“Fine.” Holt interrupts me, running a finger over his lips. “I have a compromise.”
“You have no leverage with which to compromise,” I point out. “It’s my time. My skills. My lack of time in the fucking day to spend working with some silver-spoon princess who will have unrealistic ideas about architecture that she gleaned from a fake reality show.” I narrow my gaze at my brothers. “I am not a babysitter nor am I a prostitute. I decide what projects I take on. You can’t just hire me out to the highest bidder.”
Boone tosses another sunflower seed into the air and catches it. “The granddaughter could be hot.”
I don’t dignify that with a reply.
“Do this for us,” Holt says. “Help us get our foot in the door with Bowery Hotels. I know it will be one more thing you don’t have time for. We get that. We understand you don’t want to do this. But …” He takes a deep breath. “If you agree to do this for us, I won’t make you be a groomsman in my wedding.”
I narrow my eyes because he’s playing dirty.
Holt knows me more than I’m willing to admit. There aren’t many things I want less in the world than to be paraded down an aisle in front of fifty million people in an overpriced and unnecessary ceremony like some kind of trained monkey in an expensive suit. The whole idea makes me twitchy.
“First,” I say carefully, lest they get the wrong impression, “you can’t make me do anything.”
Boone chokes on a sunflower seed, earning him a warning glare from Holt.
“Second,” I say after pausing to make sure Boone doesn’t asphyxiate, “do you even know what Curt wants? Can I do this via email? Electronic prints? How big is this project? Are we starting from scratch? Who is the point person? Do they own the property already or is this conceptual?” I groan. “And why can’t they use the architect they work with on a daily basis?”
Holt looks at Oliver. He shrugs.
“I’m not going to lie to you,” Oliver says. “I don’t know. I can forward you the emails he’s sent, but they’re basically inquiring about your availability.”
“Great. It’s settled. Tell him I’m not available.”
“Wade, if the roles were reversed and I was refusing to cooperate,” Boone says, “you’d be the first one up my ass, telling me to think beyond myself.”
I sigh. “If it were you, Boone, you wouldn’t have anything else going on. I have a full schedule right now. See the difference?”
They see the difference. They all see the difference. The problem is, they know I see it too—from both sides.
The reality is, I don’t care how much pull or money Curt Bowery has. It doesn’t matter to me. I have enough work to last me two years and enough money to last me a lifetime. That’s a part of the beauty of being a bachelor.
Unfortunately, my brothers don’t think like me.
They’ve all started to settle down. They want marriages and children and all the domesticated life trappings that make me ill. That means that Mason Limited doesn’t just have to supply them with a solid future. It also has to take care of their families—families that are my family too.
While I’m happy to walk out of here without agreeing to this Bowery Hotels nonsense, the weight of my brothers’ eyes sets firmly on my shoulders. They need me to do this—not just for them but for potential future Mason generations. I know it, and they know I know it. They also know that I’m not completely heartless.
Dammit.
As if he can read my mind, Boone smirks. “I really hope my little Rosie doesn’t need Curt’s help someday, and I’ll have to tell her that her favorite uncle Wade couldn’t make time to—”
“Fine,” I say, shoving my chair backward with more force than necessary. “I’ll meet with whomever, but I’m not guaranteeing that I’ll do it.”
“Great. That’s all we’re asking,” Oliver says hurriedly.
“And Holt—you better take me out of the groomsmen lineup,” I add. “And you are dealing with Mom when she flips out. Not me.”
“Deal,” Holt says, his tone tinged with disbelief.
I’m surprised your proposal worked too.
“This is completely ridiculous,” I mutter as I gather my things.
A discernible tension creeps through the room. It snakes its way across the table, pulling at my brothers and me. They’re looking at each other—I know this without looking at them—but I refuse to make eye contact.
Do not look. You know they’re holding something back.
The collar of my shirt is tight. My jaw sets in place. My heartbeat strums in my chest as the walls of the conference room seem to shrink.
“Oh, and um … You have a meeting with Curt tomorrow at noon in your office,” Boone says.
My hands still over my briefcase, and I look up at Oliver’s cringing face. This motherfucker.