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)
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.
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.”