Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 141676 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 708(@200wpm)___ 567(@250wpm)___ 472(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 141676 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 708(@200wpm)___ 567(@250wpm)___ 472(@300wpm)
His eyes narrow as he considers my point—and the fact that people haven’t been paying for his ridiculous artists’ lofts. Last I checked, he was at eighty percent vacancy.
“I see. Still, you can’t compete with hotels like this on service.”
“If you mean spas and gym facilities, sure, the Winthrope has us beat. Like them, though, our staff brings comfort. On-demand turndown, room service, high-end food, laundry, the works. There’s a reason why Higher Ends is enjoying its explosive growth.” I settle into my flow, the sugar high forgotten. This is why I’m here—the sale. Reminding him what we’re capable of, and the irrefutable fact that we’re not just another quirky startup, but battle-tested and proven. “We’re giving people what they want, Mr. Haute. Maximum privacy, great service, and truly original properties. The only thing holding us back is finding new acquisitions worthy of our brand in a tight market—and that’s where you come in.”
Haute raises an eyebrow.
“How long did you polish that speech?” he drawls, “Or did you come up with it on the fly?”
Fuck.
I flash him a disarming smile as we lock eyes.
“The only thing I planned out was bringing you these exquisite desserts.”
He throws his head back and laughs, a loud barking sound as big as the rest of him.
There we go. Bullseye.
“I must congratulate you, Rory.”
“Let me be straight with you.” I lay my hands on the table in a fake expression of honesty. “The real estate market’s crowded and expensive, even here. Kansas City has ten times the competition it did five years ago. It’s a growing sea of sharks, and we have a reputation to uphold. The Mill is exactly what we’re looking for. The kind of gem that only turns up once in a generation, if we’re lucky.”
“You’re scrappy and hungry, I’ll give you that.” Haute points at the torte on my plate. “Are they good?”
Shit, can this man stop thinking with his gut for one second?
“The best,” I say. My mind flicks back to the big claims the baker chick made when I stepped into her store. “The Sugar Bowl is an institution of sorts around here.”
“Ah, well, I can certainly see why.” Haute grabs a piece and bites into it, making a low, appreciative grunt that sounds filthy.
Appropriate in a porno, maybe, but not in a business meeting between professionals.
Of course, he’s not the type who would know professional, even if it slapped him in the face.
If I had my way, there wouldn’t be anything in this room except some water and self-serve coffee to help the money go down smoother. But last week, Haute wouldn’t even agree to a second meeting until I mentioned a special sampler of some local baked goods.
So here we are, and it’s just as horrific as I imagined.
“Well, hell. I’ll have to discuss any final decisions with my partners, of course,” Haute says around a mouthful of torte. Chocolate smears his teeth and he makes no effort to lick it away. “However, I will say this, Rory—I’m feeling more bullish about the whole thing than I did last week.”
Bullish.
Progress.
About fucking time, too. We’ve been chasing this deal for months. It took weeks to even get a reply from his team, let alone set up talks.
The only thing that bothers me is his mention of ‘partners.’
Hopefully, he means ordinary real estate goons and not something shadier.
That’s the part that almost scuttled this before it got off the ground. Archer wasn’t sure we should pursue it because of Haute’s reputation elsewhere. And, you know, the possible mob ties.
Waking up with horse heads in our beds would be unpleasant.
Then again, there’s been nothing implicating him in any dirty dealings for over ten years. His holdings have grown in the usual boring ways, without any weird surprises, steady and occasionally stumbling like the juggernaut he is.
I’ll just have to hope my stick-up-the-ass big brother doesn’t have a point. Still, if there is anything dubious here…
No, I brush off the thought.
He’s selling property. We’re buying and that’s where it ends.
Sure, he’ll probably negotiate a small ongoing cut of the profits for turning over such a magnificent slice of KC real estate, but that’s expected.
It’s a sweet deal. Simple. And we’ll have the lawyers’ fingerprints all over it.
There won’t be room for any unexpected surprises, conventional or otherwise.
If he does shady business, he’s got his fingers in a thousand pies for that, and it won’t be the Mill. Not when he’s offered a continuing stake in the property if he goes ahead with the deal.
He licks his fingers loudly like he’s reading my mind.
Fuck, okay.
Now he’s just doing indecent slurping like wants to turn my stomach.
“You know, I wasn’t sure about you,” he says, “but I think I’m feeling better about this.”
Finally.
“Glad to hear it,” I say. “I really think this could be mutually beneficial for you and Higher Ends—”