“Carl!” Steven gasps.
Others join in, either agreeing or chastising.
“Now, now,” Gary tries.
Aiden holds up a hand, and the whole room stills. Just like that. Like freaking magic. Annoying magic.
“Quite right, Mr…?”
“Carl Yates. The Autoshop.”
“Mr. Yates. I do, in fact, want to invest in a resort here.” People start shifting and grumbling, and instead of talking over us, he just waits. He shifts his phone in his hands, which make his biceps bulge under his tailored suit. I wouldn’t expect a business man to have such big muscles but maybe he needs them in order to crush small towns. He cocks his head and everyone quiets down immediately again.C’mon guys, grow a backbone! …says the mute girl hiding behind her empty wine cup admiring a set of biceps.
I almost roll my eyes at myself.
“Some of you may know I’m a friend of Benedict Clark, which is how I found your town. He and I discussed this at length, but the Clarks don’t deal in real estate. I do. Yours is not the first little mountain town I’ve helped. I’m sure you’re all in the red, praying your fall tourism saves you year after year and in recent years, it has not.”
You could hear a pin land in here.
I know I’m not the only shop owner worrying about closing my doors.
And he clearly knows it, too. The man is well-informed.
“You know the Clarks?” Mr. Newman asks quietly.
Aiden goes on, “I do, school mates since we were boys. Ben and I want to see Juniper Falls survive. To pull in so much ski traffic, all winter, not just around Christmas, and spa visits in the warm months, so much so that you canrelax.Beyond that. You can grow, evolve, thrive.”
Half the room bristles, half leans in. We’re like two weather fronts, all charged air. A storm could break out down the center of the table.
Good move saying Ben’s name. Bad move using the worldevolve,Sir Bridgerton.
“If you’ll allow me,” Aiden goes on. I know he’s American but he doesn’t sound it. He sounds more like Ben, all proper and fancy. He taps around until the resort images start.
They are stunning. Truly. And we can see our mountains, a couple of our streets. It lookssoreal. Creepy AI wizardry probably.
Aiden goes on with images and plans, sensing his audience is now fully held captive. He shows images of packed parking lots and nearby slopes covered in skiers. He starts to rattle off the figures, taxes to the town, foot traffic per year, average revenue per tourist, on and on. A lot of numbers. Large ones.
Excitement quietly builds in the restaurant. Hope, too, I think. I can’t deny it, his numbers sound amazing. If I just woke up and went to the bakery and had customers coming in every few minutes? Wow. And in one photo he showed a line waiting to check out at some fake counter. If I had a line? If I didn’t have to scrape, beg, borrow and steal my way to getting Dad a few extra Valentine’s customers?
Shelly sighs. Carl sits back in his seat. Steven is vibrating and Miles next to him has his calculator app open. It really feels like we might be saved. Maybe I misjudged the jackhole.
“Wait!” Tyrone says.
Aiden presses through a few more slides, then looks over at us. I look away. But Tyrone speaks up.
“Back a few slides, Mr. Moneybags. Where is da other half town?”
“Listen, if you—” the billionaire tries, but the room is spinning up again.
“Half of town, what?”
“What do you mean?”
“I didn’t see it.”
“Go back!”
Reluctantly, Aiden does flip back.
