Total pages in book: 156
Estimated words: 158829 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 794(@200wpm)___ 635(@250wpm)___ 529(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 158829 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 794(@200wpm)___ 635(@250wpm)___ 529(@300wpm)
I hold my breath while he reaches over and grabs a black canvas covered in blue splotches.
Don’t ask what any of the misshapen blueberries are supposed to be.
I don’t think it’s all the same hue because some of the lines are darker.
“Well?” He waits.
“It’s...interesting, Gramps.” I twist in my seat, reaching deep for something to say. “Very colorful. Wish I’d paid attention in art history so I could tell you more.”
Then again, if I had, my head might be exploding at this abstract abomination he’s brought to life.
Gramps taught me to always be honest at all costs. Meanwhile, Grandma says it’s best not to speak if you can’t be complimentary.
I’m not sure he’d be flattered if I point out how his painting looks like Picasso took acid in a jungle. And it doesn’t matter.
He spent over fifty years turning Winthrope into a world-class luxury brand.
If bad abstract art is what he wants to spend his golden years on, so be it.
“You’ll be happy to know the Orlando and Austin resorts are both progressing,” I say, changing the subject.
“Ah, yes. I sincerely hope the early reviews in Austin turn out better than the Hawaiian gems you spearheaded. Such a shame. I thought with that locally sourced peaberry coffee from Mr. Lancaster, they’d be singing your praises from Lisbon to Beijing.”
“They adore the coffee,” I say, trying not to grit my teeth. “It’s the one thing nobody whines about.”
Yes, I think miserably.
“Great resorts aren’t made by its beverages,” he says matter-of-factly, his eyes swelling with sympathy. “However, you’ll find your footing, son. I was older than you when they began singing Winthrope New York’s praises, you know.”
Tick-fucking-tok, he means.
He was one, maybe two years older.
He trusted me with his company, and so far, I’m an underwhelming successor at best.
He’s right about one thing, though.
I’ll come back from it.
I have to.
I’m not letting my grandparents down and settling for mediocrity. I just need more time to set everything right.
If only Gramps wasn’t still reading over our quarterly updates and briefings. I keep hoping he’ll be too busy to notice the damn PR problem that started in Maui and Lanai and keeps spreading like a blight.
Worst of all, I’m not even close to figuring out who might be fucking me over with this exaggerated horseshit.
The silent majority who stay at Winthrope properties never leave reviews.
Sometimes if you offer them freebies, maybe.
But your average luxury client isn’t easily wowed by small extras. Real reviews come when people have a noteworthy experience and walk away either glowing or pissed off.
I still have a hard time believing our resorts are making people that irate.
“Is that my Brock?” Grandma calls from off-screen. “Oh, let me say hello!”
“Did you hear that?” Gramps asks.
Grandma smooshes into the frame with him a second later, pleasant as ever with her plump face and regal smile. “How are you doing, my little bear?”
“I’m fine, Grandma.”
“Are you eating enough?”
I can’t help laughing. In her mind, I think I’m forever frozen at ten years old.
“Yes.”
“Make sure you don’t overwork yourself. Go to bed by a decent hour.” She wags a finger. “There’s more to life than managing a hotel empire, dear. Take it from this guy.”
She elbows Gramps playfully and he gives her a dirty look back.
I sigh.
“What’s wrong?” she asks.
“It’s easy for you to talk. You guys not only built the brand, but took it to the stars. I’m fighting the whole world just to keep it airborne.”
“Not the whole world,” Gramps corrects. “Just a few jealous competitors and review sites.”
“Sure, that’s all—” I cut off mid-sentence. Speaking of keeping things from crashing down... “I’m afraid I forgot something. Can I call you back?”
Gramp’s face hardens. “You’re not behind on work, are you?”
“Worse. I forgot a favor for a friend.”
He nods. “We’ll let you get to it then.”
“I love you, sweetheart!” Grandma says.
“Take care of yourself, Brock,” Gramps says.
“Love you both.” I end the call and yank my drawer open, searching for the recommendation letter that’s handwritten on company letterhead.
I remove it from the unsealed envelope and scan it once, then a second time.
Then I pick up another handful of written, revised, and sealed letters from my desk that Keenan brought in last week and add this one to the top of the stack.
Fyodor, my driver and personal assistant, can handle the rest. I grab my phone.
“I need you to take care of something for me. Can you come to my office?”
“On my way.”
I quickly respond to a couple of emails before there’s a tap at my door five minutes later.
“Come,” I call.
He walks in, adorned in a brilliant gold-and-white designer shirt crisscrossing his chest. Fyo might be a snazzier dresser than Gramps and Keenan combined, and I cringe to think he might spend more of his salary on designer brands than I do, even if I pay him well.