Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 108862 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 544(@200wpm)___ 435(@250wpm)___ 363(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 108862 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 544(@200wpm)___ 435(@250wpm)___ 363(@300wpm)
I chuckle. “Oh, I don’t know about that.”
“You should know.” He looks at me. “Your own worth, I mean.”
“Thank you, Joseph.”
“Nice what you did for my niece. She’s been … going through it at school, or so I’ve deduced from as much as I can squeeze out of her. Mean girls,” he says, like that explains the rest.
It kind of does. “I hope her day’s looking up.”
“I hope yours is, too,” he says back.
The elevator dings, then opens. Joseph sees himself out first, but not before smiling back at me over his shoulder, then heading on his way. After this unexpectedly pleasant encounter, I have a pinch of hope I might find Mr. Bellamy in a nice, forgiving mood. He doesn’t even need these flowers until tomorrow.
I should know better than to hope for things.
“I’m a patient man, aren’t I?” Grant asks with that same, lofty tone of voice, stirring a cup of coffee as he leans back against his desk. “I think I’ve demonstrated that enough. Or have I not?”
I already unloaded the flowers. He had some people who came to help me, which I thought was a kindness, until I overheard one of his assistants saying Grant pitied me for not having a team of helpers to do these menial tasks like Brighthouse does. Now we’re in his office, a corner suite with bright windows and two fancy chairs where he likely entertains a businessman or two to a drink as they discuss what to spend their next million on.
“Y-Yes, I know. And I’m truly sorry, Mr. Bellamy. I completely lost track of time this morning.”
He nods slowly, almost to himself. “Unsurprising, of course … Small business owner like you. Lots on your plate.”
There’s a tall floor-plant by his desk, and even it looks like it comes from a rich family of fern I’ve never had the joy of growing or preening. How dare I even dream to touch such a plant?
“Would you like something to drink?” he offers.
I shake my head too quickly. “I’m fine, thanks.”
“You seem parched. Lot of hard work, doing all this yourself, huh?” He takes a slurp of coffee. I suddenly despise the sound of all slurping. He cradles the cup between his long fingers and offers me a shrug. “Anyway, we’ve had a long, lovely relationship, your business and mine. Who am I to be a hard-ass on you for a little tardiness? No one’s perfect, right?”
I think it’s supposed to be a kindness, telling me that.
But all I hear is, despite my hard work, I’m not perfect.
I’m the flawed vendor he puts up with.
“I hope the terms of the contract we signed weren’t too lax.” He says it with a teasing tone, like setting up a punch line. “All the discounts you agreed to aren’t giving you an allowance to be late whenever you want, are they? Was there some fine print I missed in our agreement?” He laughs. “Kidding, kidding, of course.”
For some reason, I think about the night I was cutting thorns off of roses and Diego showed up and attacked me with his lips on my front porch.
I was cutting those roses for Mr. Bellamy.
Because last-minute, he changed his order. I accommodated.
It was just expected that I would. No discussion. No apology.
“I think you might be forgetting how many times I have made extra concessions for you, bent the rules of an agreement in your favor, added premium blooms at half the cost …”
The second all those words slip out, I wish I could shove them all right back into my mouth.
What am I thinking?
“I-I mean, of … of course you h-haven’t forgotten,” I quickly backpedal. “I just meant … I … I do … do a lot for you. And …”
Then I run out of words. And guts. And everything else.
Mr. Bellamy, unfazed, slowly sets down his coffee on the desk next to him. “I shouldn’t have made the joke,” he says. Then he faces me. “Of course, you’ve made many concessions. You change things last minute. So do I, for my clients. Brookfield clients, they expect a lot for their dollar. Every wedding reception I coordinate. Business luncheon. Prestigious awards ceremony … In my world, such concessions made for my clients are bare minimum. No one’s offering participation trophies when I stay up late coordinating a client’s last-minute need for a new DJ and fifty extra seats at their son’s going-away gala before he’s off to Harvard Law.” He leans forward. “Try to appreciate the invaluable business I give you. The world is cutthroat. Brighthouse is knocking on my door every day trying to push you out. I keep choosing you. Your parents knew it well when they were running things. It’s about time reality sets in, Mr. Callahan: I may be the best client your business ever sees.”