Truly Madly Deeply: Chapter 37

“Heaven’s sake, Ambrose, is that duffel from Target?” Tate Blackthorn, the CEO of GS Properties, leaned an elbow against his red Gulfstream G650ER, ripping his Ray-Bans off his eyes.

“Walmart,” I corrected. “Nice wheels.”

Tate scowled disapprovingly in his Tom Ford suit, fighting his gag reflex. “Yeah. Bill Gates owns the same model. His is older, though.” He yanked off his dark leather gloves one finger at a time. “He’s doing this whole green thing now. What’s it called?”

“Global warming?”

“Yeah, that liberal nonsense.”

I took a slow, calming breath and counted to ten in my head. At least he hadn’t called it a hoax. Although I couldn’t put anything past this man, mass murder included.

“Thanks for the ride.” I carried my duffel bag along the tarmac of the small, private airport outside of London. I’d spent the last couple of days checking in on the progress at La Vie en Rogue, my upcoming restaurant. A perfect excuse to remove myself from Staindrop and from Cal.

“I was in the neighborhood. Had business in Geneva.” Tate started up the stairs. “And you’re a hard man to pin down these days.”

“Got this pesky little thing called a day job.” I followed him up the stairway into the plane. “Takes hours of my time every day.”

“Unfamiliar with the concept. I specialize in empires, not ‘jobs.’”

Tate Blackthorn was a shark. The kind of New York, old-money asshole who possessed a second brain instead of a heart. He’d invested in one of my restaurants when I’d started out, and now he thought he owned my ass, even though I made him a shit ton of money. In Tate’s world, anyone who wasn’t born with a silver spoon and a trust fund was indebted to him if he paid them any kind of attention. And if all of that didn’t make him insufferable enough, he always struck me as a raging playboy. The type to have spawns out of wedlock in at least the double digits that he didn’t even know about and a string of exes who’d love nothing more than to attend his funeral.

Tate shouldered past a starry-eyed flight attendant. “Gotta say, I wasn’t expecting to be ghosted by anyone, let alone someone who’s about to receive a fat check from me.”

Didn’t surprise me. Tate was the kind of man who was sought after, not the one doing the chasing.

“That’s an observation, not a question.” I entered the plane, taking a seat by the window. The interior was lavish and in-your-fucking-face—just like its owner. Velvet burgundy seats, golden fixtures, a heavy wood bar. The place could moonlight as a brothel. Which, I had no doubt, sometimes it did.

“You want a question?” He fell into the recliner in front of me, scooting to the edge and lacing his fingers together. “Fine, I’ll give you one: What’s the holdup, and why don’t I have this damn contract signed yet?”

I normally liaised with Tate’s team—mainly because he was too busy to care about this side, bumfuck-nowhere project. But since it was just the two of us, I figured it was time to face the music. “I read your official proposal, dug into the plan a little.” I stuck my tongue into my inner cheek.

“And…?” He tilted his chin down expectedly.

“It’s shit.”

“Shit?” he asked calmly. “How so?”

“The provisions, the architecture, the structure, the brands attached to the retail project—pure crap. I’m jamming this project down people’s throats, so I have to sell it to them. There’s nothing marketable about your plan for Staindrop.”

My shitty mood had begun the moment I’d boarded the commercial flight to London the day after kissing Cal. I found myself replaying the kiss in my head time and time again, and remembered Cal’s Brain Boyfriend remark. Itching for a distraction, I had decided to dig through the blueprint Tate had sent me when he’d made the offer and nitpick every small fucking thing about it. I didn’t actually think it was bad. Tate was a terrible human but a top-tier businessman. He had the talent and ability to turn the town around. But the real answer—that I didn’t want to sign the contract because I wanted into Cal’s pants—wasn’t acceptable. Not to my business partner, and not inside my own head.

My mood had taken a further nosedive later that day when I’d checked on La Vie en Rogue. Not because the progress wasn’t to my satisfaction. On the contrary—everything had gone according to plan. The rose-pink stained marbled bar was pristine, the black granite walls were already up and covered in eclectic art and graffiti, the handmade upholstered leather stools were lined up over the shiny parquet floor, and the bulbed chandeliers looked like a Milky Way constellation map.

Everything was perfect, and yet I couldn’t, for the life of me, find any excitement and pleasure in it.

“Let’s try again.” Tate sat back, lacing his fingers and tapping his indexes over his mouth. “I’m going to pretend you have the greenest clue about city planning and ask why you think this proposal, designed by three of America’s boldest and most prestigious architects, is shit?”

“It’s like planting the Woolworth Building in a cornfield. Completely out of character for the town.”

“It’s like putting a profitable, high-end business in a shithole, breathing life into it,” he countered, his lips thinning impatiently. “Of course it’ll change the town’s makeup. That’s a pro, not a con. What’s wrong with the retail lineup?”

Nothing. You killed it. Problem is, it’s killing my chances to be with Cal. I knew she didn’t like I was shoving this plan down the townspeople’s throats.

“Too bougie. Prada and Gucci in a small Maine town? That’s not running out of business, it’s sprinting away from anything remotely lucrative, kicking and screaming.”

“The town is only a couple hours’ drive from the Canadian border, and there isn’t an outlet or a five-star hotel in a fifty-mile radius. We’ve done our research. The numbers track,” Tate assured me. “Rich assholes always want to put their credit cards to good use. I’m here to help.”

“How gallant of you,” I grumbled. “Still, this plan isn’t gonna work for a town like Staindrop.”

“With all due respect—which is currently at an all-time low, by the way—that’s not your problem, is it?” Tate sat back, crossing his legs. Both of the flight attendants he’d hired stole glances over their shoulders at us.

“Can we get you anything, Mr. Blackthorn?” one of them cooed.

“A logical business associate would be nice.” Tate unbuttoned his blazer, eyeing me like he was dying to throw me off the plane.

“I’m all but illogical,” I countered. “You know numbers, but I know Staindrop. And I’m telling you, a mall this big and a hotel this glitzy is the wrong way to go.”

“You’re here to sign the dotted line and hand over control, not to make suggestions. Staindrop is gonna be in good hands, trust me.”

“No offense, Blackthorn, but I’d sooner trust a broken condom.” I folded my arms over my chest. “And when this all goes to shit and you move on to your next venture, you’re going to leave my hometown with two huge-ass structures that are unusable and ugly as sin.”

“And you care because?” He lifted one eyebrow.

He had me there. Giving a shit wasn’t in my nature. It wasn’t like I was going to stick around. Dylan and Mom would still live in Staindrop, sure, but their future was secured. Cushioned by my never-ending stream of cash and quarterly visits.

I didn’t have any reason to care, other than the fact that Cal didn’t like this idea.

“Takeoff in two,” echoed the pilot’s announcement above our heads.

“Whiskey?” One of the flight attendants parked her ass on my armrest, smiling down at me suggestively.

“Pass.” I slid to the other side, rejecting both the drink and her.

Tate checked his phone, waving a dismissive hand in her direction. “Keeley, I’ll take a double, neat. And a charcuterie board. No carbs.”

I guessed he was one of those pricks who ate every single hour to keep their metabolism as fast as they were in the sack. I pulled my phone out of my pocket and checked my messages too.

Mom, asking if I was okay.

Dylan, venting about the fifty-pound baby who was currently squeezing her bladder like a WWE contestant—her words, not mine.

Rhy, telling me he sincerely hoped I spent my time in London buried in women who weren’t my childhood fantasy to scratch that itch.

I pushed away my disappointment. What was I expecting, Cal to send me nudes? That ship had sailed thanks to fucking Franco. I wanted to resurrect him just so I could kill him again.

Tate returned his attention to me. “Where were we?”

“I was telling you your proposal sucked, and you were throwing a fit,” I said matter-of-factly, happy to be anchored back to the present. “I’m reconsidering it.”

I am? Why the fuck? I needed that check. Opening a new restaurant, building a house for my family, and buying a luxury apartment didn’t come cheap.

The plane began takeoff, rolling on the tarmac, gaining momentum. Tate tossed his whiskey back in one gulp.

“Am I in a bidding war?” He slammed the empty decanter on the table between us.

“No,” I said honestly. “I’m just trying to do the right thing here.”

“No, you’re not. When given the chance, you always do the fun thing, not the right one.” He studied me intently. “Something’s changed. You’ve changed. Why?”

“Grew a fucking conscience. Sue me.” I shrugged off his attitude.

“Tempted to.” He stroked his chin. “Unfortunately, you haven’t signed anything yet. How about we play on it?”

“On an eight-million-dollar contract?” I snorted. “Fucking pass.”

Goddamn. An old-money, white billionaire was a level of thrill-seeking I’d yet to meet.

“Come.” He tapped my knee fatherly, a taunting smirk on his lips. “You know you want to.”

I really didn’t want to, but we were going to have to burn the time somehow, and I had a feeling he was going to screw the flight attendant right in front of me if I didn’t keep him busy. “Fine. What are we playing?”

“Your favorite object, Casablancas—knives.”