Total pages in book: 123
Estimated words: 117177 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 586(@200wpm)___ 469(@250wpm)___ 391(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 117177 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 586(@200wpm)___ 469(@250wpm)___ 391(@300wpm)
“Don’t let her hear you say that, or she’ll have Rosanna disinvite you to afternoon tea in the parlor.”
He smirked. “Are you mocking the wealthy, Ms. Goodman?”
The usual spike of fear that I’d feel at anyone taking my teasing seriously didn’t flare to life. Instead I held my finger and thumb up and replied, “Maybe a little. But I’m an equal opportunist mocker if that makes it any better.”
“Oh really? Who else do you mock?”
“Me, frequently. Do you know just a few weeks ago I found myself in the ridiculous situation of buying a stranger several pairs of kitten socks?”
Eyes alight with amusement. “Oh, do tell.”
I laughed. “It’s a long story.”
His expression said, I’ve got time. He gestured for me to continue.
And I did. Without the usual moronic shame I’d felt around George or Gabby or even my parents.
Ninety minutes flew by like five, and there was never a lull in conversation.
FIFTEEN
Chris
The one-bedroom apartment I was considering in Brooklyn was two hundred square feet smaller than my apartment in Manhattan and cost considerably less. It didn’t have anything like the corner window looking out over the city, yet it was well designed, well maintained, and nothing more or less than what I required. It was definitely on the top of my list, I decided, promising my Realtor I’d be in touch before leaving her to walk to the subway.
Now I had to tell my father I was going to rent out Mom’s apartment, and I knew how well that conversation would go. Whether because of the level of fame I’d reached with NASA or the fact that I’d dated a society princess, he incorrectly assumed it meant I wanted to be a part of his world now. And being a part of Javier Ortiz’s world meant caring about appearances. Living in the right apartment, in the right area, meant something to him. He used to complain all the time about living in Bedford as if it weren’t an extremely nice place to live. But it was the one thing Mom would not budge on. She didn’t want us growing up in a world so far removed from what she’d grown up in. From what most people grew up in. Although it had a very small Latinx community, Bedford wasn’t just for the upper middle class, and Mom liked that. She thought it was a good compromise between what my father wanted and what she wanted.
I couldn’t give a shit about that materialistic stuff. I’d seen too much of the real world to know none of it mattered in the end. I wasn’t the New York society guy, no matter what the internet tried to say about me.
It was best to tell my father about the apartment now anyway, while he was already angry with me. There was no more avoiding him. Aunt Richelle was right. I had to face my father. I just hated doing that when I was so uncertain about my future. Uncertainty was something that ambitious son of a bitch seemed incapable of feeling.
My father and Benjamin Clairmont’s company was housed in an impressive building in Lower Manhattan that also held a law firm and a tech company, but my father had the prime upper floors. Including the best view. His staff greeted me with a warm welcome as his assistant led me toward his office.
“It’s been a while, Christopher,” Mena said with a smile thrown over her shoulder. “Your father will be pleased to see you.”
Right.
Co-owning a conglomerate meant my father was an incredibly busy man. Work was his life. His company was a multi-industry, multinational one, which meant he knew a lot about many things. To his despair, neither Miguel nor I showed any interest in what he did. Miguel, he’d forgiven. Me not so much. Not until I became an astronaut.
Mena stopped in at her office, a small space attached to my father’s, and picked up her phone. “Mr. Ortiz, your son is here to see you.” After a second she replied, “Right away, sir,” and hung up. She gave me a bright smile. “This way.”
My father had the best office in the entire building. Any view from the South Street side entrance was pretty good, but Javier Ortiz’s office was near the top floor, and his windows looked out across the East River toward Brooklyn.
“Thank you, Mena.” I inclined my head toward her as I stepped into my father’s space. His home, really. The sofa on the left side of his office was big enough for him to sleep on, which I assumed he did frequently. There was an attached private restroom with a shower. There were a lot of bookshelves filled with books in my father’s office. I’d never seen him reading anything but paperwork, but I couldn’t assume they were just for show. There were many things, I guessed, that I didn’t know about him.