Page 46 of Meet Mason, the Billionaire

“How about some dinner?” I asked.

“Sure thing—I don’t care where as long as it’s hot and there’s lots of it.”

“Well, with the bar set that low, maybe I can offer to cook for you?”

She cocked an eyebrow. “You know how to cook?”

“Just because I seldom have time to do it doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy it immensely. My grandpa taught me.”

“You must have had some grandfather,” she said appreciatively.

I thought of the portrait, and nodded. “Yes. Yes, I did.” A smile spread over my face. “Now, you haven’t lived until you’ve had my tarragon chicken.”

Chapter Nineteen

Megan

I’ll admit to being intrigued by the idea of seeing Mason’s home. After all, they say the best way to get to know a person is to see how they live.

Besides, he’d gotten to see my place. It was only fair.

The limo dropped us off in front of the Pythias Plaza building, one of the swanker condo complexes in lower Manhattan. I was impressed in spite of my earlier vow to play it cool about the massive difference in our income levels.

I gawked a little bit at the structure, fifty stories of shimmering glass and steel. “It’s so big.”

“Shh, don’t spread rumors about me.”

I elbowed him playfully in the ribs.

“You know what I mean. Which floor do you live on?”

“The top two stories are taken up by my penthouse.”

I whistled. “It’s good to be the king.”

He laughed, and offered me his arm. “Tonight, the king is the servant. I’ll be making you dinner.”

“Tarragon Chicken, if I recall. I don’t know what that is, but I like it.”

“It’s more of a Dijon chicken sauce, but the tarragon adds a certain amount of tang, and a unique flavor you can’t find anywhere else.”

I gave him a look, and he frowned. “What?”

“You sound like a cooking show, that’s all.”

“I guess I watched a lot of them with Gramps. He was kind of getting along in years, and it’s not like he was in the shape to play catch with me.”

We entered the lobby, which was elegant and yet understated and calm. It felt like home. Nice, but still homey and not an intimidating mausoleum like some condo lobbies.

“I can relate. My grandpa and I used to play video games because walking hurt him.”

“Your grandpa sounds like a great guy.”

“He was. He’s the one who got me into art. I gravitated toward painting, but he could do just about anything. Not just artistically, either. He was quite the mechanic and used to restore classic cars.”

“My grandpa did that too,” he said. “I think we’re quite a bit alike in many ways, Megan.”

We stepped into the elevator as tension descended upon him. I realized then that my response was very important to him.

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