Total pages in book: 99
Estimated words: 97151 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 486(@200wpm)___ 389(@250wpm)___ 324(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97151 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 486(@200wpm)___ 389(@250wpm)___ 324(@300wpm)
Then he can dismiss me as being like all the rest.
He’s put himself in a position where people need something from him. He’s made sure he’ll never be that helpless ten-year-old again without a home. But at what cost? He doesn’t realize that it’s isolated him from the world. It puts him on an island on his own. He’s created a wall between himself and everyone else.
Me included.
I’m just like everyone else to him, and when the Boston hotel goes through, he can throw me off his island.
But I did get to visit for a while. I did get to feel the sand under my toes and the sun on my face. And I don’t want to leave.
TWENTY-NINE
Ben
Apart from being seated in a sports bar on West 38th Street, on paper, everything in my life looks good. I have my apartment back to myself. The meeting with Abigail Hart went better than could have been predicted. I sent the necessary details on the Boston site over to Avril, and business is booming.
I have late drinks tonight with one of my most important clients, and because of my dinner with Abigail on Sunday, I’m going to be able to give him good news.
“You look miserable,” Bray says, as he comes up behind me.
“Thanks,” I reply. “I got you a beer.”
“Actually, let’s ditch this place and go and get a good bottle of wine.”
“Really?” I say.
“Really,” he says. “No one wants a miserable face in a sports bar. It’s bad for business. And given I own this bar, I should know.”
“You own this bar?” I ask him. “Since when?”
“Set it up about five years ago.”
“What else don’t I know about you?”
Bray shoots me a smile. “You don’t know what you don’t know.”
“What does that even mean?”
“Come on,” he says, taking my beer bottle from my hand and placing it down on the table. “Let’s go mend your broken heart with a bottle of expensive red wine like I know you like.”
I ignore his comment about my heart being broken, because it’s ridiculous. “How do you know that I like expensive red wine?”
“By looking at your suit,” he says.
I glance at what he’s wearing—jeans and a blue button-down, just like always. “You never wear a suit.”
“Nope,” he says. “People underestimate you if you wear jeans everywhere. I like being underestimated. It takes the pressure off.”
“So have you been hiding your success from me deliberately?” I ask, as we step out into the crisp New York air.
“I’m not sure,” he says, stuffing his hands in his pockets and cocking his head north. “I know a place up here.”
“So you might have been deliberately misleading me?”
“Look, you made it pretty easy not to tell you. You never asked. We never really talked about business. I didn’t think it was a big deal. We’re brothers. Not competitors.”
“Except I don’t think I’ve been a very good brother.”
“Want to come fishing with me this weekend?” he asks.
“Seriously?” I ask him. Is fishing something he likes? Another thing I didn’t know about him.
“Yeah, I’m checking out a piece of land up the coast in New England.”
“A piece of land?” I ask.
“Yeah. I might want to buy it. Build a wilderness resort there. It’s between here and Boston.”
“I’m in Boston on Thursday,” I say.
He nods but doesn’t say anything.
“I’m going up with Avril,” I continue. Avril still hasn’t called me, despite me sending her details on the Boston seller and proposing the meeting date. She messaged to thank me for the details and to confirm she could make the meeting on Thursday, but I thought she might call. She’s probably busy. And why would I hear from her? She got what she wanted from me. She can move on.
“So what’s the deal with you and Avril?”
“What do you mean, what’s the deal?”
“She’s moved out, right?”
“Right.”
“So are you dating? You seemed to like her.”
I frown. “Why would we be dating? I don’t date.”
He pulls in a breath and nods toward the door of the restaurant we’re standing in front of. I don’t know this place. I’ve not even read about it. I know most of the decent places to eat in Manhattan. The letters on the glass door spell out L’Ancienne Cuisine. Does my brother come here a lot? Is French food his thing? There’s so much I don’t know about Bray—he’s definitely not all sports bars. This restaurant is the exact opposite of every other place I’ve ever met him. Maybe he knows the good spots in Manhattan too.
The hostess gets us situated at a table and my brother orders some wine. The restaurant is dark. The only light comes from the dimly lit old paintings of the French countryside that litter the walls and the single tall candles on the tables. It feels on the verge of spooky, the kind of place secrets are traded and truths are spoken.