Chapter 10
Dexter
There are few things more disgusting than watching Forrest Haute stuffing his face.
That viral video of a baby hippo in a zoo enclosure turning into a literal poop factory while kids scream through the glass.
The six–week–old forgotten Philly steak sub I rediscovered once in the back of my fridge.
The latest celebrity slop from Twitter or X or whatever the hell they’re calling it these days–does the world really need a public debate on electric vehicles between a hotel heiress and a one–hit grunge rock wonder?
I don’t have a weak stomach. Hell, I could sit through any slasher flick with oceans of blood and not give two shits, but this devourer of worlds is making me sick.
It’s not the fact that his gut could make Santa jealous. The man must have three stomachs in one to put away his weight in cake, pastries, and endless cups of coffee heaped with the confectionary crack otherwise known as sugar.
No, it’s the way he eats–and it’s enough to put anyone off having dinner for a year.
He can’t be fully human. He’s able to unhinge his jaw a few extra inches to stuff half a caramel apple torte down his pie hole in one go. Maybe the lizard people are real after all.
At least one thing went right, though.
A real shocker after that bungling delivery girl took her sweet time piling this room with sweets I can barely stand smelling from ten feet away.
And apparently, my brothers were right on the money about Haute’s legendary sweet tooth. I wonder how he even stays conscious with the amount of sugar thickening his blood over the last twenty minutes.
Half of me expects him to stop, turn pale, and keel right over, but he just keeps going.
-And going.
Honestly, if I look at him a minute longer, I’ll be the one puking, so I turn away and force my fingers to hold still on the table.
Nervous tapping won’t get me anywhere. I’ve made it this far, but it’s hardly a done deal.
I need to play my cards right. Or maybe just let him eat himself into a coma first.
Either way, I need this property. Higher Ends International needs it.
All I need to do is bide my time, and watching Haute polish off the better part of an entire bakery’s daily output might get me somewhere.
I hold in a sigh, glancing out over the city again and the sunset glinting across the glassy high-rises. Somewhere out there, she’s sitting by the winding Missouri River, just waiting for the right renovation to make a lot of people very rich.
The Mill could be a goldmine if it’s just handled properly. Haute, or whoever calls the shots in his development arm, didn’t have a clue what they were
doing.
Only an idiot would rework it and market it as artists‘ lofts. Kansas City has a healthy art community, sure, but it’s not New York. The average non- starving artist here couldn’t afford that sort of luxury studio in their wildest dreams, which he would’ve known if his people had done more research.
That building with its history, its location, its riverside charm, God, there’s real potential there. The best part is, it won’t take much to refurbish it into the finest luxury rentals in the entire KC metro. People will pay stupid amounts for a location like that.
It could easily be one of our most lucrative deals ever. I just need to get the damn thing in our hands first.
Unfortunately, that hinges on Forrest Three–Stomachs Haute not stuffing his face.
Plus, the other rumors that have nothing to do with his appetite, I suppose. The ones that involve a particularly nasty arm of the Chicago mob and the Haute family’s ties to it. All in the past, supposedly.
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Love Betrayed: A Journey of Separate Faths
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Chapter 10
We don’t walk into new partnerships completely blind. It’s not like I can come out and just ask about that, though,
You need tact when you’re flirting with a man who’s one degree removed from the devil.
When he finally pauses and blots his mouth with a napkin, I take my chance.
“Thank you for joining me this evening, Mr. Haute,” I say before he has the chance to grab another cupcake. “And thanks for reconsidering your future with the Mill lofts on the river.”
Haute holds up something dark and dusted with icing. So much goddamn sugar. “Please. This triple chocolate cupcake left me no choice.”
He’s joking, right? Jesus.
If a hill of pastries really can win him over, I could kiss that hot little baker.
In hindsight, she was awfully sweet on the eyes–the kind I don’t mind with that flyaway red hair and seafoam green eyes–even if her personality was like a rotten banana peel.
But hell, if it convinces Haute to turn over the Mill, I might even choke down something that takes a year off my life in celebration.
The question is, what?
I asked for extra sweet, but this stuff could rot my teeth out just by looking at it. The only thing that looks remotely palatable is the dark chocolate torte–if I scrape off the frosting–and it still probably contains a month’s worth of my sugar intake.
“We’ve been killing it in the local game for a while now. I’m sure you’ve seen the numbers? The Mill will be in the very best hands with Higher Ends,” I say, dragging the torte closer and putting a piece on my plate with a frown. If anything, Haute’s expression gets smugger. It’s like he knows this is torture. “Together, we’ll make a jaw–dropping rental offering while still maintaining the property’s unique historical roots, just as you envisioned with
the lofts.”
Haute sends me a dull glance, a flicker of annoyance in his dark–brown eyes.
“Well, numbers or not, at first I wasn’t sure. To be frank, Rory, I almost brushed off this meeting entirely. It just seems an odd business model if you
ask me.”
“How so?”
“A rich man’s Airbnb?” The man picks up a slice of cheesecake and stuffs half of it in his mouth. “Is there really so much demand?” He rattles off, still chewing, “In my day, people with money stayed at good hotels if they wanted the service. Places just like this one. What’s wrong with that?”
Seeing as he’s too busy eating to talk to me properly, I return the favor, biting into the torte and hoping I don’t spray it across the room.
Still too sweet, but palatable.
“The market’s changing with the times, Mr. Haute. It’s all mindset, a generational change,” I say. “People want hotel amenities and service to go along with one–of–a–kind properties without being in a crowded hotel.” I wave my hand around the room, which, in all fairness, doesn’t back up my point. “Places like this are fine, yes, but where’s the exclusivity? The local charm? People visit a Winthrope property for world–class service and designer ambience. They come for a sanctuary in Kansas City, sure, but it’s not a seamless part of the city, is it? The place is barely ten years old. That’s where we come in. People will pay good money for exclusive and local, as I’m sure you’re aware. The young and affluent respect history and art just like we
do.”
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?”
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Chapter 10
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”
