“I find it interesting. What’s the likelihood of a small plane accident?”
“Small. Automobiles are more dangerous.” He puffed out his chest, and the action struck me as odd.
“Brent, I’m short on time. What’s up?”
“Nothing. Just curious. I hope you’re being careful.”
“What exactly are you implying?”
“Small planes scare me. You can afford a private jet, can’t you?”
My desk phone rang, and on reflex I checked the number on the screen. He took the hint and pulled my office door closed as he exited.
I didn’t recognize the number, so let it ring, knowing my assistant would pick it up and relay anything of importance. I combed through email, searching, then grinned at her ridiculous email address.
From: [email protected]
Thanks so much for reviewing!!!
Xoxo,
Poppy
I clicked on the attachment and flipped through the blindingly yellow pages. One thing I’d give her, the black font on a yellow background stood out. She wanted to open a generic restaurant with a bar. The only point of differentiation I could see was that she wanted to offer healthier fare than currently existed on that tiny-ass island. Based on this deck, she had fifteen years’ experience in the restaurant industry and eight years of that in management and four of that bartending. At only twenty-five years old, those numbers didn’t jive. Nothing in the deck told her age, but her birth date would be on the loan application. I scratched my chin, reading over her bio. At her age, the absence of any academic mentions would probably raise questions from investors.
She’d already found an experienced chef who would act as a business partner. I didn’t know enough about the restaurant industry to know if her income projections were realistic or not, but even if she hit her targets, which new businesses rarely did, she’d be smart not to give up her OnlyFans income. Her projections didn’t have them breaking even until year ten.
Her business plan needed more than I could put together in five minutes. However, confidence did wonders, especially in meetings with small town bankers. So, I replied to her email.
Knock ’em dead. Call me tonight and let me know how it goes.
My finger hovered over the trackpad, floored with the temptation to click on my incognito browser for one quick visit to her page. I shook it off. I’d played the “porn between meetings” game before. Not that her photos constituted porn. But there was no point, no release given, and if anything, it dulled my senses. My thumb pressed down, and the analyst report filled my screen.
Chapter 6
Poppy
I parked in front of Sun and Ocean Bank twenty minutes early. After lifting my suit jacket from the back seat and double-checking my reflection in the facing window, I paced the sidewalk to kill time.
The white wooden structure reminded me of a beach cottage. Perky blue plantation shutters hung over large windows like low hanging awnings, and combined with the nearby palm trees, the entire building offered a laidback Floridian vibe. Instead of pina coladas with tiny paper umbrellas, I anticipated the glass plate separating me from the tellers, void expressions, and barely-there smiles. I breathed deeply as I paced. No one in there will know me. No one’s going to laugh me out. And if they say no, it doesn’t mean anything. Twenty-five rejections before I re-evaluate.
Five minutes early, I pulled on the stainless steel handle of the heavy glass door. Women dressed in business attire sat behind glass, frosty but polite. Uncomfortable waiting areas dotted the middle of the room. A barely discernible jazz melody floated through the air. I sat on the edge of a chair, thighs together, spine straight, briefcase in my lap, and listened to the high-pitched clicking on keyboards and the crack of an occasional door closing.
“Ms. Smith?” The older gentleman before me reminded me of my uncle. Pudgy, not much hair, and what he had was combed over to the side in strings. His suit fit well enough, but the tips of his shoes could have used a good polishing.
“Yes, sir.” As the only person waiting, no great powers of discernment were required to pick me out.
“Let’s meet in my office.”
I followed him to the back, down a long hall, then up a narrow flight of stairs. He pushed open a door into a room filled with light. The window faced onto the palm trees across the street. Two framed photos sat on his desk facing him. The artwork on his office walls shared the same style as the beachy prints that lined the walls downstairs. I’d read that I should find something to bond with him over, to make him see me as a human being and not a loan application, but I had nothing.
His leather desk chair squeaked. He picked up a stack of papers I presumed were my submitted application.
“Thank you for coming in. I found your application to be most interesting.”
I smiled, crossed my legs, and pushed my shoulders back to ensure a professional posture.
“You know, the restaurant business is most challenging.”
I smiled, but inside uncertainty reigned. Was that a question? Should I say something?
“Now, according to your loan application, you currently have a sizable income from a current business. An online business.” He peered over the pages and rolled his chair closer. Nausea simmered, but I squashed it down.
“Yes, I am a successful business owner.”
“And would this business income continue when you started the restaurant?”
Fair question. I swallowed, breathed deeply, and began my prepared response. “Yes, my business runs on a subscription model. Like many businesses, the income is not guaranteed, and I would likely see a gradual decline as my time and energy focused on the restaurant. But, as you can see from the business plan, restaurant income will cover a salary.”
“I did some research into your current business. The business model seems solid. Are your sources of income solely from
