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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 beroomfor 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—”
“I wasn’t done,” he snaps.
I ball my fists under the table and take a deep breath.
Yeah, if he wasanyoneelse, I’d be out the door by now, but we need this deal.
My pride can wait.
Even though there’s nothing I’d like better than to punch him in his smarmy face for holding me in suspense like a greedy hog and eating like one too.
“It’s good to experiment at my age. The only thing worse than making mistakes is being stagnant. It’s true in business and truer in life,” he continues.
Goddamn, he better still be talking about the deal. The last thing I need is some kind of unhinged man-to-man chat. Maybe we should’ve sent Archer after all.
Anyone would be better at this than me. Even my little brother, Patton, who’s a notorious wild card.
Haute stares at the pastries—what’s left of them, anyway. I’m sure I bought enough to feed twenty people and he’s reduced them to crumbs.
“Anyway, yes, I think we might have a future, Rory.” He looks at me slowly like he knows I’m already aware he’s about to ask for something ridiculous. “Especially on one condition—you make these delights part of the new property.”
“These delights—” My brain stutters and my mouth clamps shut.
He cannot be fucking serious.
Right?
Then again, when has the man ever cracked a joke? Or even smiled, minus the times he’s delighting in someone’s suffering?
He smiled at the baker girl, though. I noticed that.
And I inwardly cringe because his enormous appetites likely don’t stop at food.
No doubt he thought she was cute—though she won’t be sweet enough for his tastes. Not if she gives him the same passive-aggressive treatment she gave me, and I’m sure she was holding back.
“Rory, Rory. Don’t tell me you’re about to disappoint me,” he says when I hesitate too long. That dead-eyed glare is harder than nails.
Shit, think fast.
