Total pages in book: 40
Estimated words: 36964 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 185(@200wpm)___ 148(@250wpm)___ 123(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 36964 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 185(@200wpm)___ 148(@250wpm)___ 123(@300wpm)
“I take it he didn’t like me pulling my money out of the trust fund my grandfather set up for me and putting it into a different bank?” I’m forty-two years old. It’s money my mom’s father set up for me before he passed away. Leaving it for as long as I did where he could monitor the interest it was earning was dumb on my part.
“Not at all. Your mother came in and asked if I could take a look at her accounts. I told her I’d talk to you before I’d proceed; otherwise, this would be cut and dry. Sterling & Associates has a department that would investigate everything, find whatever it is she is looking for, and go from there. It’s up to you, Boston,” Sly lays out. Jesus, what is this week coming to? I got the fuck out of New York, trying to take the heat off of Ezra and Millie, and now look what’s happening. I’m getting the heat, and my friend has to help more than expected.
“It’s up to you. Mr. Governor has the potential to make your life a living hell. I know how you feel about publicity, good or bad. Taking the brunt of Mom’s issues only for her to get right back in her old ways. Man, I’m not sure it’s smart.” The realtor starts to head my way. Son of a bitch. I should have left while on the phone with Sly. It’d be better for him to pay the woman off to keep her off my back. So far, the only good thing that has come from leaving New York is taking the heat off Four Brothers and Amelie. Christ, the scent, the feel, the taste of her body, it’s a damn aphrodisiac, shooting straight to your head.
“This is true. I’ll take the night to mull it over. In the meantime, shake the realtor loose, send me over the listing, and we’ll have the deal closed by tomorrow morning.”
“Will do. Thanks, brother,” I reply.
“You won’t be thanking me when the bill arrives. Talk later.” He hangs up the phone. I take another moment to myself, kicking my own ass. I’ve made a mess of this whole situation. I should have had Sylvester negotiate the entire time. Fuck, I’ve been down here studying the atmosphere, the culture, wanting to broaden where Four Brothers is going, making rookie mistake after rookie mistake. The only thing I didn’t screw up is Amelie. I take that back because I did the entire time I was in New York, leaving her down here without so much as a damn text. Yeah, I’ve got a lot of stuff to fix, starting with the realtor and trickling down from there.
SEVENTEEN
Amelie
“Hey, Mom, do you have a second?” I ask once the guests checking-in for the evening die down. The niggle in the back of my mind doesn’t leave, I should have hunted her down after lunch to tell mom about the impending grandchild she’s have this year. Except she was nowhere to be seen. Now, the nausea I’m feeling is not from her cooking breakfast; it’s a direct correlation with me spilling my guts in a different way.
“Sure, honey, let’s go to the kitchen. I can prep a few things while we talk.” Her sleek bob hairstyle has a clip at the back of her head, keeping her hair out of her face, and she’s wearing light makeup. When you’re moving from room to room, hustling like you never have before, you tend to keep things simple. Nobody wants their mascara or lipstick sliding off their face when you’re dripping with sweat.
“Alright.” I follow her. The polished wood floor is gleaming, the white beige-colored walls reflecting off them. Every piece of furniture is shining, there are fresh flowers from the market in vases, gold accents here and there, and plush leather furniture that’s comfortable but also made to last. Mom pushes through the swinging doors. This is where the bulk of the renovations took place. We both wanted to make our guests stay luxurious, and what better way to do that than with breakfast served each morning, buffet style, with drinks and snacks readily available at any time of day, especially fresh chocolate chip cookies? I snag one from the island before taking my seat.
“How are you and Boston doing?” She has her back to me. Both fridge doors are open, the commercial-grade style where you can fit at least four bodies inside. She’s probably trying to figure out what to put on the menu tomorrow besides fresh fruit.
“We’re good.” She turns around at the right time, three cartons of eggs stacked high in her arms. Oh God, the sight alone has me ready to hop off the barstool and run away. “Really good, in fact, but, um, there’s something you should know. And can you put the eggs away, please?” I swear if she so much as cracks one egg by accident, I’m going to hurl, and knowing my luck, making it to the nearest bathroom or trashcan won’t come close to happening.