Sophie raised an eyebrow. “Okay?”
He shrugged awkwardly and didn’t meet her eyes. “There’s really nothing to be accomplished by telling her that I don’t like it black.”
She cocked her head. “But you don’t it like black.”
“Just don’t mention it, okay?” he snapped. “Honestly, is occasionally keeping your mouth shut that difficult?”
“Fine. Can I go?”
“Please do. And Sophie,” he said, stopping her for the third time.
She sighed and spun around. “Yeessssss?”
“That, um…moment by the ladder?”
“Yeah?” Her voice had gone unintentionally husky.
“It meant nothing. It never happened. Got it? You and I…We’re not…I’d never be—”
She felt the hot rush of humiliated anger. She might no longer be an actual prostitute, but apparently she was still a worthless tramp.
“I get it,” she spat out. “You’d never be interested in someone like me. Loud and clear.”
“Good, then,” he said with a nod. “We’re agreed, then—it was all a big mis—”
Sophie let the door slam before he could finish the sentence.
CHAPTER SIX
Gray mentally added yet another item to his list of Rules to Live By:
Never agree to another man’s business meetings.
Martin Brayburn hadn’t asked Gray for much upon his departure. The older man had bowed out graciously, leaving Gray to run the company as he saw fit.
Except for one solitary request: a meeting with Peter Blackwell and his son.
It should have been harmless. It could have even been lucrative. The Blackwells owned a chain of small boutique hotels on Maui. Nothing fancy, but the real estate was prime. And even better, they were looking to sell.
But that wasn’t why Martin had requested Gray take the meeting. Peter Blackwell was Martin Brayburn’s oldest friend, and his son, Alistair, was Martin’s godson.
Martin’s request had been personal, and Gray had agreed without a second thought. Something he was now regretting.
The meeting was a complete nightmare, starting with its participants. The younger man across the desk was probably close to Gray’s own age of midthirties, but the bloated frat-boy appearance and ill-fitting navy suit made him look like a pimpled intern.
Gray was willing to bet that Alistair Blackwell had no business experience beyond a childhood lemonade stand.
His father, Peter Blackwell, was at least respectable on paper, but instead of being the expected polished businessman ready to talk numbers, Peter had turned out to be an aging, sentimental entrepreneur with an elevated estimate of his company’s worth. Gray was dismayed to hear a constant chorus of loyalty, family, and nostalgia, and not one solid reference to profit.
If the Blackwells thought Gray was going to buy their outdated line of Maui resorts based on some touchy-feely bullshit, they clearly hadn’t done their homework. Maybe Martin Brayburn would have fostered such crap out of sentimentality, but Gray had no tolerance for it.
“…as I’m sure big Pops here will tell you,” Alistair was saying in a faintly out-of-breath voice, “you can’t be expecting us to roll over and play dead like a couple of happy pups, you know? Just because we’re from the islands doesn’t mean we don’t know a thing or two about big business!”
Gray resisted the urge to stand up and walk out. After all, this was his office and he needed this deal.
“Mr. Blackwell,” Gray said, putting an end to Alistair’s rambling, “I’m sure you can understand the position that Brayburn Luxuries is in. We’re very interested in the location of your properties, but all of our research has shown that the hotels themselves are quaint at best. Your asking price isn’t realistic for a franchise that barely warrants a three-star rating.”
Peter’s mouth tightened into a thin line, and Alistair began another babble session. “Just because our bathrooms aren’t marble, doesn’t mean we’re not located on the best little stretch of Hawaiian paradise—”
Peter held up a wrinkled, tanned hand. “Alistair, I’m sure Mr. Wyatt knows all about the waves and the state of our guest rooms. I think what he’s telling us is that, regardless, Brayburn Luxuries isn’t going to pay us what we want for our property.”
Gray resisted the urge to plow his fingers through his hair. This wasn’t going well. What he’d fully expected to be a slam-dunk negotiation was turning into a bloody war. Peter Blackwell was supposed to be a competent businessman who, after Gray’s logical explanation, would understand that the hotel chain he’d launched decades ago was not worth his asking price.
And Alistair shouldn’t even be here. Gray wished he could hand the younger man a twenty-dollar bill and tell him to go check out the Space Needle while the adults did the thinking. But judging from the way Peter gazed at his son in blind, fatherly affection whenever Alistair spouted his verbal diarrhea, Gray knew he had to tread carefully.