A Billion Times No, page 18
part #1 of Fake It Till You Make It Series
Before he can answer, I leap out of bed and stalk out of the room. Standing by the front door, I step into my panties and pull up my slacks. Tears flood my eyes, and I’m so angry I can hardly breathe.
Chase grabs me and spins me around.
“Daisy, listen. I’m sorry. I should have said something to you from the beginning. I honestly didn’t even know if he’d end up wanting to make an offer. And …” he trails off. A grimace creases his face. “There’s stuff I can’t get into at this point, but I swear to you I’m not here to screw you guys over.”
“The answer is no. No matter what. Do you understand the hotel has been in the Abernathy family for six generations? My mother is only in her early sixties, and she’s in perfect health. When she is no longer able to run the hotel, Callie will take over it full time. And at that point, even if I’m not living in Bitter End, I’d at least find a way to help out from wherever I am.”
“All right then. I’ll tell my father, and that’ll be that,” he says.
“Then I guess you can just go home.” I blink at the tears burning my eyes.
He seizes my chin and tips my head up so I’m looking him in the eyes. “Hell, no. I said I wouldn’t go back to New York without you, and I meant it,” he says.
“Suit yourself,” I say huffily. I continue getting dressed. But the ache in my heart eases a little. There’s still a big wall of secrets between us, but I would have been devastated if he’d packed up and left.
If he’s still staying, that means he wasn’t just here for business. It means he’s here for me too. Doesn’t it? I want to ask him, but I’m too afraid of the answer.
“Daisy, please understand that I would never do anything to hurt your family. Or this town.”
“You still aren’t telling me everything, though. That makes it hard to trust your intentions.”
He winces, and I see genuine pain in his eyes. “I want you to trust me. Your opinion of me matters. Do I at least get credit for telling you that I’m not telling you everything?”
“Zero credit.”
“Daisy. I may be many things. Rude, impatient, unsympathetic—”
“Oh, stop.” I wave my hand in dismissal. “You’re being much too easy on yourself.”
“But I am not a liar. You know that about me? Right?”
I shake my head wearily. “Does it matter what I think, Chase?”
His blue eyes have darkened to the color of a stormy sea. “Always.”
“Come on. Always? I haven’t been in a coma for the past three years. I’ve noticed how you always brush me aside.”
He grimaces. “I know I have walls up, and I don’t communicate my appreciation very well. In my family, we set our feelings aside and put business first, and thanking someone is almost seen as a weakness. I was raised with the expectation that I would do everything expected of me perfectly, and immediately, and without being asked. Saying thank you would be like saying that any other outcome would even have been possible. It’s how my parents do it, it’s how my grandparents did it, it’s how their parents did it.”
“How does that seem to be working out for everyone? As I recall reading on the internet, your grandparents had an epically vicious divorce, your grandfather and your dad hated each other, and not to pass judgment, but when your parents are in the same room together … I’ve been in warmer subzero freezers.”
Chase’s beautiful mouth quirks into a sad, resigned smile. He steps into his boxer shorts, a reverse striptease, and despite myself, I watch, half-mesmerized. They should make a mold of that gorgeous body and display it in a museum.
“We’re successful. We’re respected. The respect—no, the admiration and envy—of our peers is like oxygen to my parents. To achieve and maintain this level of success requires certain sacrifices.”
I jerk my gaze back to his face. “When those sacrifices include your soul and any possibility of love and happiness, I’d say the cost is too high. That’s just me, of course.”
“You’re not wrong.” Chase steps into his pants. “But when you’re raised a certain way …” he trails off.
A chill settles on me. Chase and I are from different worlds. It’s not just his wealth, it’s the values we were raised with. He cares about me, I believe that. But could I ever be the kind of partner that he’d need me to be? Could I be that kind of wife, if he was even thinking along those lines?
I couldn’t. If we were together, and he did things that I thought were immoral, but that benefited our bottom line, it would be the end of us. And I’m afraid that he’d always put the company first. That’s what ruined his brother’s marriage. Poor Maxwell worked a million hours a week, trying to please his father, trying to live up to everyone’s expectations. From what little I saw of his wife Jessica when we met at company functions, she’d rather have had a husband who spent time with her than a fat paycheck and a platinum credit card.
Chase and I don’t work. Our worlds are too different.
I stand there watching him while he pulls his clothes back on. All the warmth from our amazing sex has faded, and I feel sad and resigned and alone.
“Let’s go. You need to get back in time for your next call,” I say.
Chapter Eighteen
Chase
Friday afternoon on Main Street makes for some interesting people watching.
Isaac, the old drunk who sleeps on the bench, is wearing a brand-new suit and picking flowers from the garden in front of the town hall. I probably paid for that suit in full. I’m not used to going to bed as early as everyone else in Bitter End. I’ve taken to walking down the street at midnight and tucking a hundred-dollar bill into his pocket every time I pass by his bench.
Cora-Belle Smythe is standing under an oak tree yelling at her chubby son Junior to come down. Again. Happened yesterday too. She’s about twenty months pregnant, and if appearances mean anything, either “Senior” is an elephant or she’s having quintuplets, so she can’t go up after him. Fortunately, I don’t have to climb up the tree and ruin my suit, because Fire Chief Randall is jogging down the street toward them.
I’m starting to get to know the town residents. People walk up to me every day and introduce themselves in a way that would get them punched out or arrested in New York City. Perfect strangers, blocking my path and sticking their hand out, and telling me not just their name but most of their life story. Then waiting, with big, genuine smiles, for me to respond in kind.
I glance at my phone. Time to call my father. He was booked up all day in back to back meetings. He’s in the middle of a deal to buy a chain of struggling properties in Spain, and he’s been so busy he’s barely had time to call me up and bark insults at me every couple of days. Shame, I do miss those daddy-son talks he’s so good at.
I’ve been sending him the bare minimum of information, just enough to make it look as if I’m doing what he asked. Approximately how many guests are currently booked at the hotel, the experience the hotel provides, how the local competition is doing. I drove out to the other hotels in the area, which are an hour away or more. I did an analysis of the hotel’s branding and marketing strategy. To sum it up, it sucks, but because they’re a local institution, and also the only game in town, they’re still doing good business—for a hotel and wedding venue of their size in this location, anyway.
He answers immediately.
“You haven’t gotten anywhere near the level of information that I would have expected, but it’ll have to do,” he snipes. “I imagine since Daisy’s there, you’re thinking with the other head. I should have sent Maxwell instead.”
“What, you should have pulled him out of rehab?” I scoff.
“Rehab could have waited. A few more drinks wouldn’t have killed him.”
Honestly, it’s so rare that my father leaves me speechless—but he just did. I feel a sudden rush of compassion for my brother and a fierce hatred for my father. And my mother. And myself. We’ve done nothing but yell at him for being a screwup. He was pretty good at his job, and he enjoyed it, but “pretty good” doesn’t cut it in the Lancaster family. None of us ever made him feel special, or valued, for anything other than his contributions to the business.
Even my grandfather sensed it. Maxwell only got five percent of the company stock and a big chunk of cash. He sold the stock to a cousin of ours just to piss off my dad and then blew all the money. Maxwell is the dead-broke Lancaster who actually needs his job at the company.
“We’re moving on to the next phase. I’m going to come to town and make them an offer.”
“I can save you a trip. They’re not interested,” I tell him. “Under any circumstances.”
“You told them?” My father’s voice raises to a shout. “You’re a bigger loser than your brother! Are you capable of doing the simplest fucking thing right?”
“Considering that I’ve been responsible for turning a couple of dozen struggling properties into massive successes with branding and marketing alone, I’d say yes, I am.” Why the fuck am I justifying myself to this asshole? He knows better than anyone how good I am at what I do. He hates it, but he can’t deny it. “It is not possible to do recon here without people noticing. This is a small town. If someone sneezes on the north end of town, they’ll get a text five seconds later from their cousin on the south end, saying ‘bless you’.”
“Well, isn’t that a folksy way to say, ‘I’m incompetent.’”
“Tantrums aren’t a good look for a man your age. If you’re done whining, I’ve got shit to do.” When I was a young man, my father’s bullying jabs used to strike like a sharp blow to the solar plexus. These days, I see them for what they are—envy.
“Do you understand how hard you’ve just made it for us to negotiate with them?” my father says angrily. “They know that you’re interested enough to travel all the way there and spend the week doing research. That gives them far more leverage than is good for us.”
“Clear the wax from your ears and listen to me. They don’t want to sell, period.”
“That’s because you don’t know how to negotiate. Which is why you should have left it to me. You’ve cost us an easy million bucks. I should take it out of your annual bonus package.” When my father starts making threats that he has no ability to carry out, I know that he’s rattled.
“Let me try to explain it to you; don’t worry, I’ll dumb it down. This hotel property is also their home, their farm, and has been for the last six generations. Money is not their greatest motivator. They drive old cars; they wear clothes from Dress Hut. If you paid them a million bucks for their property, or even two million, what would they do with it? What they value is their part in the local community. They single-handedly support the local greenhouse owner, a catering company, two photographers, a very large hotel staff, a landscaping company, and more people than I care to list.”
“Then we can point out to them how much more money the community would earn if they let us run the hotel, really turn things around, turn it into an enormous resort, bring in tons of business.”
“But that would be a lie. I get that there’s a subset of vacationers who are looking for ‘authentic’ experiences, but due to the location, there’s just a limit to how many people are going to come here. It’s very out of the way, the nearest airport is a three-hour drive, it’s landlocked. This isn’t seaside, mountainside, lakeside. It’s nothing like our normal businesses.”
“Listen. Acquisitions really isn’t your area of expertise. You’ve fucked this up royally, which is typical for you, and it’s time for you to pack it in. I’ll take over from here on in. I’ll book you a flight home tomorrow and I’ll be out there later this week when I finish up my merger.”
Despite my best efforts, I’m on the verge of losing my temper. “Whatever you’re doing doesn’t just affect you, it affects the entire company. So no, you don’t get to just dismiss me. You’re into some shady shit, and I’m not leaving here until I find out what it is. Might be the rest of this week, I might just move my entire office here and work from Bitter End for the next few months.” I don’t actually mean that, of course. I couldn’t work from here forever, but I could stay for a few more weeks if I had to. It’s going to mean a lot of scrambling of my schedule, canceling some overseas trips, but I have a feeling that whatever my father is trying to hide is enormous.
“Did you forget that you don’t have a majority stock position on our board?”
“Do you really think Mom will side with you?”
“She already has,” he says smugly. “She’s a hundred percent behind it, and she’s not happy with your lack of progress. I don’t need to remind you that the two of us together can rewrite your job description and have you working a desk in fucking Alaska if we want.”
He’s counting on the fact that my mother and I aren’t that close and we don’t speak beyond brisk, brief pleasantries. He didn’t think I’d check with her. Normally, I wouldn’t have. The only reason I bothered is because it involved Daisy.
“Damn. I really don’t like cold weather. I’d better call her up right away and discuss this with her. Plead my case.”
“She’s not available,” my father says in clipped tones.
“Since when do I go through you to talk to her? Trust me, I’ll track her down.”
“Don’t you dare bother your mother with this.” My father’s voice is shaking with anger. “She’s extremely busy, and frankly, and she’s under a lot of stress that she doesn’t want to discuss with you right now. She’s incredibly disappointed with your incompetence, and she’s rethinking your position with this company. I can soften the blow, though, I can sweet talk her and downplay how badly you’ve fucked everything up. Make sure your position is secure here. Just come back to New York tomorrow.”
“So you don’t want mother to know,” I muse. “Whatever the hell you’re up to, you’re in way over your head. I might need to call an emergency board meeting.”
“You incompetent, ungrateful little shitweasel. You do not ever fucking threaten me like that. Ever!” My father bellows.
It’s very rare that he loses control like this.
I just stay silent. I can hear his heavy breathing. Seconds slide by. A shout from across the street catches my attention, and then a chorus of cheers, and I realize I missed the entire rescue of Junior Smythe, which is a shame because it would have been a great show. Cora-Belle’s hugging her son, he’s howling, someone’s offering him a popsicle, everyone’s patting the fire chief on the back.
“Listen,” my father wheedles. “Okay, yes, I haven’t told you everything. I’m trying to keep you in the dark for a reason. I’m doing it to protect you. And your brother. I’m sorry lost my temper, but I’ve been under a lot of stress with this.”
He’s doing it to protect us? That’s fucking hilarious. He’s got the parental instincts of a female quokka—and they throw their babies at predators to give themselves time to escape.
“I’m not backing down. I need you to tell me why you want to buy this hotel.”
“And I need you to trust me when I say that there are very good reasons that I can’t tell you anymore. Son. We need to acquire that property.” His voice has gone all soft and paternal. The way it always does when he needs something for me. Then and only then does he sound like this.
Once upon a time, I would’ve fallen for that, I realize. Not that I would have believed him, but it’s so rare that he actually acts like a father rather than a reluctant business partner, that I caved every time. Agreed with what he wanted, signed deals I wasn’t necessarily happy with.
Maybe it’s something
“I’ve got somewhere to be,” I say, in my best bored-with-you voice. “Great chat, let’s do it again some time.”
He reverts to attack mode. “You dumb little fuck. If you’ve ruined this, you’re going down with me. And so is your brother, and believe me, he won’t be able to take the heat.”
Going down where? What the hell is he up to? Does he have dead bodies hidden in the swamp? Seriously. I’m starting to wonder. I’m actually trying to remember if any of our major business rivals have gone missing over the years. “If you decide that you want to bring me in on the problem, I might be able to help. Otherwise, don’t call me.”
I hang up. He tries to call me back immediately, then sends multiple texts, alternating with threatening and wheedling. I ignore them all.
I grab my phone and call my brother’s number again. His sober coach, Raoul, answers.
“Listen,” I say. “I know he’s not speaking to us right now. I understand that. Can you please just tell him I’m proud of him, and if he needs anything at all, he should call me? Day or night. Doesn’t matter. And when he gets out, I’d like to see him. I can pick him up at the airport.”
“I’ll pass that along,” Raoul says.
A minute later, my phone rings. It’s Maxwell.
“Are you dying?” he says suspiciously.
I laugh. “Fuck you very much! No, I’m fine, last I checked.”
“Mom? Dad?” he says, sounding almost hopeful.
“Come on. If there was a nuclear war, the only thing left would be cockroaches and Mom and Dad.”
“Well, that makes sense; they’re all related. Why the sudden gush of sentimentality? You need a loan?”
He’s being an asshole, but I’ve earned it. We all have.
“No, I just had an epic flameout of a talk with Dad, and it really drove home why you ended up where you did. I just wanted to say I’m sorry I haven’t been as supportive as I should have been.”
