Total pages in book: 160
Estimated words: 153268 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 766(@200wpm)___ 613(@250wpm)___ 511(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 153268 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 766(@200wpm)___ 613(@250wpm)___ 511(@300wpm)
“Walmart,” I corrected. “Nice wheels.”
Tate scowled disapprovingly in his Tom Ford suit, fighting his gag reflex. “Yeah. Bill Gates owns the same model. His is older, though.” He yanked off his dark leather gloves one finger at a time. “He’s doing this whole green thing now. What’s it called?”
“Global warming?”
“Yeah, that liberal nonsense.”
I took a slow, calming breath and counted to ten in my head. At least he hadn’t called it a hoax. Although I couldn’t put anything past this man, mass murder included.
“Thanks for the ride.” I carried my duffel bag along the tarmac of the small, private airport outside of London. I’d spent the last couple of days checking in on the progress at La Vie en Rogue, my upcoming restaurant. A perfect excuse to remove myself from Staindrop and from Cal.
“I was in the neighborhood. Had business in Geneva.” Tate started up the stairs. “And you’re a hard man to pin down these days.”
“Got this pesky little thing called a day job.” I followed him up the stairway into the plane. “Takes hours of my time every day.”
“Unfamiliar with the concept. I specialize in empires, not ‘jobs.’”
Tate Blackthorn was a shark. The kind of New York, old-money asshole who possessed a second brain instead of a heart. He’d invested in one of my restaurants when I’d started out, and now he thought he owned my ass, even though I made him a shit ton of money. In Tate’s world, anyone who wasn’t born with a silver spoon and a trust fund was indebted to him if he paid them any kind of attention. And if all of that didn’t make him insufferable enough, he always struck me as a raging playboy. The type to have spawns out of wedlock in at least the double digits that he didn’t even know about and a string of exes who’d love nothing more than to attend his funeral.
Tate shouldered past a starry-eyed flight attendant. “Gotta say, I wasn’t expecting to be ghosted by anyone, let alone someone who’s about to receive a fat check from me.”
Didn’t surprise me. Tate was the kind of man who was sought after, not the one doing the chasing.
“That’s an observation, not a question.” I entered the plane, taking a seat by the window. The interior was lavish and in-your-fucking-face—just like its owner. Velvet burgundy seats, golden fixtures, a heavy wood bar. The place could moonlight as a brothel. Which, I had no doubt, sometimes it did.
“You want a question?” He fell into the recliner in front of me, scooting to the edge and lacing his fingers together. “Fine, I’ll give you one: What’s the holdup, and why don’t I have this damn contract signed yet?”
I normally liaised with Tate’s team—mainly because he was too busy to care about this side, bumfuck-nowhere project. But since it was just the two of us, I figured it was time to face the music. “I read your official proposal, dug into the plan a little.” I stuck my tongue into my inner cheek.
“And…?” He tilted his chin down expectedly.
“It’s shit.”
“Shit?” he asked calmly. “How so?”
“The provisions, the architecture, the structure, the brands attached to the retail project—pure crap. I’m jamming this project down people’s throats, so I have to sell it to them. There’s nothing marketable about your plan for Staindrop.”
My shitty mood had begun the moment I’d boarded the commercial flight to London the day after kissing Cal. I found myself replaying the kiss in my head time and time again, and remembered Cal’s Brain Boyfriend remark. Itching for a distraction, I had decided to dig through the blueprint Tate had sent me when he’d made the offer and nitpick every small fucking thing about it. I didn’t actually think it was bad. Tate was a terrible human but a top-tier businessman. He had the talent and ability to turn the town around. But the real answer—that I didn’t want to sign the contract because I wanted into Cal’s pants—wasn’t acceptable. Not to my business partner, and not inside my own head.
My mood had taken a further nosedive later that day when I’d checked on La Vie en Rogue. Not because the progress wasn’t to my satisfaction. On the contrary—everything had gone according to plan. The rose-pink stained marbled bar was pristine, the black granite walls were already up and covered in eclectic art and graffiti, the handmade upholstered leather stools were lined up over the shiny parquet floor, and the bulbed chandeliers looked like a Milky Way constellation map.
Everything was perfect, and yet I couldn’t, for the life of me, find any excitement and pleasure in it.
“Let’s try again.” Tate sat back, lacing his fingers and tapping his indexes over his mouth. “I’m going to pretend you have the greenest clue about city planning and ask why you think this proposal, designed by three of America’s boldest and most prestigious architects, is shit?”