Eighty Nine

Asher’s POV

Just eight more minutes, and I would have been waiting a full hour for Brent. I hate waiting. I glanced down at my Rolex, shaking my head in frustration before returning to the glass of brandy I had been nursing since I walked into the hotel bar.

Where the hell was Brent, anyway? As I scanned the crowd, my irritation grew. I had called him from the office to meet me here, and somehow, I had managed to arrive before him and had been waiting nearly an hour.

If he didn’t show by nine o’clock, I was going to have to leave. Whatever he wanted to discuss could wait until tomorrow. I had better things to do than sit around in a bar.

Oh, crap. I suddenly remembered I had the early morning meeting tomorrow that would run into noon, and the brief one with my father.

“May I help you with anything else, signore?” A uniformed waiter approached, breaking my train of thought. Being in an Italian hotel, it wasn't unusual to be addressed this way, but I’ve never gotten used to it.

“No, tha