Chapter 38
Dexter
Two more days don’t ease the tension.
I’m a night owl by nature, but I’m up later than usual, tossing and turning and throwing myself into encore workouts and cold showers when nothing else helps.
I texted her a few times–yes, I fucking text now–just to confirm everything’s still fine and she hasn’t branded me an evil heartbreaker for life.
The few texts that come back are cold, two–word answers.
What little she says is some version of it’s fine, leave me the hell alone. Shit.
That’s it, then. Either I’ve gone and hurt her, or she’s just as twisted up with confusion as I am.
Or she’s decided she hates me and she’s just trying to figure out how to get out of this insanity.
Fuck.
I can’t even blame her if she does, because I’m the one who turned a fake one–off kiss into a marathon make–out session that’s left me with blue balls larger than the moon.
Now, I’m risking the entire deal with my antics.
This whole fiasco has lobotomized me. I want it to be over so I can go back to my boring, ordinary life where kissing strange women for fantastic lies has no place.
Who’d have thought brokering new income streams for Higher Ends was the easy part?
Today feels downright simple even though it means another meeting with Forrest Haute.
I call Junie as I drive over to the Mill property for an inspection and a good look around.
As expected, it goes to voicemail.
She won’t call me back, either, if the last few days are any indication. What the fuck ever.
I can’t let her be a distraction when I need to focus on Haute. Especially the fact that he hasn’t handed us a draft contract yet, despite talking up his excitement.
If Archer’s right about this guy jerking our chain, let alone backing out after everything, Patton and I will never live
it down.
The property is close to the river, easy access to the main roads leading into the city, yet surrounded by greenery and trees that make it an oasis of privacy. It’s exclusive and appealing and so rustic looking it’s easy to forget it’s in an urban setting. Frankly, it’s a crime that it’s been left to rot as artists‘ lofts for years.
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Forrest Haute waits for me beside his sleek Mercedes, already wearing an obnoxious smirk.
“Glad you could make it, Rory,” he says, offering me a hand as soon as I get out.
His palm feels just as clammy as I feared.
“Wouldn’t miss it,” I say. “I’ve been looking forward to getting another look at this place for a while. No pictures can ever do it justice.”
Nodding enthusiastically, he pulls out a key and takes me inside the large brick building. Inside, the renovated lobby already looks like it’s losing its shine.
It’ll definitely need to be overhauled for a high–end rental space. I wonder if he’s cut back on maintenance and cleaners due to his revenue woes.
That doesn’t seem to bother Haute as he displays the space, though, throwing out ideas we’ve already thought of.
“No need to sell me, Mr. Haute. We both know I’m on board,” I say as we come to a huge floor–to–ceiling window overlooking the river. Kansas
City stirs in the distance, glinting in the light. “As much as I appreciate another chance to view the property with you personally, we’re keen to move on to the next stage.”
“Oh, right, the paperwork.” Haute waves a thick hand. “I’ll have that for you soon.”
Soon.
He’s been saying that for weeks. Maybe the deal isn’t as ‘done‘ as it seems. Could it be he’s having trouble getting an outside interest to sign off on it?
I frown.
“Is everything okay with rights?” I ask bluntly. “If you need more time to ensure there are no conflicts, Higher Ends is more than willing to work with-”
“No. No, Rory, it’s just my company and the way it’s structured. I told you, we’re not the fastest but we always do it right. It’s a lovely location, isn’t it?” he says, pacing around in the light. “I’m sure you must be excited to put your own stamp on it, and frankly, so am I. You and your brothers have a chance to make something of this place I never could, and after putting so much muscle into it.” He sighs.
He’s hard as hell to read.
Is he diverting me or stalling me out? I’m not sure.
There’s also an odd melancholy in his voice. Somehow, I doubt handing over a lackluster property feels that personal. Not for a seasoned cutthroat who sees dollar signs first and last.
“We’re not short on ideas, but we haven’t committed to anything just yet. We can’t do that until we have all the boring t’s crossed,” I say.
Chapter 38
He grins at me, but instead of saying anything more about the paperwork–like giving me a real date when he’ll sign off–he just twirls his signet ring around his little finger.
“Since I’ll be spending a little more time in Kansas City over the next month with my lovely wife, I thought it would be nice to do dinner. With you and Miss Sugar Bowl, I mean.”
Ah, shit.
There it is.
“The wife’s coming up from Palm Beach, and she’s dying to meet your fiancée after what you sent down,” he says, “and I’ll admit I’m hardly less keen to meet the brains behind the Sugar Bowl’s magic.”
I stare at him.
I knew it was coming, another round of bizarre praise, but considering Junie won’t even take my calls, it lands like a stick in the eye.
“Anytime,” I tell him. There’s nothing else to say. “I’ll speak with her and see when we’ve both got a free evening.”
“Fantastic.” He gives me a wide smile, his eyes gleaming like a little boy. “I can’t wait.”
I fucking can.
I’m not excited for a fresh level of hell.
As soon as the tour wraps up with Haute and we glance at every stunning floor, dipping into a few of the many vacant studio spaces with their soaring ceilings, massive windows, and infinite remodeling opportunities, I’m done.
I head back home to contemplate another dinner date I can’t get out of
-wishing like hell I could.
Mom managed to guilt trip all three of her sons into dinner at her place.
It’s been an irregular ritual for as long as I can remember.
None of us have the heart to turn her down, even if we’re hardly enthused with another dysfunctional family gathering.
It’s bad enough that I’m going. Worse that my mind stays glued to who’s not there tonight as I clean up and get ready.
Shit.
If Junie thought my house was a castle, she’d probably black out if she saw the house we grew up in.
Mansion is an understatement.
This house is old–world charm and old money down to its soul, all stunning brick and an airy porch that could rival most restaurant patios.
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It’s been in the family longer than I’ve been alive, the only home generations of Rorys have known. My great granddad even knew Harry Truman back when he was a mover and shaker with the Kansas City political machine, and having friends in high places helped land what was then prime real estate in a time when houses were the biggest symbols of wealth.
Hell, we wound up with a place a president could only dream of, considering Truman left office damn near broke and mostly depended on help from old friends back home to have a decent living.
Old friends like my grandparents.
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Chapter 39
