Chapter One
JAMESON
The only thing that could make this moment any better would be having my dick sucked while I stand here. Since that isn’t an option—at least not without things getting really awkward with Graham standing, watching—I guess I’ll have to settle for having my ego stroked.
Thankfully, this blonde real estate agent who’s showing us the space is a super fan. She hasn't stopped batting her long, fake eyelashes and practically offering herself up to me on a silver platter since the minute we met outside. She even brought the damn edition of Foodie Magazine with my picture on the cover for me to sign.
Who the hell does that? A total psycho.
People always say the crazy ones are the best in bed, though, in my experience, they’re far more trouble than they’re worth. So even though having her pretty red lips wrapped around my cock would be an enjoyable way to be spending the day, there’s no way I’d touch her with a ten-foot pole.
No matter how much I might need a little stress relief right now.
She beams at me and holds her arms out as she spins in her sky-high stilettos. “So, what do you think?”
I don’t even need time to consider my response. I knew the second I walked in. “It's fucking perfect. I’ll take it.”
“You'll take it?” Graham snorts and pushes off the wall by the door where he’s been scrolling through his phone and clicking away at it for the past few minutes. “You are not taking anything. In case you don’t remember, you don't have any goddamn money.”
I toss him a dirty look. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Thanks for reminding me that I need you, asshole.”
And I do have some money—though only because I was smart about my winnings from Prime Chef. It wasn’t much, but being willing to put up my own money convinced Graham to let me retain forty-nine percent of this place to his fifty-one percent.
He chuckles and shrugs, his perfectly tailored suit that likely costs twice what I made last month moving fluidly with him, undoubtedly made to custom fit his lean frame.
Always so fucking arrogant.
Though, I guess he has reason to be. He clawed his way up from the bottom on his own and is a force to be reckoned with. His name means something in New York. It’s why he’s the perfect partner, even though I would prefer to be doing this on my own.
“But”—I tap my temple—“I seem to remember you telling me I could have the final decision on the location.”
He sighs and rolls his eyes. “I did, Jamo, but this is only the second place we've looked at, and we have seven or eight other potential locations lined up to check out next week. Don't you want to see what the other options are before you make this decision?” He glances around and motions toward the street outside. “I mean, this place is kind of a shitty location. It's all residential. There isn’t very much foot traffic. It isn't exactly the best place to put the restaurant, is it?”
Normally, I would agree that he has a point, but there are a few things he's not considering. The fact that there are no other restaurants around is a good thing. It means we’ll be at the top of the list of options. This is also an up-and-coming neighborhood. Lots of yuppies making their way over from Manhattan, which is exactly the type of clientele I'm looking for—people with loads of expendable income.
This building is also perfect. The exposed brick, high-lofted ceilings with massive steel beams, the raw, scratched-up wood floors. I couldn't have designed it better myself, and it comes like this. It’s the kind of location restaurateurs kill for. We’re lucky to have seen it before someone else snatched it out from under us.
I shake my head at him. “I don't need to look at anything else. This is the place. Trust me. It’s perfect.”
It’s exactly what I’ve been busting my ass and working so hard for—some place that will be mine.
Graham sighs and turns back to the real estate agent.
Betsy? Barbara? Whatever… it doesn't matter.
He scowls at her. “How much is this place going to set me back?”
She plasters on that saccharin sweet smile. “It's listed at $875,000.”
“Jesus Christ.” Graham whirls and looks around at the interior of the old warehouse. “For this piece of shit?”
Her smile doesn't waiver. “This is an up-and-coming neighborhood, Mr. Morgan. There's a lot of demand for real estate in this area, especially for commercial and business properties. I just sold a residential unit across the street the other day for almost $700,000 that would have sold for half that two years ago.”
His jaw drops. “You’ve gotta be shitting me. Maybe this is where I should've been investing the last couple of years.”
She laughs, a high, tinkling sound that’s almost as fake as that smile of hers. “That might've been wise, Mr. Morgan. The building you share a wall with sold several months ago to a group of investors. I’m actually surprised they didn’t come back to scoop up this side, too.”
Graham raises a dark eyebrow. “Any idea what they plan to do with it?”
She shrugs. “Who the hell knows. None of my business.”
He turns back to me, his eyes narrowing. “$875,000, Jameson. Just for the building. What's it going to cost me to put in a full kitchen?”
I inwardly cringe at his question but try not to show my concern outwardly. He has no idea how expensive it is to put together a professional kitchen. The range alone will cost around twenty grand.
When he agreed to back my restaurant venture, I told him it would not be cheap, but I held off on giving him specifics, mostly because I couldn't afford to have him back out. He's the only one I know who has this kind of money and the right amount of faith in me. For the amount of cash I could bring to the table compared to what will be needed to get us up and running and in the long-term, any other backer would have demanded far more than the fifty-one percent Graham took.
It wasn’t a great business move, to be honest, and at times, I still wonder how I managed to convince him to take this gamble. But my whole life has felt like one giant risk—ignoring my natural ability even as a child in the “family business” and ultimately going to culinary school was viewed by some as a major mistake. And the other investors I approached saw me as way too big a risk to take on.
Graham doesn’t see me that way, though. If I hadn’t met him at that event at the Met, and if he hadn't tasted my food there and loved it, we wouldn't even be here today. I'd still be stuck cooking in someone else's kitchen while they raked in all the dough and got all the publicity.
After winning Prime Chef and getting the magazine cover, this is the time to strike while the iron is hot. We need to leverage my name and Graham’s connections while I’m still on the rise. Before I do something to fuck it all up.
I clear my throat and try to sound casual when laying out the costs he’s going to be looking at when it comes to the kitchen. “You're probably looking at another two hundred grand, at least, to get all the new kitchen equipment and have it installed.”
Whoever saw the potential in this place years ago left behind bits and pieces of low-end stuff I will never be able to use.