loosely-painfully against my lace bra. Like a barely noticeable, pulsating, volcanic throb between my legs. Like a whisper of a hint that I might possibly desperately need to straddle him and rub my aching, swollen clit all over his long, thick shaft and—

Yeah. I’m just a little horny. Barely noticeable over—wait. When did Willow start talking to him?

“I get diversification,” she’s saying, “but a grocery store?”

“Everybody eats,” Chase says.

“Not organic, free-range, fair trade, yada yada pricey pricey food.”

He smiles that ridiculously handsome smile at her, and I can’t decide if I want to slug him or mount him. His teeth are straight and perfect, like he must’ve gotten braces in the last ten years. The chin dimple makes his full lips seem manly and rugged, even with the glitter still stuck in there, and his eyes are crinkling like he’s hiding a sense of humor in his blackened soul.

Which will only come out a muddy gray in my mind, because even I can’t find the evil in this smile.

“I grew up on canned baloney.” He winks at her. “Call it a billionaire’s eccentricity if you want, but I have plans. Ten years from now, Crunchy’s going to be the place even low-income families can go to get fewer pesticides and hormones in their food supply.”

The crowd suddenly groans, and we all leap to our feet as a ball sails out of the park. Those of us from Minnesota, anyway, so basically me, my brothers, and Chase. Home run for the visitors.

“Yeah, baby,” Zeus yells. Ares is doing his war cry, a deafening howl that sounds like a flock of chickens being murdered. Huh. Maybe he could stop by my apartment about three AM and demonstrate for Hogzilla. And why hasn’t this ever occurred to me before?

Oh, right.

Because I don’t want to get kicked out of my building. Finding an affordable place in the city is akin to finding a new job when you have a criminal record and a current listing as a smokin’ hot do me now mama on BillionaireBangers.com.

Still, it’s tempting.

And it’s taken my mind off the fact that Chase is pumping a fist and hollering as the Twins go up three to nothing in the first inning.

“What is wrong with you people?” Parker says.

“Minnesota proud,” I reply with a shrug.

“From Philadelphia, my ass,” Eloise grunts.

“Pittsburgh,” Parker corrects.

“Pennsyl-whatever,” Eloise fires back. “I can’t believe we believed you.”

She has a point, but it’s been a decade since I’ve wanted to cheer for the Twins. Now that I’ve reclaimed my heritage, I couldn’t stop myself if I tried.

Going to Twins games was a huge deal when I was little. Mom and Dad would take a day off work, we’d drive down to Minneapolis, have sandwiches in the car, and sit in the bleachers where we could each pick one thing from the snack bars. I’d go for cotton candy. Zeus and Ares would try to scam their way into more food, saying it was only one thing if they stacked their hamburgers between two large pretzels as bonus buns.

Chase went with us once. He got a bag of peanuts and spent the whole game tossing shells into my hair when my parents weren’t looking.

Zeus and Ares never went to ball games with Chase’s family. Or to the lake. Or camping. Not like he’d tag along with us.

It never occurred to me that the only way he got to do all those things was with us. That his parents couldn’t afford it. I’m sure his mom didn’t make much, and I never gave a thought to what his dad did.

Or that he might’ve grown up on canned baloney, and buying Crunchy was his way of never having to eat it again.

He was right. Billionaires get to do the weirdest things.

Or possibly I’m spending too much time thinking about the guy who’s sliding his arm behind my back at the baseball game.

I go stiff as steel on the outside and wobbly as my grandma’s blue-ribbon gelatin mold on the inside.

Why is Chase Jett putting high school moves on me?

That volcanic throbbing in my nether regions is back. Lava’s flowing, people. Chase Jett is touching me and my body is betraying me and—

Holy organic sausages, he’s threading his fingers through my hair. Electric sparks light up my scalp, and I have to squeeze my lips together to keep from moaning. Squeezing my thighs together isn’t doing much good either.

I wonder what he’d do if I follow him home. Or if I just show up naked on his doorstep. I could lob a few insults, question his choice in décor, call his dick some names, and he’d probably do me in the foyer.

What the hell is wrong with me?

My head is suddenly slapped forward. “Ow!”

“Knock it off, dickhead,” Eloise says. She dangles a peanut shell in front of my eyes. “Sorry about the slap. He was putting this in your hair.”

I yank his ear and twist. His head flops into my lap, but he’s grinning. Oh, he’s grinning. A delicious, dark, spank me, baby grin. “Your hair’s boring. It needed some glittering up.”

“You’re dead,” I grit out.

Ares snorts. “I see it too,” he says to Zeus. The two of them share a smile and a fist bump.

I have no idea what they’re talking about. Chase apparently does. He flips a double bird at them.

I’m suddenly reliving my childhood, except it’s oddly non-traumatic.

“Can I have my ear back?” Chase says.

“Parker. Hand me a peanut. I need to shove it up his ear canal.”

“Is it orgasmic?” Chase asks. “I only like orgasmic peanuts in my ears.”

“I hate you,” I say, and I’m horrified to realize I’m smiling back at him.

I drop his ear and shove him away.

Fine. Maybe he’s not the devil.

But he’s still not good for me.