Page 70 of Meet Mason, the Billionaire

“What do you mean, Sage?”

“I mean—what if he feels the same way? You won’t be able to know unless you talk to him about it.”

“I was afraid you were going to say that.” I sighed. “All right. I’ll tell him.”

“Good girl. Junebug’s texting me. I’ve got to go, but if you need to talk again, don’t hesitate to call.”

“No, I’m good, I think. Thanks, Sage. I think I’m going to be able to sleep now. I just… I just had to get all of this off my chest, you know?”

“I know how it is, girl. Keep me posted. Love you.”

“Love you too and give Junebug a hearty slap for me.”

“Will do.”

The call ended and I laid back in bed. I watched the shadows move across my ceiling for a while. Who knows how long. Maybe one or two hours. I eventually drifted off into a blessedly dreamless slumber that ended all too abruptly, not to mention all too soon, by my alarm.

I rose for my early shift at the restaurant, shuffling about sleepily and going about my daily ablutions in a haze. Even though I’d told Sage I would confess my feelings to Mason, I found myself questioning that decision in the cold light of morning.

When I got to work, I kept messing up orders and forgetting to start new pots of coffee because I was so distracted by my dilemma. I was caught between telling Mason how I felt, that I was in love with him, and keeping it to myself for at least a bit longer.

Of course, the coward’s way out was not telling him, and that’s what I was leaning toward when my lunch break finally came around. I ran a load of garbage out to the dumpster and then leaned against the rusted downspout to watch the city traffic go by at the mouth of the alley.

I saw a couple walk by holding hands. I felt a yearning for Mason, and yet I was afraid to call him, or even to text. He’d called me the night before after I’d finally gotten to sleep, and my chicken shit ass had yet to call him back, or even shoot him a message that I’d missed the call.

I heard feet scuffing at the mouth of the alley and glanced up from the puddle I’d been intensely studying without really seeing it.

“Mason?”

No such luck. The shrimpy red-haired, badly dressed peacock that was my ex-boyfriend Brian Shrauth walked toward me.

“Your boss said you would be out here,” he said, vaping like the douche he was. I coughed as the sickly-sweet strawberry smoke got too close for comfort.

“What do you want, Brian? Is this about the exhibit?” My eyes narrowed. “I knew it. You’re here to tell me you’re rescinding the offer and want money, right?”

“Oh, it’s about the exhibit, but it’s good news, not bad.” He put his hands on his hips and posed like a superhero. Which he no doubt thought he was, judging from his swagger. Whatever he was about to tell me, he believed I would like it very much.

Which made me more suspicious of him than ever.

“Just spit it out, Brian. My break is only fifteen minutes long.”

“Okay, fine. Ruin the surprise. You know that old, kind of lame painting your gramps did?”

I frowned. “You mean the portrait of the unknown man in front of a Shelby Cobra? The one that I fucking TREASURE because it’s almost all I have left of my grandfather? That ‘kind of lame’ painting, Brian?”

His smile faded. “Okay, sorry, so it’s not lame. I mean, it must not be. This guy wants to buy it, and get this—he’s totally, TOTALLY loaded. Like richer than God. This could be a huge opportunity for us.”

“For you, you mean.”

“Hey, I’m willing to take a mere twenty-five percent.”

I scowled darker.

“Fifteen? Okay, okay, I’ll be satisfied with only ten percent commission, which is industry standard by the way.”

“I’m not selling the portrait, Brian. For any price.”

“This is your chance to make millions of dollars!”

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