Page 44 of Meet Jon, the Billionaire

“No, sir, I cannot. You made it abundantly clear that I had to make sure that you made it out the door before I could leave.”

I sighed. I’d been toying with the idea of falling back into bed, sure…

I showered, dressed, and threw on my golfing outfit. Why were golf pants so fucking ugly? I had no idea, and I owned a dozen pairs.

I’m pretty sure Darwin watched me until I actually got in my Jaguar and drove out to the links. I stopped and got myself a coffee and a greasy pork sandwich to soak up the remaining alcohol—I know it’s not scientifically sound, go screw yourself—before I got on the interstate.

By the time I stepped into the clubhouse and found Mason and Stan waiting for me, I was feeling much better. Not one hundred percent, mind you, but physically I was sound enough. Mentally was another story. I guess my anxiety was written all over my face, because the guys started giving me shit as soon as I stepped up to them.

“You look like shit,” Mason said.

“Nah, he doesn’t look like shit.” Stan shook his head. “Shit has value. You can burn it for fuel and stuff. He looks like the glaze that forms on the wall at a peepshow.”

“Sick put down, bro.” He and Mason high-fived. I rolled my eyes.

“I had a late night.”

“No shit,” they said in unison.

We headed out to the first hole, a four-par leg stretcher that you’d have to be He-fucking-Man to have a chance of a hole in one. Of course, those assholes wouldn’t stop ragging me about my rough condition.

“Hey, I was just listing the things that I find more pathetic than Jonathon with a hangover,” Mason quipped.

“Oh yeah, how many did you count so far?” Of course Stan was ready to aid and abet.

“Zero!” They laughed again and high-fived just as I was taking my swing. I sliced bad, and the little white ball shot off into the brush.

“Somebody’s a bushwhacker,” Mason said, patting me on the shoulder. “Let me show you how it’s done.”

I remained silent until he wound up and was just about to take his swing. Then I pounced like my namesake.

“Hey, Mason, have you told Stan you finger-banged his sister at prep school yet?”

His club bit dirt, and the ball popped up almost straight into the air. It came down maybe twenty feet from where we stood. Mason shot me a dirty look.

“For fuck’s sake, why not just ask him what’s wrong with him?” Stan asked. “And for your information, my little sister confessed years ago.”

Mason glared. “Then how come you never said anything?”

“Honestly?” Stan chuckled. No, he didn’t chuckle. He GIGGLED. Like a schoolboy. “I wanted to fuck with you and see how many awkward situations I could put you and my sister in until you were forced to confess.”

“You’re both assholes,” Mason muttered.

Stan stepped up for his shot. We both waited until he took his swing.

“Jerkoff!” I said.

“Dipshit!” Mason said.

That fuckwad Stan took the most beautiful shot I’d ever seen. The ball flew out like it was struck by the finger of god and bounced along the green.

“Fuck you, Stan,” Mason said, even though he was laughing.

As we played the holes on the green, I began to develop an idea. I would have fleshed it out by the fourth hole if those idiots had kept their mouths shut, but I digress. It occurred to me that Amelia’s aunt was getting on in years. She was already on the verge of retirement.

How hard would it be to get her to sell the bakery to me for an exorbitant price?

Chapter Twenty-Four

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