Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 84000 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 420(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84000 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 420(@200wpm)___ 336(@250wpm)___ 280(@300wpm)
“What was it before?” Avril says, turning three hundred and sixty degrees. “It’s beautiful.”
“Beautiful?” I scoff. “It’s a literal construction site.”
“But look at the crown moldings,” she says, pointing at the thirty-foot ceilings. “Oh god. And that staircase. It’s like it belongs in a palace.”
“Hardly,” I mumble. “Those stairs should be a bank of elevators by now. No apartment building should be without one.”
“Seriously? You were tearing this down to make apartments? Where’s your soul, Worth?”
“Run off to South America with my half a million dollars,” I reply.
“It would look incredible with a marble floor. And you’d have to do a royal-blue rug. No! Electric blue. You could really go old school and restore it to its glory, but add in a curveball here and there. Let’s see through here.”
I follow Avril as she leads the way through abandoned piles of rubble and random bits of timber.
“This is gorgeous. The bar is still in good shape. Do you have the original plans?” she asks. “Or any photographs of the hotel before it… ended up like this?”
“How did you know it was a hotel?”
Avril laughs. “It wasn’t a family home with these dimensions. And I bet we can find a ballroom somewhere around here. Oh god, Worth, it’s great. You can’t pull it down.”
Of course I’m going to pull it down. That’s been the plan for the last three years. “It’s all settled. I’ve got all the permits and a team of new architects on board.” I don’t really know why I’m here, other than to allay my guilt over being so hands-off before. Mason was my choice and my investment, which means the blame for him fucking off to South America lies at least partially at my feet. I don’t want to make the same mistake again.
“You should restore it. Make it a hotel again. It would be worth a fortune.”
“It’ll be worth a fortune when it’s eighty-three apartments.”
She sighs. “No soul. I thought you were looking for a hotel in New York.”
“I bought one in Boston.” Although I can’t remember how long it’s been since my last visit. I need to be more on the ground in all my investments, but I’m spread thin at the moment.
“Sell that one,” she says, like she’s playing Monopoly and not million-dollar real estate.
“I’m not selling it.” I never wanted the Boston hotel in the first place, but Bennett, Byron, Jack, Fisher, Leo, and I had all agreed to buy a hotel after we sold the business we created at school together. Now we hold an annual competition to see which one—or who—is most successful. A little friendly competition to strengthen the glue that holds our friendship together. Only, I couldn’t find a property in New York that made commercial sense and hadn’t been snapped up by one of my friends. So I ended up with a property in Boston and dutifully lose the competition every year.
“So tell me about academic probation,” I say as we head into what might have been a dining room. Or maybe a lounge. It’s difficult to say.
She sighs. “I don’t know, my soul isn’t in it.”
“Does your soul need to be in it?” I ask. “Don’t we just need your brain to be in it?”
“Ha ha. I just don’t think economics and I are… meant to be.”
“You’re not dating. You just need a degree. Even if you don’t do anything economics-related, a degree will be useful.”
“I could come and manage this project for you. Help with design and decision-making.”
“The decisions are made. The plans have been approved for well over a year.”
Avril folds her arms. “I don’t like economics,” she says. “I want to do something creative. Coming here just makes it worse, because I see ten jobs I could be doing and really enjoying. Instead, I’m stuck in a classroom, wondering whether I’m destined to become just another empty wannabe banker who would do anything for a dollar.”
You won’t just find Avril’s name next to the entry for exaggeration in the dictionary—you’ll also find a full-color photo.
“You’re telling me you want to drop out in your junior year? With nothing to show for it except your brother’s empty wallet?”
She sighs. “Oh please. You’ve got more money than god. And what’s the point in being rich if you can’t use your wealth to help others? To feed your sister’s soul.”
“You’re ridiculous,” I say. I don’t even know how to respond to her. My mind is too full of other things. I want to see more of Sophia. She’s busy tonight, and I hate the thought of spending the night without her. I’d be happy for her to move in so we could really get to know each other, but I know she’s not ready for me to suggest that.
During the brief moments when I’m not thinking about Sophia, I’m consumed by thoughts of this Ninth Street disaster. I really don’t want to take on a project like this—at least not when I have to be involved at the literal ground floor.