1. Selling the Dream #2
“Fine, fine, everything’s perfect, Mr. Stirling.” Her voice rings with that brand of professionalism you can only get from a script and a fake smile. “I wonder how these, uh, more urban accents will fit in with the country charm of Bluepeak.”
She’s finally catching on. Fear of the unknown. Doubt flickers behind her eyes.
“Modern minimalism. Global tech. Attractions that’ll put this place on the damn map. Swap cozy for luxury, earthy for sleek, homely for futuristic, cutting-edge design.” I meet her ‘I have no clue what you just said’ stare with my best poker face. On point. “Sounds like it fits fine to me. ”
A flush creeps up her neck. Not blushing. Pissed. I’ve been at this long enough to know when I’ve hit the right nerve.
“And it sounds like you have it all planned out.” Ooh, is that a little attitude I hear? It’s a tight-lipped quip, meant to set me straight.
Except… Brody Stirling, CEO of Stirling Technologies, doesn’t get set straight. I don’t budge.
“Let’s go back inside.” I wave her ahead. Go on, sweetheart. Show me more of this ‘charm.’ “I’d like to see the common area again.”
“Of course.” In an instant, the fire’s extinguished. Her demeanor changes, cool, composed. Switch flipped. Professional Lara kicks in. ‘Yes, Mr. Stirling’ mode. The whiplash feels sharp.
I once spent seventy-two hours staring down the most intimidating mogul in Europe. He caved. I always get what I want. A pipsqueak real estate agent isn’t exactly something to get worked up over. She’s a blip on my radar.
“The leather couches are over twenty years old, which you probably recognize,” she says as we get to the common room. “They’re treated with our own blend of natural leather-care every six months.”
Wow, look at me, back at Bluepeak Lodge. God’s gift to nostalgia, only with more dust and the same smell of polished wood. Welcome back. Let me suffocate you with the past.
I recognize more than I’d like to admit. The lodge. The town. Nothing’s changed. It’s as if time stood still while I was away. Not in the cool sci-fi way. More like, oh shit, how the hell am I back here? way.
The artwork’s the same. Pretentious frames, historic vibe, same old bullshit, but I kind of like it.
Two leather armchairs are set right at the fireplace, with a round mahogany coffee table between them.
It used to hold a limestone chess set, but now there’s a stack of vintage-bound novels and a crystal bowl full of wrapped caramels.
It looks like a retired mob boss’s reading nook, minus the cigar smoke thankfully.
To my left is the same bar cart with the same crystal decanters.
Single malt, cognac, vodka. The holy trinity of I hate this town, but alcohol makes it tolerable.
A bookshelf takes up most of the opposite wall, looming over a makeshift living room made up of a three-seater, a loveseat, and two more armchairs.
Leather everywhere. Must be good shit, because I used to somersault across that three-seater and you’d never know it.
“You know, this hotel’s going to be an anniversary gift for my parents.” Let’s tug the heartstrings a little. People like Lara love a good family legacy.
“Oh?” Her demeanor softens, already picturing some sappy, picture-perfect scene between my parents and me. Good luck with that.
“My dad’s about to retire, and they both want to get out of the city.
Figured it’d be great to have them back home, but with a project that would give him some purpose in his retirement years.
” I hold her gaze, steady as hell, and decide to lay it on a little thicker.
“Bluepeak Lodge is where they met. Don’t you think that makes this the perfect spot for it? ”
Jackpot. Her eyes mist over slightly, enough to tell me I’ve won her over with my schmaltzy story. It’s true, but more of a side perk compared to what I really have planned for this place.
“It’s a beautiful gesture,” she finally concedes. “Your parents must be so proud of how well you’ve done for yourself. To be able to gift them their own hotel.”
If only she knew… I could buy them a whole damn chain and not feel it. I shake it off and let out a half-assed chuckle.
“It’s a surprise though, Lara.” I press my finger to my lips, slipping into full conspiratorial bullshit mode. “So please, keep this between us.”
She drops her gaze with a sweet little smile. “Of course, Mr. Stirling. And it’s Lauren. Lauren Ambler.”
Well, shit. The name badge has been staring me in the face this entire time. Good job, asshole.
“Lauren, forgive me.” I hit her with my most practiced smile.
They always fall for it. I hold out my hand.
She shakes it, tossing in the polished head tilt and that grin that screams don’t worry about it.
Exactly like I knew she would. She was ready to stab a voodoo doll with my face on it five seconds ago.
By the time I hit the front doors, the real estate agent’s an afterthought. I jog down the steps to my car. Next order of business locked and loaded.
Japan.
If I’m selling global tech in Bluepeak and turning this sleepy mountain town into a global hub, I need buy-in from the heavy hitters.
Money’s not the issue. But building something on this scale?
You need the right names backing it. The ones who open doors, clear red tape, and make the skeptics choke on their doubts.
Mr. Tanaka’s at the top of that list. Getting his approval is like sweet-talking a brick wall. He doesn’t give a shit about charm. Cold. Transactional. Predictable.
After that, it’s familiar territory. The usual players across Europe and Asia. Big money. Bigger egos. Massive, unmanageable headaches. But they know how to play the game and win. The ones with the pull to make things happen fast.
“That was quick,” Harry, my driver, lowers today’s paper and folds it, tossing it onto the passenger seat.
Man’s a relic from the days when people actually read newspapers.
His voice floats through the rearview mirror, eyebrows raised like he already knows how this ends.
“Thought you were taking the full tour?”
Oh, Harry. I meet his eyes in the mirror from the back of the DB9.
Mason told me I should’ve rented a Prius or some eco-bullshit, but let’s be real, I’m not driving a shoebox on wheels to blend in.
He went on about how an Aston Martin would stick out like hell in a wholesome little town like Bluepeak.
But come on. I’m not showing up in a Prius if I actually want to make an impression.
Fuck No.
“I did,” I say with a shrug. “But it’s not like I didn’t know what I was looking at. Just needed a light refresher, that’s all.”
“And?” The peak of his black cap hides the top of his face, but I can tell he has one eyebrow raised with the way he’s looking at me. We’ve done this dance enough times. He’s waiting for my victory lap.
Harry and I go way back to when I first started out in New York. I told him he didn’t need the driver’s uniform, black suit and tie, but he insisted. Said it makes him feel official. Whatever that means. It’s his thing. Let him have it.
“And it’s perfect, Hatman. You’re looking at the soon-to-be Bluepeak Hotel and Resort.”
He punches the air in celebration before facing front and firing up the engine. “You’re always saying to start the day with a win, boss. Where to next?”
Gotta love his relentless optimism. “Conference with Tanaka,” I say, settling into my seat. “I’m taking it at Headquarters.”
Harry revs the engine a little too loud and shifts into drive. “HQ it is.”
The lodge sits on the outskirts of town, and the straightest shot to HQ is down Main Street.
Shopfronts blur past my window in a haze of colorful whimsy that keeps Bluepeak safely tucked in its own little time capsule. Randy’s Barber Shop. The Veggie Market. Pump & Go. I highly doubt the same people are still behind the cash registers, but the signage? Still the same.
Everything is as I left it, which only fuels the flame of progress burning in my chest. This place is starving for innovation, and lucky for them, I’m exactly the man for the job.
Harry’s been cruising at a steady roll but slows to a crawl, then stops right in front of the town library with its twenty stone steps leading to the entrance. I know it’s twenty because I used to pretend I was Rocky Balboa, running up and down them on repeat .
“What’s the holdup?” I can’t hide the edge in my voice. All these trips down memory lane aren’t helping my already building tension about the upcoming conference call.
I glance past Harry’s head and spot the street blocked by a few pedestrians.
“Looks like activists or something,” Harry says, leaning forward to get a better look at their signs. What the hell could they possibly be protesting here, half-price muffins? “They’re grumpy about…”
“I don’t care.” I cut him off. What’s that saying? Not my circus, not my monkeys . “Get us out of here. Find another route.”
“Yes sir.” Harry backs up and pulls a clean three-point turn, weaving onto a side street that’ll steer us clear of the protest.
We’re picking up speed again now that the streets are basically abandoned. Nothing like a little detour to remind you small towns aren’t the best places to disappear to when shit hits the fan.
“It’s probably smart to know what they’re pissed about,” Harry offers, “since you’re actually sticking around for awhile.”
I scoff, watching Crystal Heart Lake whizzing by my window. “I don’t waste energy with anything that doesn’t concern me, Hatman. You know that.”
Whatever their problem is, they’ll adjust. They always do.