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A smile plays on my lips when I realize what we can do in ten minutes. “You’re a distraction, and now I’m busy thinking about how you can make it up to me.”
“I can do that right now.”
I give him a knowing look. “There’s nowhere to clean up.”
“I can do so with my mouth. I can also control myself until I get you home.”
My eyes widen as Foster chuckles. “Thank you, but no.”
“Why not? I think you need it to relax.”
“Stop telling me what I need,” I snap. “I need my husband to stop presuming.”
“You are a spitfire,” he mutters.
“Something you knew before you married me.”
He raises his eyebrows. “Did I?”
“Maybe you didn’t, but you should’ve figured it out after a few weeks.”
“I love everything about you.” Foster then checks his gold Rolex and straightens his tie. “Time to go inside.”
The private room Foster reserves is large enough to accommodate at least twenty-five people. A long black linen-draped table is set up in the middle and tucked along both sides are twelve ivory cushioned chairs. Five of those chairs are occupied by men at least double my age, all dressed in suits. My chest immediately tightens as they turn toward us.
Foster must have sensed my anxiety because he grips my hand as we get further inside. All of the men stand as we approach.
“Gentleman, may I present my wife, Paige.”
Foster introduces me individually to each man so I can shake their hands. Three of the men are Robertson’s, and I could tell they are all related because they had shared physical similarities, like their pug noses and large ears. After I am seated, the men take theirs. A black-clad waiter comes in to take our drink orders before things start.
I stay away from alcohol, ordering a seltzer with a twist of lime. Foster does the same while the other men order another round of expensive scotches and wines. It looks like they have no issue taking advantage of my husband’s generosity. Not wasting time, Foster launches into his pitch, and within minutes, the civil meeting has turned accusatory.
Neil Robertson points a finger at Foster and yells, “That’s a lowball offer!”
“Mr. Robertson, I’ve had my engineers assess the property,” Foster responds levelly. “Those buildings are in poor shape. They would need structural repairs, and that takes money.”
The older man withdraws his finger but leans back in his chair and drains what is left of his scotch. “The land is worth more than the buildings. Tear them down!”
“I wasn’t prepared to tear them down,” Foster bluffs. I know my husband is more than willing to tear down the buildings, but the Robertsons don’t need to know that fact.
Robertson’s brother, Paul, speaks up next. “We can find another buyer who would offer us a better price. This meeting is a waste of time.”
Foster gives them a tight smile. I can see the pulse in his neck, beating faster, and I know he is about to go in for the kill.
“You don’t have any other buyers, and your company is bleeding money from that project in Newark. You’re cash-poor and without a backer. The banks turned you down for a loan,” he lists off.
Neil’s face grows red, and he stumbles over his words as he thinks of a defense. “How can you possibly know that?”
“Word gets around. The development community is small, especially in our price range.”
As simple as that, the older man seems defeated, along with the others. The tension in the room makes me nauseous, and I am grateful when the waiter reappears with our drinks. The conversation halts until he leaves the room. I gulp at my seltzer, hoping it will settle my stomach.
“What do you propose we do? I can’t accept such a low offer,” Neil reiterates as he pounds his fist on the table.
“I’m sure you can’t, but you have no choice. You need the money.”
“You’re a fucking bastard, Black, you know that?”
