Page 1 of Honey Bun
Chapter One
Arman
The smell of the ocean at the end of Long Island was salty and fresh. My father, Bâbâ, had bought our beach home twenty minutes from the Hamptons. Everyone who was anyone escaped to the Hamptons. The beach house was on Virgin Cove, a small island with a bridge connecting it to the mainland. Virgin Cove was hard to find on maps, but it was poised to be the next hot spot. That meant the way we lived there like princes might end.
As I drove up to the mansion overlooking the Atlantic Ocean and the small town, I sighed. This was my favorite place. I preferred the slower pace it offered to the Manhattan condo or even my parents’ penthouse in Beverly Hills. The sea air reminded me that I’d once been denied by a beautiful girl when I was a boy.
I parked my silver Audi R8 Spyder in the driveway and saw one of my brothers stepping out of a limo, which meant I wasn’t the last person to arrive. Cyrus waited as servants brought the bags in and I parked, but the moment I stepped out, he patted me on my back and said, “Arman, the favorite son, has returned.”
I laughed and shook my head. As the oldest, I was teased by everyone. We stepped up to the house, whose wall decorations were recreated from ancient Persepolis. My favorite was the lion head that adorned a horn like it was the Thanksgiving feast and not various fruits.
I said, “You’re the doctor, Cyrus, so you get that honor.”
He winked as servants flung open the door for us. “No matter how many degrees I have, I’ll never be you, the oldest and most precious.”
We passed into the foyer, and I could see my mother sitting at the dining room table with four of my brothers. She rose from her seat, came to us with her arms open, and smiled. “The last two, as usual, to arrive for my birthday.
I hugged her and gave my feeble excuse: “My flight from LA and stopover in Manhattan took more time than I hoped.”
The truth was, my business partner and adopted brother, Joel, had taken two weeks off for a honeymoon, and I was running the game company solo, which meant extra hours until we closed that day. But like my bâbâ, who was renowned on Wall Street, we never gave work as an excuse in my family.
My mother looped her arms around us and steered us into the dining room as Bâbâ came in from the kitchen, carrying a fresh carafe of black tea. He took his usual seat. I sat down next to him.
Cyrus took a seat on the other side. “Looks like your bet against buying the beach home in the Hamptons was right on, Dad. Looks like someone else is building a Persian palace in Virgin Cove.”
I shook my head and grabbed the carafe to pour myself a cup of tea. “That’s so LA.”
“Now she’s back on the East Coast with you…” Cyrus’s dark eyes didn’t blink. “Maybe this summer, she’ll refocus her attention on her oldest and pressure you to get married now that Joel here brought home a wife.”
Joel—my partner, brother, and friend—was lucky, a successful heart doctor. I was more like our dad and had no time for dating. I winked. “I’m hopeless, remember?”
Mom came in with dates and passed them out as three more of my brothers were laughing and coming down the stairs. Half of my family had been adopted, but that never mattered at the table.
“You’ve been lucky.” Bâbâ took one of the dates. “Your mother isn’t a fan of being in New York for long these days, but now that she has Joel and Kendal, she thinks you’re next and wants to be here more.”
My mother brought me the dates as my two youngest brothers took their seats on the other end. Mâmân asked, “What are you two talking about?”
I stood and scooted her seat out for her. “How happy we are to be here with everyone. Let’s sit.” She slid into her chair and I kissed her cheek as I said, “Happy birthday, Mâmân.”
She put down the silver platter of dates, and Bâbâ passed it down the table. The last three of my brothers came into the room and took their seats. My mother caught my eye and winked, looking excited. She reached for the pocketbook hanging on the back of her chair, brought it around, and rifled through it.
She came out with a photograph. “Let me show you this picture.”
“Of what?”
She slid the photo across the table to me. It showed a dark-haired Persian girl who’d had a nose job. “I think Salma, here, is very beautiful, and she loves New York winters.”
I chewed on my date and grimaced. Cyrus laughed and slapped his knee. Once I finished my bite, I shook my head. “No.”
“No what?” She slipped the picture into my hand. I vaguely recognized the woman from one of my mother’s holiday parties. She invited about a thousand well-to-do New York Persians to her annual New Year’s gala. I handed the picture back as she said, “You need to get married like Joel and set the right example for the rest of your brothers and so your staff takes you seriously.”
She implied that I, as the oldest, had some sort of duty. I took her hand. “You brought us here and raised us to be American, Mom. This means we all want to choose our own brides.”
She sighed and put the picture back. “You’re not choosing anyone, working all the time in your office.”
I refilled my tea and said to Bâbâ, “My business just passed our goals for the first year by leaps and bounds, and we need to ensure that we’re successful.”
He held up his cup like he’d cheer me with tea.
