Demming by Avril Ashton
One
“I don’t have you on our calendar, sir.”
Demming shrugged as he stared down at the brown-skinned woman sitting behind the marble desk. “Then check again.” He’d hustled all the way from Santorini—a stay that hadn’t been as fun as the travel brochures would have you believe—taking red-eye after red-eye, just to make this meeting. He’d gone through great lengths to be put on Emmanuel Asamoah’s calendar in the first place, so he wasn’t about to walk away just because somebody at Asamoah Properties had fucked up.
He’d waited too long for this.
“Sir.” The young woman shook her head, rustling her shoulder-length braids. “Like I said—”
Demming held out his phone to her silently, saying nothing as she read the confirmation email he’d been sent a month ago. Asamoah Properties was one of the most ubiquitous names in New York real estate development, but Demming had still done a double-take at the time frame.
The assistant was new. The first—and last—time Demming had set foot in this place, an older woman with thinning shoulder-length gray hair and lipstick on her teeth had been behind the desk. He’d been escorted out by security then.
“A month ago?” The assistant—Kenya, according to the nameplate on her desk—shook her head, muttering something under her breath as she picked up the phone and held up a finger to him. “Sir, please take a seat.”
Demming did as she murmured into the phone. He sat in the waiting area, on one of the comfortable white chairs facing her, and glanced around.
They’d redecorated.
The furniture and decor had been severe—brown and black—that time Emmanuel Asamoah had Demming escorted off his property. Today, the furniture was white and modern—and most importantly, comfortable—and the walls were a bluish-gray that somehow gave off a warm feel.
Huh.
Asamoah Properties was a near billion-dollar real estate developer in New York. One of the top-performing firms. Demming’s experiences with them were not favorable and if he had his way, he wouldn’t be there right now. But this was bigger than him; this was about fulfilling a promise he’d made to his father the night they learned Asamoah had bought the property that housed Demming’s father’s jewelry business and had the entire thing razed to the ground. The same night Arthur, Demming’s father, died.
Asamoah owed him and Demming had come to collect, finally.
Kenya was still talking on the phone, pushing up her glasses—that perfectly matched her yellow blouse and kept sliding down her nose—every few seconds. Her gaze flickered to him now and again as she nodded and tapped on the sleek desktop in front of her. She finally hung up the phone and Demming sat back, right ankle resting atop his left knee.
Waiting.
He would wait all day if he had to, though he hoped it didn’t come to that. All he’d consumed for the past few hours had been coffee. The Santorini job went longer than he and his team had bargained for, leaving him no time at all to get back for this meeting. He’d already waited so long, he wasn’t about to call and reschedule or cancel, so he’d grabbed the quickest flight that would take him to the states.
There’d been some stops in between, though.
But he made it.
The phone on Kenya’s desk pinged, grabbing his attention, and he watched as she picked it up and listened without speaking before hanging up with a nod. Then her gaze swung to him.
He stood and approached, managing to hide a smirk as her eyes got bigger behind those glasses with every step he took in her direction.
“Um, Mr. Demming, you can go in now.” She motioned to the short hallway to her right that led to the CEO’s office.
He granted her a nod and walked away. He wasn’t mad at her. Clearly, she was new. But knowing the CEO of the company the way Demming knew him, Asamoah could’ve very well had the meeting deleted. Anything to not have to face Demming.
He strode down the hallway to Asamoah’s office, gaze catching on the black and white photographs of buildings and construction sites that decorated the walls. All of the company’s achievements. He didn’t see the site that had once housed his father’s jewelry store, but bitterness still had his face twisted into a grimace as he grasped the knob and pushed Asamoah’s door open, stepping inside.
The man behind the desk wasn’t focused on him; his attention was on the iPad propped up in front of him as he conducted a video call with whoever was on the other end.
Demming narrowed his gaze. “You’re not Asamoah.” The office was the same, though it too had been redecorated to match the theme out in the waiting room. Its occupant, however, was not who he’d expected to see.
The man’s head jerked up when Demming spoke. “Smith, let me call you back.” He placed the iPad facedown on the desk and unfolded his large frame from behind the desk, rising to his full height that matched Demming’s six-one frame. That was where their similarities ended. With a short haircut and full, dark beard, the man standing in front of him had a wider build, a round belly, and familiar features. His gaze pierced Demming as he walked around his desk, buttoning the blazer of his blood orange-colored suit.
The color was…striking against his golden-brown skin.
His light brown eyes were Emmanuel Asamoah’s eyes, and the other man confirmed his identity when he held out a hand. “Hart Taylor-Asamoah. What can I do for you?”
The son. The motherfucking son. Demming didn’t take the handshake offered and after a beat, Hart dropped his hand, head angled.
“I have a meeting with Emmanuel Asamoah. Where is he?” Demming made a show of looking around before meeting Hart’s gaze.
The faintest muscle ticked in Hart’s jaw. “My father is no longer CEO of the company.” He gestured behind him to the desk, the movement causing his jacket to part just enough for Demming to make out the eye-catching black and white pattern on the inner lining. “That’s my role now, so Mr.—” He lifted an eyebrow.
The meeting had been set up with a rep for ArtFi Holdings, Demming’s investment company, but since Hart didn’t know who he was, he gave the other man his name. “Demming. Sawyer Demming.” Maybe he could work with this. Junior might not provide the same obstacle his father had.
Hart nodded and motioned for Demming to join him at the seating area off to the left of the large office. The back and right sides of the space were all glass, looking out over the Upper East Side. Hart waited until they were both seated opposite each other before speaking. “So, Sawyer. What can I do for you?”
“It’s Demming, and I’d like to buy one of your properties.”
Hart’s brow wrinkled and he scratched almost absentmindedly at his beard. “I’m sorry, I’m not following.”
“Your father owns a mixed-use development at 1845 Larchmont.”
Hart had leaned forward, but at Demming’s statement, he drew back with a slow blink.
“I’d like to buy it. Today.”
* * *
“Wh—”Hart shook his head. “I’m sorry, what?” He stared at the man opposite him who didn’t do much to hide the disdain that crossed his features the moment their eyes met. Sawyer Demming’s green eyes stayed on his face, his expression cold and arrogant. Not the first time Hart had dealt with that expression once someone learned his identity. Wouldn’t be the last, either, but today wasn’t the day for it.
The property in question was owned by a subsidiary of his father’s, so how did Demming and his company—Hart glanced down at the information Kenya had forwarded to him. How had ArtFi Holdings figured it out? More importantly, that business was a thriving moneymaker. Hart’s father’s pride after Asamoah Properties. It definitely wasn’t for sale.
“Why would you think Larchmont is for sale?”
Demming leaned back, long legs crossed at the ankles, a finger at his temple. “Name your price. You’ll have it by tonight.”
Okay, enough. “You’re not hearing me, Mr. Demming.” Hart hardened his voice. “Whatever information you have is erroneous. Larchmont is not for sale. It has never been, nor will it be in the foreseeable future. If this is why you came, you’ve wasted both our time.” He got to his feet.
Demming didn’t follow. He stared up at Hart with steel in his eyes, determination in the set of his jaw that was covered with a short beard. Something about him set Hart’s teeth on edge. The way he refused to take no for an answer. The judgment in his eyes once Hart told him he was now the CEO—as if Hart didn’t already get that from everybody else around the building. He didn’t need it from this stranger.
The phone in his hand vibrated; it was likely another message from Tam, no doubt, filled with screaming and them calling Hart everything but a child of God. The person Hart actually wanted to hear from wasn’t returning his calls and hadn’t been for months. Didn’t mean he stopped trying. Sydney knew what the fuck she’d done and was lucky he didn’t want her in jail.
“If that’s all, Mr. Demming…” he said pointedly.
The other man held his gaze as he finally stood. They were the same height, though Hart carried more bulk than Demming. His hair was dark brown, almost black, and cut with a little bit of length on the top. Dressed in a white shirt that stretched over his muscles when he moved, paired with gray trousers, he stood chest to chest with Hart, inches apart.
“Make me an offer.”
Hart huffed a laugh. “What?” This guy just wouldn’t quit.
“I want that property.” Demming’s voice rumbled and Hart found his attention snagged by the other man’s teeth, of all things. They were white, slightly crooked, with a bit of space between the top front two. “Make me an offer.”
Hart stepped back. “Why are you so interested in this property?”
Demming’s jaw ticked, but he didn’t answer. Instead, he pulled a card from his pocket and held it out. “Call that number when you decide to listen to my offer. It’s on the table for however long it takes you to hand over the property.” With that last bit sounding very much like a threat, he turned and strode out the door.
Hart stared down at the card in his hand. ArtFi Holdings. Investments. Plus a phone number. That was it. He squinted at the door Demming had left open on his exit. Who the fuck was that? Why was he so insistent on buying something that wasn’t for sale?
His phone vibrated in his palm. He tossed the business card onto his desk then played Tam’s latest voicemail. “You got me fucked up, Hart. I swear to god. Not even a call, my guy? Like, you just got me out here waiting for your ass like I don’t have a life of my own? Fuck you think this is? Don’t call my phone the next time you want your dick sucked!”
He rolled his eyes and deleted the message. Tam liked to act as if they had a relationship. Nah. What they had was a mutually beneficial arrangement that had long run its course. But Hart had been too busy taking over the company he hadn’t been ready to deal with, so he hadn’t had time to let Tam know their shit was at an end. After Sydney and her bullshit, he wasn’t dealing with drama. Tam knew that. They’d promised Hart they wanted the same thing he did—no strings—but here Tam was, acting as if they had a title and claim to Hart’s time.
He sighed, rubbing his eyes. Sleep had been at a premium ever since his father’s stroke—which he shouldn’t focus on right now because it would completely incapacitate him. Shoving away the anguish that threatened to sideline him every time he remembered his mother’s terrified voice during that phone call in the middle of the night, he summoned Kenya into his office.
He perched on the edge of his desk, thinking of all the shit he still had to do even though the day was over and he was due for dinner with his parents in—he checked his phone—twenty minutes.
“What’s up?” Kenya asked as she buzzed into the room.
Kenya was like a ray of sunshine and always made him smile. He’d known Kenya since they were both teenagers, as she was the cousin of one of his childhood friends. When he had to take over the company, he’d wanted to put his own stamp on things, be his own person and not settle into his father’s shadow. Hence the redecorated offices. He’d given his father’s long-time secretary, Mary, a huge bonus to allow her to retire, and he’d called up Kenya.
He couldn’t help that he was his father’s son. There were many who didn’t think he was the right person to lead the company; he was too young, too full of rash ideas, too daring. But he wasn’t about to be a carbon copy of his old man.
“Get me Jeb,” he told Kenya. “I’ve got a job for him.” Jeb was the firm’s PI. “And then you can leave.”
She flashed a salute. “Aye, aye, Cap.”
He rolled his eyes at her back as she left.
He didn’t leave, though. He’d been staying in the office way into the night. It wasn’t as if he didn’t have a team, people to delegate tasks to, but at the end of the day, his name was the one on the door. His father had felt the same way too. Emmanuel’s work ethic had really made an impression on Hart growing up.
But look where his father ended up.
He didn’t let the voice in the back of his head, the one whispering about his father’s sudden stroke and the ensuing short-term paralysis of the left side of his body, deter him as he went back to checking and double-checking figures until his desk phone went off.
“Yeah?”
“It’s Jeb. You need me?”
Jeb didn’t beat around the bush and Hart had always liked that about him. “I need to know anything you can dig up on ArtFi Holdings, an investment company. And Sawyer Demming. I don’t know if he owns if, if he’s their rep, or what. But I need that info ASAP.”
“Got ya. I’ll hit you back when I have something.”
Hart hung up with a heavy sigh, just as his personal cell phone rang. He answered quickly when he saw his mother calling. “Mom, listen—”
“No excuses, Hart. You promised to have dinner with us once a week and we’re holding you to that.” Jill Taylor-Asamoah didn’t pull any punches nor did she tolerate his bullshit.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Now, I expect you to be at this table in an hour. You hear me, son?”
An hour to get from his office in the city over to his parents’ home in Manhasset was gonna be tough, they both knew it, but he nodded anyway. “Yeah, I hear you.”
“Good.” Her voice softened, the tense worrying easing. “I love you.”
“Love you, too.” He ended the call and got the hell outta there because it didn’t matter that he was a grown-ass man. When his mother spoke, he listened.
