Page 14 of My Book Boyfriend
The doorbell rings.
“I’ll get it.” Iris picks up her empty plate.
“We should research requirements on whether we can protest outside their building. Do we need a permit or something?” Bella asks as she wipes her hands on a napkin after finishing her first slice.
“Mrs. Potter may know,” I say. “But I’ll research that if not.”
“Do we know any architects?” Maddie asks. “We should ask one if it’s possible to save the garden but still construct a twenty-story building with the lots that we have. That would be a better angle for a story—that they have the choicenotto destroy the garden. I’ll ask some of the other reporters.”
“I only know lawyers,” Tessa says. “Other than Miranda and you guys. Lawyers tend to hang out with lawyers.” She takes another bite of her salad.
“I must know some assistants or caterers who work at Strive Developers,” Bella says. “I feel like, at this point, I’ve worked so many part-time jobs that I know everybody.”
“Your network is insane,” I say.
“Your network is seriously the best when I’m trying to write a story,” Maddie says.
“It definitely helps to know the people nobody pays attention to,” Bella says. “I’ll check. One of them might have an inside scoop.”
We may be small, but we are mighty. Rupert Evans has no idea who he is messing with and what’s he in for.
Mrs. Potter bustles in, waving a cluster of papers. “Strive Developers sued us for back rent. That’s all our money. We can’t afford a lawyer.”
And just like that, my hope floats away like a balloon let go by a child, buffeted by winds, a red circle outlined against tall, overpowering, Manhattan skyscrapers.
Chapter four
Rupert
Grandpa’sofficeisdesignedto impress. Large, framed photos of his first buildings and his biggest developments line the walls. His desk is a mammoth antique. I take a seat in one of the leather armchairs across from him. He’s added another framed photograph to his desk: a family picture, one that was taken a few years ago at a very stilted Christmas Eve dinner at his home. That’s not an occasion I want to remember. My dad and my uncle had alternated between not talking to each other and slinging barbs. But at least everyone is smiling in the picture.
It’s next to a photograph of Rose, my grandma, and two grinning boys—my dad and my uncle. The only other picture on the desk is one of Rowena and me with him as teenagers, wearing hardhats on a construction site. I look a little shell-shocked there. That was the day I realized how much I loved being on-site and watching two-dimensional drawings transform into physical buildings. Grandpa had spent that summer teaching us about the business. We’d shadowed him everywhere.
“What’s this I hear from Rowena about you two being co-CEOs? I thought I told you no.” Grandpa fixes me with his steely-blue eyes and steeples his fingers, like a craggy eagle peering down from a tree branch, deciding which small mammal scampering below it will eat.
But this is my life. It is either co-CEOs with Rowena or an outsider running the company. It’s not a choice for him. Not that I should tell him that directly.
“You need a clear chain of command, or there will be politics, people playing you against each other. I saw it with Fell Developers,” Grandpa says.
“We’re dividing it up. She has creative, and I have finance.”
Grandpa waves his hand like he’s swatting a troublesome fly. “And that division won’t work the first time creative goes over budget. Who calls the shots then?”
“What’s best for the company.”
“You think it’s finance.” He snorts. “What you’re saying is that you’re the top dog. How’s Rowena going to feel about that?”
“First, Rowena doesn’t usually go over budget. And if she does, she has a valid reason. You know we won the bid for that development in Queens because of her design skill. Finance is not always the determining factor. And we work well together. We’ve been working well together for ten years.”
Grandpa doesn’t look entirely convinced. “You’re just being soft.”
Soft.That’s what he called me right before the Grinch debacle. I’m not soft, but I’m not going to be an a**hole again. At least not like that.
Time for some tough love. If we’re fighting for the chance to be co-CEOs, then at least let’s be honest about why.
“It’s better than one of us leaving the company.” Leaving has to be on the table.
There’s silence.
