Page 75 of Meet Mason, the Billionaire

“What in the hell is your problem?”

“What?” He sputtered. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“I told you NOT to pressure the owner of that portrait into selling it. Instead, you did the exact opposite.”

“What do you mean? I played it totally low-key, but they’re pretty adamant about not selling. The thing is, I have a lot of other nice paintings you might like just as much if not more.”

“You were low-key?”

“Yes, I was. Totally no pressure. I just made the offer, and they politely declined, and we had a nice lunch together after with no hard feelings.”

“You lying little shit!” I snapped. My grandfather had instilled in me the importance of honesty. Unless it were a little white lie to protect someone’s feelings—and he told me to be careful even with those—it was better to tell the truth.

“Excuse me? How dare you call me a liar.”

I forced myself to calm down. I didn’t want to sink to his level, and being quick to anger had gotten me in this mess in the first place.

“I’m calling you a liar for the same reason that I say rain is wet. You’re lying to me.”

“How DARE you—”

“Save your ‘righteous indignation’ for someone who’s as stupid as you. I’ve spoken with the artist directly, and I know that you threatened to take her gallery exhibition away if she didn’t sell the painting—and I’m sure you wanted a nice tidy commission on that sale, didn’t you?”

Utter silence. I laughed bitterly.

“Finally we find a way to make Brian Schrauth shut the fuck up for five seconds. Brilliant.”

“All right, all right. You got me. I did get a little bit high pressure there, but you’ve talked to Megan, right? You know how stubborn she is and how she avoids doing the right thing for herself out of some misguided sense of principle. Shit, if you look at it from one way, I was actually HELPING her.”

“You were helping her by shutting down her gallery exhibition and crushing her hopes and spirit?”

“Yes, exactly. I’m glad you understand.”

I wiped a hand down my face. “You’re not very good at this interpersonal communication thing are you? I bet you were the funniest, sharpest tongue guy in junior high and high school, right? Always ready with a comeback or a cutting put down. Only high school ended and everyone else grew up, but you’re still stuck in that junior high mentality.”

“You are free to think that if you want. The truth of the matter is, you asked me to get the owner to sell the painting, and I tried my damndest. That shouldn’t warrant a condemnation. You should be praising me.”

“You’re so full of shit your eyes are turning brown,” I growled. “Enough. I’m done with you. You’re a wretched, evil little man and you’re going to die alone.”

I ended the call with vehemence and pondered my next move. I had to find a way to get Megan back. But how?

Then I remembered a conversation I’d had with my grandfather, so long ago. Before he got ill, but after we’d spoken of how to tell if you love someone or are just crushing.

“Here’s the thing,” grandpa said, the sunlight glinting off his horn-rim glasses. “When it comes to love, it’s not really hard to tell if she’s the right one.”

“It’s not?” I asked, lowering the plastic bat-shaped kite in my hand to the grassy field.

“No, not really. You just have to look inward.”

“Inward, Grandpa? Like with a microscope?”

He laughed and patted me on the head.

“No, not like that. Metaphorically look inside yourself. You have to ask yourself the three big questions.”

“What three big questions?”

He held up a gnarled finger.

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