Tyler
“I received a call about a Davenport hotel in Rome going bankrupt. He hired a contractor who fucked him over. It was a mess and cost him an absolute fortune to restore it and get things back open. I’ve heard it’s nice, but he’s drowning in debt and is going to have to sell it to cauterize,” Dad tips his newspaper up as he says this.
I reach for my cup of tea so I can discreetly look at my watch. It’s seven a.m. here in London, one a.m. in Seattle. I always count the difference. It’s a reflex that has me imagining what Chloe is doing, where she is, what she might be thinking.
“Have you arranged for your things to be shipped over, or do you need anything?” Dad lowers his paper when I don’t comment on the Davenport site.
I lift a shoulder and take a long drink of my tea.
“Everything’s replaceable,” he reminds me. One might mistake his comment as benign, but his words are a tumor, intended to cause harm and inflict pain as his brows hitch, and his eyes challenge me to object.
I have to set my cup down so I don’t throw it, my muscles strained with objections. I don’t take his bait. Not again.
Grandad comes into the dining room, wearing a brown suit as he takes a seat at the head of the table, creating a wave of memories of my childhood.
“I’d like to lead the project on the San Francisco site,” I tell Dad, skirting the issue entirely.
He blinks, dropping his paper. “Why?”
“I think we should utilize part of it for a charity. We could use the tax write-off, and it would be great publicity,” I add when his head begins to tilt, ensuring me he’s going to say no. Money is his favorite language, but accolades and good press are a very close second.
“You should let him,” Grandad says as one of the house staff pours his tea. “There’s only one way to know if he’s going to be able to cut it.”
Dad looks between us and then releases a long sigh. “I suppose. But you’ll need to clear everything by Phil.”
My phone vibrates against my thigh.
It’s her.
It has to be.
“That’s fair. I’ll start preparing some projections and get them to Phil by next week. Excuse me.” I don’t give an excuse, pushing my chair back and walking the long distance to my room.
Cooper: Football starts in 2 days.
I tip my head back and pace the length of my childhood room. My father has hired an estate agent to find me a flat, but I haven’t made the time to meet with him.
It’s been two weeks since I arrived in London.
Every day feels longer than the last.
I call Coop.
“I figured you’d be at work,” he says, his tone dry. Bored.
“I have a business proposition,” I tell him.
He’s silent for a beat. “As long as it doesn’t involve Chloe.”
Just the sound of her name sends my thoughts to splinter and my heart to race. “What would I hire you to do with Chloe?”
“I don’t know. I’m just saying I don’t want to be involved. I can’t be on your side in this.”
“Is she okay?”
He laughs, and it’s cold and sardonic. “Is she okay?” he repeats my question. “I’ve seen my best friend cry more during this past week than I have a decade.”
I swipe a hand down my face, recalling the shock and pain that she’d tried to smile through when she assured me I should go—needed to go.
“How did Coach take the news that you’re leaving the team?”
“I haven’t told him,” I admit.
“Why?”
“It’s been busy,” I lie. After ten days of being here, I’m realizing that my being here had little to do with the business and everything to do with the illusion Dad was creating. I was back home, training and preparing to take over the family business. It looked regal, professional—official. It had little to do with being here because in a matter of days, my father will be leaving back for the States, and grandad will be traveling to Dubai where he lives for half the year.
“I’ll be there.”
“What? Where?”
“Practice.”
“What?” Cooper asks.
“I have a job proposal for you that I’m going to send you. But, I’m coming back to the states. I’m going to lead the San Francisco project, and I’ll need to be closer.” The idea snowballs as I tear open my closet and reach for my suitcase. “I have to go.”
“What do you want me to tell her?”
“Nothing. I’ll tell her myself.” I hang up as I reach for a hanger, and call Anika.
“Good morning, Mr. Banks.”
“Anika, I need a flight to Seattle.”
“For when, sir?”
“Now.”
I shove the rest of the few items I’d packed back into my suitcase, grab the second, which was never unpacked, and head to the bathroom, where I stare at the few items I have in here before ignoring them and returning to the dining room where my father and grandad have received their breakfasts.
“This hotel is in my blood, but I love it for many reasons far beyond that. I love that we care about each location and work to ensure the city and it’s history is reflected in the architecture, and that we find ways to give back in each community because that was where we started—where our roots were planted. I love the company, and I’ve always dreamed of becoming the CEO, and that’s what I want to do, but right now, I want to finish school. I want to play football. I want my last two years. And I also want to take lead on the San Francisco project. And when I’m done with it, you’re going to know you didn’t make a mistake by choosing me because it’s going to become our flagship in the States. It’s going to become the hotel that everyone wants to travel to and see with renowned restaurants and luxury. It’s going to be amazing, and I’m going to do it while living in Seattle and finishing my education at Brighton.”
“This was not our deal,” Dad says, throwing his napkin to the table as he stands to level the playing field.
“But it should have been, and it is now.”
Dad tips his chin. “Lewis has more experience. He’s older, more qualified.”
I shake my head. “And I’ll never be able to compete with that. I can’t make myself age ten years overnight. He will always have more experience than me. Always.” I punctuate the word, my voice rising. “But it’s not his name or his family’s legacy that fails if he does. I have worked my entire life to try and be good enough, and if you can’t see that, then you never are.”
Grandad clears his throat, setting his spoon down. “What is this nonsense about Lewis? Lewis isn’t a Banks.” Though his words support my position, I want to argue that my name isn’t the sole reason I deserve to be my father’s successor.
“It’s more than that. The hotels are my childhood—my life. I want to live up to this legacy our family has built. I want to continue to make the name Banks Hotel something that makes us proud, our employees proud, and the communities we’re in proud.”
“How are you going to do that with football and being distracted?”