Total pages in book: 115
Estimated words: 107262 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 536(@200wpm)___ 429(@250wpm)___ 358(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107262 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 536(@200wpm)___ 429(@250wpm)___ 358(@300wpm)
“I’m sure you can find similar opportunities here in town,” I note. Glancing over at the table, I quickly evaluate his stack of chips. “You play poker well. Either that, or you’re incredibly lucky.” His jaw ticks at the insult of his success tonight coming from luck rather than skill.
“I do okay. Though not half as good as the robot here,” Noah says, nudging Austin with an elbow. “On a serious note, though, I would appreciate if you gentlemen know a good chef looking for an opportunity.”
“I’ll keep my ears open,” Austin promises, and I know he will. If anything, he’ll have that ‘solid’ that Noah might eventually repay him, and it won’t cost him anything to do it. “What about you, Dylan?”
“I can, but I’m not much into that side of the restaurant scene,” I admit. “I leave the running of Lionfish in the hands of those who actually give a damn about the restaurant business. On the other hand, real estate is something I do know a bit about. How’s that going for you here?”
This is the turnabout. He asks about my restaurant as a means to an end for himself, and I flip it back, asking about the real estate he specializes in to see if there might be information or opportunity I’m unaware of. It’s how the game is played. We’re all sifting through the polite conversations for tiny nuggets of intel that might prove valuable in the right circumstances.
“Excellent,” he says, sighing in delight as he takes a sip of his mezcal. “But I suspect you know that already,” he teases. “You own this building, yes?”
I’m not surprised he knows that. He’s new to town, I’m a major player, and he was invited here tonight. If he hadn’t done his homework on me, that would surprise me.
I nod. “Bought it five years ago,” I say, thinking back. “Took over the penthouse three years ago.”
Though he looks around as if seeing the room he’s been in all night for the first time, he’s likely doing some quick mental math about its value then and current worth, and putting that information up against what he knows of the city’s real estate market. “It’s lovely. Probably your housekeeper's worst nightmare with the black marble, though.” His grin is bright as he gestures to the shiny surfaces in the kitchen, which all gleam with zero fingerprints.
I chuckle. “Honestly, I have no idea because I rarely go in there except to pull something out of the fridge. I can’t tell you the last time I touched anything else in the kitchen. Meghan would probably chop my fingers off,” I tell them, imagining my house manager finding me putting dirty fingerprints all over what’s essentially her space since she’s the one who cooks, cleans, and uses the area. I rarely ever see her, and that’s one of the reasons I hired her. She’s quick, efficient, and I don’t have to lift a finger.
“Remember your roots,” Austin jokes, and we all laugh good-naturedly. At this level, we all have a ‘Meghan’ who helps us. Ollie certainly doesn’t clean his own toilet, and while Teddy says he’ll be changing diapers when the baby comes, he’s not whipping up family meals every night. Our time is better spent elsewhere.
But Austin’s right, the boy I was would never have thought about leaving any sort of kitchen mess for hired help to clean up. Hell, the student I was would save money by patching my clothes and sewing up the holes on my undershirts or workout shirts instead of buying new ones. Even after I started making money, I kept up the practice until I realized that it was costing me more in lost money-making time to patch my old stuff than it would to simply have it mended or replaced for me.
I’ve come a long way since those days, but I still remember them.
“Don’t worry, I still keep a few mementos of the past around,” I tell Austin. He gives me a look of sadness, all too aware that I’m not talking about old T-shirts or childhood toys. The most important things I carry with me from those days are scars that can’t be seen.
But tonight’s game with friends, both new and old, has done a good job of keeping me from picking at them.
“Dylan, your deal,” Teddy calls out, and we rejoin him at the table.
I’m dealing out cards when Teddy suddenly jerks, grabbing his phone from his pocket. “Sorry, might be Claire,” he explains.
We don’t have a no-phone rule. None of us can afford to be offline for long because even if the markets are closed, there are hundreds of other things that might happen which would send us immediately to the closest computer to buy, sell, or research something. Even during a night out.