Aaron nodded.
No rush.
He sat down in one of the leather chairs near the window, crossed his hands over his knee, watched the showroom move around him.
And here’s what he saw:
A white couple in matching blazers walked through the front door.
Within 30 seconds, a salesman was shaking their hands.
Sparkling water appeared on a tray.
They were ushered into a private consultation room with a view of the tarmac.
A man in a navy suit arrived next.
Another handshake.
Another smile.
Another glass of sparkling water.
Another private room.
Aaron sat in his leather chair for 15 minutes.
No one brought him water.
No one checked on him.
No one made eye contact.
The receptionist paged Craig again.
He waved her off through the glass without looking up.
At 10:17, Craig finally stood.
He buttoned his blazer, straightened his tie, and walked toward Aaron with the enthusiasm of a man taking out the trash.
No handshake.
He stopped 3 feet away and looked down at Aaron, still seated.
“So, you’re the one asking about the G280s?”
Aaron stood, extended his hand.
Craig looked at it, looked at Aaron’s face, then put both hands in his pockets.
“Let’s just talk here,” Craig said.
Here.
Not in his office, not in one of those private consultation rooms with sparkling water and leather chairs.
Here, standing in the lobby in full view of everyone, like Aaron was a delivery man asking for a signature.
Aaron lowered his hand.
“Sure.”
Craig crossed his arms.
“So, what exactly is your situation?”
“I own an agricultural company, three states. I travel frequently—six, sometimes eight flights a month. I need a private aircraft for business.”
Craig’s eyes glazed over the moment Aaron said “agricultural.”
“Agricultural?” Craig repeated.
“So, like, a farm?”
“A farming operation, yes. 4,800 acres across Oklahoma, Arkansas, and—”
“Right. Okay.”
Craig cut him off.
He wasn’t listening; he was performing.
His body was already angled toward the showroom floor, ready to end this conversation before it started.
“Look, the G280 is a serious aircraft. $30 million. That’s not a tractor, you understand?”
“I understand the price.”
“Do you? Because I want to make sure we’re on the same page here.”
Craig leaned in slightly, lowering his voice like he was doing Aaron a favor.
“Have you considered chartering? Renting by the hour? Might be more realistic for your situation.”
“My situation?”
“Yeah, your situation.”
Aaron took a slow breath, the kind of breath a man takes when he’s choosing patience over rage.
“I’ve done the research—3 months of it. I know the G280’s range, fuel efficiency, cabin layout, and maintenance schedule. I have financing in place. I’m ready to move forward today.”
Craig stared at him for a long beat, then his mouth curled into something between a smile and a sneer.
“Tell you what, let me show you something that might be a better fit.”
He turned and walked—not toward the G280 display at the center of the showroom floor, not toward the Gulfstream wing.
He walked toward a side table near the entrance: a table stacked with brochures for King Air turboprops.
Smaller, cheaper. $5 million instead of 30.
Craig picked up a brochure and held it out like he was handing a menu to a child.
“The King Air 360. Great little plane, solid for regional hops. Farms, right? You’re not going overseas. This makes more sense for a guy like you.”
“A guy like me?”
“I’m just trying to save you some embarrassment here, man.”
Aaron looked at the brochure, looked at Craig, didn’t take it.
“I came here for the G280. I have an appointment for the G280. I’d like to see the G280.”
Something shifted behind Craig’s eyes.
The polite mask cracked, just a little.
His jaw tightened, his nostrils flared, and then he laughed—not a polite chuckle, not a quick grin, but a full, open, head-tilted-back laugh, the kind designed to be heard, the kind that’s louder than it needs to be, the kind that says, “You are a joke to me.”
He looked over his shoulder at two salesmen standing near the coffee station.
“Hey, you guys hearing this? Farmer Brown here wants the G280.”
One of them snickered; the other covered his mouth.
Craig turned back to Aaron, still grinning.
“Listen, buddy, I’ve been doing this for 18 years. 18. I know a buyer when I see one.”
He paused, let the silence do the cutting.
“And I know when someone’s just window shopping.”
Aaron’s jaw tightened.
His right hand curled at his side, then slowly released.
The heat climbed up his neck, settled behind his eyes, but his voice stayed level.
“I’d like to speak with your manager.”
Craig’s grin didn’t fade.
“My manager? He’s going to tell you the same thing. We can’t just let anyone walk in off the street and—”
He didn’t finish the sentence, but every person in that showroom heard what he didn’t say.
Craig pressed further.
He leaned against the counter, arms folded, voice rising like he was putting on a show for the room.
“All right, since you want to play this game, let’s play. What’s your annual income?”
“That’s not something I discuss in a lobby.”
“What bank are you working with? You got a pre-approval letter, a credit report?”
“I have all of that.”
“On you, right now?”
“I can have it here within the hour.”
“Within the hour?”
Craig laughed again, shorter this time, sharper.