A Chance at Love (A Ferry Creek Novel): (a billionaire romance novel) Read Online Free PDF Page B

’ d go
fishing and he ’ d have this
little tackle box. His friends would come with box after box of equipment to
catch a damn fish, I never understood it. My father didn ’ t either. He just had his little tackle box and
worms. Worms from our backyard. He ’ d
always catch the most fish and the biggest fish. ”
    “ You
fish, Sullivan? ” Charles
asked.
    “ Not
anymore, ” Sullivan said. “ I keep my hands dirty in my own
business. The point I ’ m
making, Charles, is this... there ’ s
a piece of land that needs to be used. It ’ s
a damn eyesore for you and me and the city. So let ’ s just figure it out. No figures. No financial
nonsense. Just you and me talking. ”
    Parker excused himself as did the
associates Charles had with him.
    Exactly twenty seven minutes later
Sullivan and Charles emerged from the conference with a deal in place. Sullivan
handed Parker a folder and patted him on the shoulder.
    “ What ’ s this? ” Parker asked.
    “ The
information, ” Sullivan
said.
    “ You ’ re not going to handle it...? ”
    “ I
have a meeting, ” Sullivan
said.
    “ A
meeting... with... ”
    Sullivan kept walking.
    He touched his stomach. The
uneasiness told him that the meeting with Beverly was going to change the
direction of his life.
     
    “ He
called you first? ” Beverly
asked.
    She was literally on the edge of
her seat, eating up all the potential. Her glasses were perched on the tip of
her nose and her eyes were wide. It told Sullivan that Beverly had a calm,
quiet life at home and watched too many chick flicks.
    "He called me first,
yes," Sullivan said. "I ignored the calls and then you called."
    "I'm so sorry," Beverly
said. "He was just so adamant about it. And nervous."
    "He was nervous?"
Sullivan asked.
    Sullivan stood behind his desk with
his hands in his pockets. His palms were sweating and no matter how hard not
to, he tried he kept looking at the picture of himself and his father. The man
who died ten years ago.
    "Very nervous," Beverly
said. "He told me your father was dying of a heart condition and his dying
wish was to meet you."
    "Can't be true," Sullivan
said.
    "He described you, Mr. Chasen."
    "What do you mean he described
me?"
    "The way you looked..."
    "My picture is
everywhere," Sullivan said.
    He turned and faced Alexandria,
Virginia. He had seen his face in magazines, newspapers, television, even
billboards at one point in his career. Thanks to the internet, all that
information could be easily found.
    "Mr. Chasen..."
    "Beverly, why don't you just
call me Sullivan?"
    "You're my boss."
    "I don't care."
    "Okay. Fine. Sullivan it is.
He described a picture of you as a child."
    "As a child?"
    "Did you have... a Red Flyer
wagon?"
    Sullivan stiffened. He looked over
his shoulder. "Yes."
    "He has a picture of you in
one."
    Sullivan curled his lip. He was
annoyed. "You know how many kids had one of those?"
    "Was yours painted to say 'dead
flyer' ?"
    Now it was serious. Very serious.
Sullivan turned and put his hands to his desk. He leaned forward was about to
break one of his own rules. He was ready to snap at Beverly and tear her to
pieces. But he looked into her big, brown eyes and backed down.
    "Don't mess with me,"
Sullivan warned. "Beverly..."
    "Sullivan, I would
never," Beverly said. She blinked fast. She was ready to cry.
    Shit, Sullivan thought.
    "I'm sorry," Sullivan
said. "But it's true, what you just said."
    "About the wagon?"
    "When I was six or seven.
Maybe younger. My mother and father dressed me as a bat. I didn't want to walk
so my father took the wagon and painted the letter 'D' over in black paint so
the wagon said 'Ded Flyer', you know, because I was a bat."
    Beverly smiled. "That's
nice."
    "Nice? Beverly... the man who
painted the wagon is dead. The man who thought of calling me the 'Ded Flyer' is dead."
    "So how did this man get a
picture?"
    Sullivan raised an eyebrow.
"You tell me."
    "I can't," Beverly said.
"But he wouldn't stop describing the picture. Then