The woman sounded cagey, like she wanted to get off the phone as quickly as possible. “No, I think that’s all right. I actually— well, I’m calling to invite you to come to the Starling this evening for dinner with my family.”
Well. This might be my oddest business meeting yet, but I’d be damned if I missed it. In fact, I’d swim right across the Hudson River with a fifty-pound weight chained to my balls just to get there.
“Of course, Miss Bloom,” I said. “I’d love to come. What time?”
“Six o’clock,” she said. “And I’d love it if you could bring your wife or your girlfriend. Family is very important around here.”
There was a note of something in her voice that I couldn’t place. A warning or a hint of explanation. I got the distinct impression that the building was far from safely in my hands. But it was a hell of a lot closer than it had been five minutes ago, so I wasn’t about to complain.
“Of course,” I said before I could stop myself. “I’ll bring her.”
“Great. I’ll see you at six.”
“Goodbye.”
She hung up and I stood with the phone in my hand for a few lingering moments.
“Well?” Beck asked. “What did he say?”
“It was his daughter, inviting me to dinner,” I said. “I think she might want to talk sale.”
“That’s fantastic, Sam,” Beck said. Then she flushed. “Sorry, Mr.—”
I waved it away. “Don’t worry about it,” I said. I pulled a face, remembering my hasty promise. “I might have told her that I have a girlfriend to bring.”
Beck frowned. “You’re not saying…”
I was really tempting fate just moments after avoiding a sexual harassment lawsuit, but there was no way I trusted an escort in a situation as important as this. “Please?” I said. “I trust you not to embarrass me.”
Beck hesitated and then looked out the window again. Finally she nodded. “Okay, but I’m clocking the hours.”
I grinned. “I wouldn’t expect anything less.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Beck
Sam came to pick me up from Alice’s apartment at five. I’d had the place to myself all day, Alice presumably still patching Daniel back together. I had no idea what the dress code was for a business meeting/family dinner with people I didn’t know on the arm of my boss who I was desperately trying not to think of sexually. I settled for jeans and a white blouse with minimal makeup and my hair pulled back in a ponytail. It’d have to do.
I’d gone to the office this morning fully intending to quit if Sam didn’t say exactly the right things. In fact, I wasn’t even sure what the right things were as, in my mind, even denial that he brought me to the Tempest with the intention of hooking up with me would just be him trying to save his ass from a lawsuit.
I hadn’t expected him to sound so sincere, so gravely respectful and ashamed. To even admit that he was attracted to me with a hint at wanting something more. I wasn’t going to lie to myself. I’d wanted to believe him and I did, for better or for worse. And there really was no harm in giving Sam another chance. If he slipped up again, I’d see him for what he really was, a liar and a snake, and then no sweet words or puppy-dog eyes would keep me in the door.
It was a relief to see that Sam had not dressed in a suit for the dinner. Instead, he also wore jeans and a dark blue linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up to reveal thick, veined forearms. His Rolex was noticeably absent from his wrist, replaced with a simple watch with a brown leather band.
“Thanks for coming, Beck,” he said.
He looked cute in his casual clothes. Gone was the billionaire decision-maker I was used to and replaced with someone who might catch your eye as you walked in the park. He smelled good too, like sandalwood and cedar and a faint tobacco scent I usually associated with cigars. The blue of his shirt heightened the color of his eyes and made them shine like twin moons.
“Sure,” I said, “I never say no to a free meal.”
He laughed, a deep rumble. “That’s something we have in common.”
It looked like we were going to forget our kiss last night and the conversation this morning. Sam was reverting back to the dynamic of yesterday and that was fine by me. Except that was what led to that kiss, my irritating inner voice scolded me. I shoved her away and refocused on what Sam had said.
I shot him a side-eye as Roy began driving uptown. “What are you talking about? You’re worth a billion dollars. There’s no way you care about how much food costs.”
He ran a hand casually through his thick, dark hair. “I guess it comes from growing up poor,” he said.
I turned to him. “Bullshit,” I said.
Sam met my eye, a brow raised. “Are you accusing me of making up a backstory?”
“Yep,” I said. “It’s statistically proven that wealth comes from wealth. Come on, you’re what? Thirty-two? Thirty-three? There’s no way you went from zero to a billion that fast. It’s practically impossible unless you got some help from daddy.”
He grinned. “There are always exceptions to the rules. And I can name you six. My club at the Tempest? All those guys are billionaires and all of them are self-made.”
“I don’t know whether to be more incredulous that you know six separate self-made billionaires or the fact that Mac is worth a billion dollars and still acts like a drunken hooligan,” I said.
Sam laughed. “Once a drunken hooligan, always a drunken hooligan. But you have to consider where he comes from. Mac was part of a gang back in Ireland before he went legitimate. And it’s a similar story for the rest of them. Henry was a foster kid. Mason was homeless briefly, though if you ask him he’d probably say on purpose. Keegan grew up on the low end of lower middle class. And Twain? I honestly have no idea where Twain came from, but if his personality is any indication, it wasn’t pretty.”
“So you’re really self-made?” I asked. I’d thought he’d been joking, but it was clear he wasn’t. Strange. I couldn’t help but see him in a completely new light. I’d spent so much time comparing Sam and Troy that this fundamental difference was reworking everything I’d assumed about the man beside me. How could I even equate a spoiled rich kid versus an entrepreneur following the American dream? Both had money, but both had gotten it in wildly different ways. Could I venture as far as assuming that Sam had actually earned the right to be rich?
“Sure am,” he said, leaning back. “Blood, sweat, and a hell of a lot of grinding to get to where I am now. And I’m nowhere near done either. The Astor is going to be my most ambitious project yet.”
I considered this, looking out the window as we drove along. “What happens if they don’t sell to you?” I asked finally, without looking at him. “I mean if all the offers don’t work. If they stay firm. What then?”
Sam was quiet for a while. “I’ll figure something out,” he said. “It’ll be hard, but I just have to believe it’ll work out and keep trying every angle. Everything will be okay in the end. One way or another.” He sounded confident, but, when I looked, the crease between his eyes hinted at just how much he had riding on this deal.
I didn’t have time to comment. Roy pulled up to the curb and Sam said, “Don’t worry about parking, Roy. We’ll get out here.”
“Yes, sir,” Roy replied.
I opened my door and got out, holding it so Sam could exit on the side of the sidewalk. “Which one is—” I started, but I didn’t bother finishing my question.
The Starling was, simply put, an eyesore. The building sagged. An ugly, ancient heap of crumbling brick and rusted fire escape, the Starling was built directly next to a small parking lot which unfortunately allowed passersby to see even more of it. Crude graffiti was sprayed across both visible sides. A half-hearted attempt had been made to scrub some of it off, but whoever had tried must have realized pretty quickly that it was a losing battle. On the third story, a window was broken and no attempt had been made to repair it or to cover the gaping hole to the apartment. The place looked
dirty and dangerous and I could imagine the only upside was that the Starling had to have the cheapest rent on the entire island of Manhattan to get anyone to live there.
Directly across the street was the entrance to the Astor. It was an existing building that Sam was renovating into luxury apartments. It looked like a construction zone at the moment, but by this time next year, the units would be up for sale or rent. And I doubted perspective renters would want to live opposite a building that looked like it housed several crack dens.
“So that’s it,” I said, looking up at the building.
“Yep,” Sam replied. “I really hope these people see some reason and take my deal. It’s a good one too, way more than most other companies would pay for something that needs this much work. They’d just pay for the land, tear it down, and start new.”
“And why aren’t you just doing that?” I asked. It was hard to believe that renovating would be less work than just bulldozing the place and starting fresh.
He shook his head. “Too much money. We need every penny of it for the Astor. I just want to fix it up, make it look good and sell it. Quick and simple. Any more and it’ll take time and money away from what’s really important.”
And what is really important? I wanted to ask him, but he was offering me his hand and, after I took it, the moment passed. His arm felt thick and well-muscled against mine, his skin warm and lightly furred with soft, dark hair. He started toward the Starling’s front door and I walked in stride with him. But before we reached it, I took another look across the street at the Astor. Could something so cold really be that important?
Sam pressed the buzzer on the side of the door.
“Hello? Mr. Callahan?” a woman’s voice sounded through the speaker. It was a warm voice, matronly. I pictured a kind face attached to it.
“Hi,” Sam said. “We’re here.” His tone attempted to be cheery and it added to the oddity of the situation. Standing at the door, hand-in-hand, it felt like I was going to meet Sam’s parents. Parents that he’d also never met before.
“Great, my grandson will be down in a moment to bring you upstairs,” the woman said. The door unlocked with a jolt, and Sam held it open for me to enter ahead of him.
Inside, the Starling looked better than it did on the exterior. The wallpaper was peeling in certain places and the molding was chipped, but the faded carpet had been vacuumed recently and a pleasant smell of incense and herbs mostly masked an underlying scent of rot. Someone took care of this place, as best they could.
“Look at this,” Sam said, pointing to the wall. On the wall beside the mailboxes were a series of photographs. In the first, a black and white man with thick, light hair scowled into the lens. He was dressed in a suit that wouldn’t have been out of place on the Titanic. Beside him was an equally stern-looking woman in a stuffy dress with an angry baby on her lap. There was no name attached to the picture, but it was a safe bet to assume that these were the founding Blooms. I wondered if the baby was Ed, the man who’d screamed at Sam over the phone the other day.
The next two pictures were much more pleasant. The next was much more recent, probably taken two decades ago, with a balding man and a smiling, plump-faced woman sitting in the center of a ring of adults — three men and two women. They beamed into the camera, a happy family of redheads.
The third picture was taken within the last couple years. It depicted a large family, sitting on a hill in Central Park. The old man had gotten older and his wife was gone, but his children — now old themselves — were joined by children of their own, holding babies and tiny children’s hands. It was a happy scene, but Sam was looking at it like he’d just swallowed a bug.
“What’s the matter?” I asked.
He shook his head. “This isn’t good.”
“Mr. Callahan?” a voice asked. We turned and at the top of the first landing was a teenager with spiky red hair and thick black-rimmed glasses.
“That would be me,” Sam said. “But call me Sam. This is my girlfriend, Beck.”
“Hi,” the boy said, fixing us both in a goofy grin that showed off most of his teeth. “I’m Patrick. Follow me. We’re eating on the fourth floor.” He turned and bounded up the stairs two at a time.
Sam and I exchanged a bemused glance. Patrick wasn’t the type of kid I’d had expected to find in the Starling. If I had to have conjured a picture of a teenage resident when I was standing outside, I probably would have come up with a mixture of Jim Stark and Ponyboy Curtis. Patrick looked like he belonged to mathletes and also did stand-up comedy on the side.
We took the stairs a bit more slowly than our leader. They creaked and groaned under our combined weight, but seemed steady enough. At the entrance to the first floor, a man in workman’s clothing came out and stopped at the sight of us on the stairs.
“You that Callahan guy?” the man asked in a heavy New York accent.
Sam raised his eyebrows. “Yes?”
The man made an annoyed grunt and shoved past us to the stairs. Sam watched him disappear down the stairs before turning to me.
“Does everyone in this place know we’re coming?” I asked.
“Probably,” he said. “Words gotten around that I’m trying to buy the building. They know they’re either going to have to move or take a rent increase once we’re finished.”
“That sucks,” I said.
Sam sighed. “Yeah, it does. But a building like this isn’t lasting in this neighborhood much longer. If it isn’t me now, it’ll be someone else within the next few years. That’s just how the market is in this city.”
He was probably right, but I still felt bad for the man. It was easy for Sam to throw up his hands and say “that’s how it is” when he had enough money to rent an entire apartment building in every borough.
We caught up to Patrick on the next landing where he was typing into his phone. He looked up as we rounded the corner. “Hey guys, almost there. Let me just…” he finished his text and then continued to bound ahead. “Where do you live?” he asked over his shoulder as we climbed.
Sam named a building I’d never heard of, but was probably ridiculously expensive.
“Oh, I know that place,” the boy said. “That’s right on Central Park. Good deal.” Even though Sam’s apartment probably cost more than his family’s entire building, Patrick didn’t seem perturbed. Unlike the man we’d passed, he didn’t seem to hold any outright disdain for Sam. Hopefully that extended to the rest of his family.
Patrick pushed the fourth floor door open and held it for us. He gestured for us to keep moving directly into the open door across from the stairway. Warm light spilled out onto the floor and the smell of cooking onions and bread wafted out to meet us.
Sam walked in first, confidently. I wondered how he could be so calm walking into the meeting that decided the rest of his career. I really didn’t have anything riding on this dinner at all and yet my nerves seemed to be trying to claw their way out of my stomach and up my throat.
The door opened into a living room stuffed with cozy furniture and decorated in crafts — knitted rugs and blankets, amateur paintings and ceramics. The walls were lined with photographs of the family we saw in the pictures downstairs, all wearing the same goofy smile that Patrick had given us in the stairwell.
I barely had enough time to process the room before a pair of young children, a boy and a girl with wicked grins and dark red hair, ran past me, giggling and squealing. Hot on their tails, emerging from the kitchen, was a short, plump woman in an apron waving a wooden spoon through the air and saying, “If you kids don’t stay out— Oh! Mr. Callahan.” The spoon dropped and a warm smile split the woman’s face. “How nice of you to come. And this would be?” she asked looking at me.
“Beck,” I said, holding out a hand that she took and shook firmly.
“I’m Dorthea Bloom,” she said. My suspicion had been right — she did have a kind face.
“And you can call me Sam,” Sam said. “It’s nice to me
et you in person. Will your father be joining us?”
“You as well,” she said. “And no. Unfortunately, my father hasn’t been doing very well lately. He doesn’t handle any of the building’s operations anymore. We didn’t even know you’d been trying to reach us through him until a few days ago.”
She was about to say something else, but a voice interrupted from the kitchen. “Dorthea! Your bread is burning!”
“Oh blast,” she muttered. “Excuse me. Patrick, bring our guests to the dining room.” She disappeared in a flurry of aprons back into the kitchen.
“Come on this way,” Patrick said, slipping by us from the hallway and leading us through another door into a dining room where two men sat around a long wooden table.
They looked up when we entered. “You must be Sam,” said the younger of the two. “I’m Michael, Dorthea’s nephew.” He stood to shake both of our hands. The other man was less gracious. He didn’t make an attempt to stand or to introduce himself, but Michael did for him. “That’s Bill. He’s Dorthea’s husband and Anne’s father.”
“And my grandfather,” said Patrick, taking a seat at the table.
“It’s nice to meet you,” Sam said to the older man who gave a quick nod and went back to scowling at the wall across from him.
So it seemed not everyone was pleased about our coming here. It was almost a relief. It seemed a much more natural reaction.
There wasn’t much time for more conversation before Dorthea and Anne, a pretty woman a bit older than Sam, came in with plates of food. There was a scuffle of activity as the two of us attempted to help bring in plates and dishes and pass them around to be filled from the platters of roast beef, mashed potatoes, vegetables, and applesauce. The food looked and smelled amazing, all homemade. After a week of eating out in the city, I hadn’t realized how much I missed a home-cooked meal.
Unfortunately, once everything was squared away and the twin children had been wrangled into their seats by their father, Michael, the reason for our visit loomed over the table like a levitating boxcar.
The Boss (Billionaires of Club Tempest #1) Page 12
