The Pilot and the Puck-Up

by Pippa Grant

  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 here 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 Amazon and Goodreads.

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

  Hugs and cookie kisses!!

  Pippa

  Books by Pippa Grant

  Mister McHottie (Chase & Ambrosia)

  Stud in the Stacks (Parker & Knox)

  The Pilot and the Puck-Up (Zeus and Joey)

  Royally Pucked (Manning and Gracie)

  Exes and Ho Ho Hos (Jake and Kaitlyn)

  And more…

  Keep in touch with Pippa Grant!

  Join the Pipsquad

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  Find Pippa on BookBub

  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.

  Click here to get Royally Pucked!

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

  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 suggestio
n 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.