I had to stifle a laugh at the flash of horror on Miles’s face, but he quickly recovered. “We can send out for something, if you like.”
“We won’t be here that long,” James said, looking down at him. Literally. Harlan was maybe five-eight, and that was with a generous tape measure.
Harlan plastered on his best salesman smile. “Well, hopefully that means it won’t take me long to convince you to sign with me. Come on back to my office.” Then he turned and headed down the hall.
James moved beside me, and I stage-whispered loud enough for the receptionist to hear, “Behave, Jeff.”
He only hummed as we followed Harlan.
The narrow hallway looked in need of a fresh coat of paint, and the photos were of office buildings. Nothing personal. No awards or certificates. Nothing for James to insist on examining later.
We walked past a small kitchen, a door labeled bathroom, and a closed door with a plaque that read Ryan Delaney.
Harlan led us through a door at the end of the hall and into an office that was larger than I’d expected—spanning the full width of the building. The furnishings matched the vibe of the waiting room.
An L-shaped manufactured desk sat to the right of the door. It looked like he’d purchased it at an office supply store a decade ago. His chair was chrome with black vinyl that had faded with age. The two guest chairs were chrome too, with navy vinyl seats.
But on the other side of the room was a long rectangular table covered with blueprints.
James spun slowly, taking it all in with a look of disdain.
Harlan studied him for a beat, then his face brightened. “I’m so glad I could shuffle things around so we could talk about your project.” He gestured to the chairs. “Please. Have a seat.”
He walked around his desk, lowered himself into the chair, then folded his hands over a stack of papers. “Beth says you have a thirty-million-dollar project.”
“Yes, that’s right,” I said with a warm smile. “We’re looking to take over the property on Oak and Monroe. We’ve already met with Franklin Delgotto, and he won Jeff over. Isn’t that right, Jeff?”
James shot me a glance that suggested I had the intelligence of a bean plant, then turned to Harlan. “Delgotto runs a much more professional outfit. It’s obvious you couldn’t develop a parking lot. This place is a dump.”
“Don’t let appearances deceive you, Jeff,” Harlan said good-naturedly, leaning back in his chair and resting his folded hands on his stomach. “I prefer to put my money into my toys.”
James gave him a sideways look. “So you’re a child.”
Harlan laughed. “No, although my ex-wife would likely disagree.”
I offered a polite smile, but James looked unimpressed.
We could’ve pressed him on his toys—a possible excuse to get him and James out of the room—but it was too soon.
Harlan sat up, still smiling. I got the feeling he’d smile even if a rat was nibbling on his toes. “Tell me about your project.”
Going off the script we’d created, I launched into a story about a mixed-use plan and sprinkled in some developer buzz words like cap rates, anchor tenants, and long-term returns.
Harlan listened intently, nodding along. When I finished, he nodded again. “I can do all that.”
“Would you mind showing us?” I asked. “Do you have any graphics or graphs?”
He blinked, like I’d asked him to teach me how to knit.
“She’s asking for a PowerPoint,” James muttered, then turned to me. “Honestly, Amber.”
I wasn’t sure if he was aiming his disgust at me or Harlan, maybe both of us. But Harlan took the bait. “I can definitely show you a presentation.”
He turned to his computer and typed in a password so ridiculously easy I almost laughed.
bigboy1–all lowercase
While Harlan pulled up a PowerPoint and turned the screen slightly to give us a better view, James shot me a questioning look.
