Page 142 of The Grumpy Billionaire

“You’re a real motherfucker,” he says.

“I’m sorry. I know you’re angry. I understand why you would be. You’re questioning our relationship—”

“Questioning it? That fucking demonstration was nothing short of brilliant!” he bellows. “Jesus, Jones. Yes, I was angry. I wanted to kill you. This outrageous, monumentally fucked-up stunt with the pineapple? All those years? Not even allergic. Unbelievable.”

“Uh…”

“I buttonholed that protégé of yours and forced her to explain it all.” He comes around and slaps me on the back. “The whole of Wall Street is buzzing. Somebody leaked what happened—with my blessing, of course. People are turning themselves inside out to guess at what you’re onto. You want to take a guess at how many billions in pension funds slid our way in the last twenty-four hours?”

“A lot?”

He barks out a laugh. “A lot.”

“So…Brenda explained it?” I blink. “What did she say?”

“The line of inquiry you’re on; all this business about how the solution to accounting for irrationality cannot be arrived at through rationality.”

I stifle a smile, thinking about my conversation with Brenda.You can’t pick up a rug you’re standing on.She put it into terms Wulfric would appreciate. He made her tell, and that’s what she came up with. Genius.

“So you’re not mad about the pineapple?” I ask.

“Everybody out there thinks you’ve been playing this outrageous long game. I know you—I don’t think you’ve been playing a long game with the pineapple. I think you got flustered and lied when you met me. But everybody else thinks you’ve been plotting all this time to blow up the paradigms with it, and it’s fucking hilarious. Perception is reality.”

“Right,” I say.

“But I prefer reality to be reality, so I’ll count on you to develop something off this. I want you to attack this thing. Get me a timetable, though.”

“Got it,” I say.

“Whatever resources you need.”

I promise to work up a list. I know one of the items already: a promotion for Brenda. Somebody else can staff the desk outside my office.

We shake hands. “A true motherfucker,” he says.

“I know, Wulfric.” I turn and leave the office.

ChapterSixty

Stella

On Thanksgiving morning,Hugo and I drive the thirty miles through snowy cornfields to visit his parents at their senior condo. They’re already hitting the sauce when we get there, but they’re sober enough. We’ve brought bagels with different toppings, and we dig in at their small table and eat while they tell us about the squirrel activity out the window, which they seem to extensively monitor.

“We have an early Christmas gift,” his mother, Mara, announces, adjusting her bright red glasses.

“You could save it for Christmas,” Hugo says.

“We want to give it now,” she says, bringing out a gift-wrapped box.

His dad rubs his meaty hands excitedly. “We can’t wait!”

Hugo carefully peels the tape off the wrapping paper and removes it in one perfect piece. Inside is a white box; inside that white box is none other than a torus paperweight—the exact kind he collects.

He stares at it, baffled. “Where could you have gotten this?”

“We watch the auction sites,” his father says proudly.

“This is a rare one. Exceedingly rare.” Hugo holds it up to the light. “A limited edition azure. In perfect condition.”

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