Final proposal, p.17
Final Proposal, page 17
She takes her time thinking of her response, which seems so different than the Chatty Cathy I first met months ago. So, what’s changed?
Her sigh comes before her answer. “I want to finish this and . . . I don’t know. Will I get the satisfaction, vindication, whatever you want to call it when the project is completed? And if I do, will it be enough to sustain me? Will Garland still think I need to be seen and not heard? Will my brothers respect my opinions as an equal partner?”
“But you said he called and praised some of your work. Maybe the tide is already turning some in that aspect.”
She purses her lips and nods. “Perhaps. I don’t know.”
I can all but feel her conflict.
“Okay, say all of that were true. Finishing the project and it being a success. Spoiler alert—it will. But say it is and Garland truly realizes your worth and the dickheads start respecting your opinions. If all of that were true, would you consider yourself successful?”
“That’s the question, isn’t it?”
“My mom used to tell me that at the end of the day, the only thing that matters in life is what your family says about and thinks of you. I used to believe that wholeheartedly, but to be honest, I’ve struggled with that as of late. And then we talk, and I watch you battle against the shit your brothers and your dad say. I see you. I know you. I know your worth, and I’m amazed they can’t see it.”
And isn’t that the truth? She’s making me realize there is an exception to the rule my mother told me it was important to live my life by.
The question is, how does that newfound knowledge apply to me?
Because I’m starting to realize that part of the reason the biography has produced a sore spot for me is that I always craved those words from him. His praise. His approval. All three of us did. And like with any siblings, when a parent gives one something and not the other, it makes the one who was left out feel less than.
And his lack of discussion about me in the biography did just that—made me feel as if I weren’t as important. And my brothers’ dismissal of my feelings over it only served to tear open the wound a little more.
But then there’s Ellery, a walking example of being an exception to the rule.
To not needing anybody’s words to prove her worth.
And I wonder how I can apply that to my life. I wonder if it’s possible to step back and overlook what feels like a slight, because if what my family says and thinks about me is to be my foundation for how I see myself, then clearly, I’m lacking.
“Your mom’s notion is good in theory, but maybe it only applies to functional families.” She laughs. “And God knows mine is dysfunctional in the most normal of ways.” She begins tracing my palm with her finger. Seconds pass as we stare at what she’s doing. “Why have you struggled with it so much?”
“It’s neither here nor there,” I say, my chin bumping her shoulder. She’s talking. The last thing I want to do is turn the topic to me. But I also find it weird that for the first time, I actually want to talk to her about the biography. My reaction. The invalidation I feel over it. I want to see what she thinks. See if she understands when it seems my brothers think I’m being ridiculous.
“No redirecting,” I say and press a kiss to the back of her neck. “You never finished answering the question. What does professional success look like to you? Personal success? I want to know all the things, Ellery, and I’m not letting you off the hook until you give them to me.” I squeeze her waist tighter, pulling her against me.
“Professionally, I think I’m still figuring it all out. And I think that’s okay. Do I have to work? No. I can phone it in to collect that Haywood payroll check and cash out—but that isn’t satisfying to me. Maybe I do another something like this.” She gestures to the building all around us. “On a smaller scale so I don’t hyperventilate at the sale price.”
“You were a little pale.”
“A lot pale. Jesus.”
“And then I swooped in to save the day,” I tease, already prepared for the reaction because, if I know her as well as I think I do, Ellery Sinclair doesn’t need anyone to swoop in and rescue her.
Three.
Two—
“You didn’t swoop. I don’t need swooping.”
I throw my head back and laugh. “That was quicker than I thought.” She swats at me. “And believe me, I know more than anyone how very capable you are.” I kiss her shoulder. “So that’s professionally. What about personally?”
“I’d like to travel. My parents were big travelers. I have picture album after picture album that documented their trips. I think it would be cool to do the same. Stand in the same spots they did. Experience the same things. It sounds ridiculous, but maybe it would allow me to feel a little closer to them.”
“No. I get it. My brothers and I have all done things to feel a little closer to our parents since they’ve passed. There is absolutely no judgment or timeline on grief. It’s different for everyone. Besides, I think that’s a cool idea that you have that history to hold on to.”
“We’ll see if I ever get to it.”
“You bought an inn on a whim. I’m pretty sure you’ll get to it.”
“Thanks for the vote of confidence.”
“When it comes to you, that’s a given.” Her part snort, part sigh tells me she’s about to refute my comment, so I just put a hand over her mouth. “Own it, Ellery. I don’t care what it takes, but by the end of this venture, you’re going to be nodding when I say that instead of snorting.”
Her sigh is all I need to know she heard me. And the slow lick of her tongue over the inside of my palm has blood pooling to my lap that she’s so conveniently perched on.
My chuckle is pained as I pull my hand away just as her grin is forming.
I will not be distracted by her seduction attempts. I mean, yes, I’m distracted and will welcome the chance to be again, but after this conversation. It’s a fucking miracle the woman is talking so I intend to keep her doing so.
“What’s wrong, Ford?” She wiggles her ass over my hardening cock. “Is there something distracting you?”
I close my eyes and suck in a breath as the warmth of her pussy seeps through her jeans and onto my cock.
“Nope.” I grit the words out and shift her so she’s sitting more on one thigh and less on my hard-on. It’s wishful thinking that it’ll help with the desire coursing through my body, but it’s worth a shot. “Not a thing.”
Ledger.
Callahan.
Ledger.
Callahan.
Thoughts of my brothers are a surefire way to give me a reverse boner.
“No kids or white picket fence?” I grit out as she puts her hand down to shift and accidentally grazes my denim-clad cock.
I hiss in a breath as her grin grows.
“White pickets need too much maintenance. Paint and the weather wear on them. Maybe a vinyl fence someday. Or wrought iron. It’s a little sturdier.”
I laugh. God, this woman. She’s something else.
“And kids—”
“You’re trying so hard to continue this conversation, aren’t you?” she murmurs as she traces the bulge in my pants with her fingernail. The sensations ricochet all the way down to my balls and lower abdomen as she leans in, her mouth inches from mine. “How about we stop talking, Sharpe, and you start putting that mouth of yours to much better use?”
“What did you have in mind?” My eyes flicker from her lips to her eyes and then to her tongue darting out to wet her lips.
Whatever it is, I’m sure I’ll like it.
She leans in and brushes her lips to mine. “Well, considering we’re equal partners—”
“Fifty-fifty,” I whisper against hers.
“I do believe you got your fifty this morning, and I’m still sitting here without mine.”
Fuck. Is she asking me to go down on her?
She doesn’t have to ask twice.
Conversation over.
Libido in overdrive.
“I can most definitely remedy that.”
“You can?”
Another kiss.
“What kind of partner would I be if I didn’t try to fulfill my responsibilities?”
A momentary slide of my hand between her thighs.
“A horrible one.”
A lick of her tongue over my bottom lip.
With my hands on her waist, I help push her to standing while I make quick work of the button and zipper on her jeans. “Then I’m going to need you to sit your ass on this desk right here for me to prove I’m worthy.”
Fifty-fifty never sounded so good.
Ellery
“I need you to pick up something for me.”
Isn’t that what Ford had asked of me? To run an errand and head to the next town over to help him out?
Can’t say that I minded. I’ve been in a funk the past few days since my mom’s birthday, so the chance to roll the car windows down and get some fresh air was just what I needed.
Each mile I put between me and the site allowed me to breathe a little more.
Chaos seemed to be the theme this week.
And I swear it’s because Ford jinxed us by saying everything had been running smoothly. This week alone, a pipe burst in the café area, an electrician fell off a ladder and needed medical attention, and we were denied a permit due to some minor technicalities with city ordinances.
Stress upon stress upon stress.
And all of that when we have an impending hard date for the furniture to start arriving.
If the rooms don’t get finished, then we have nowhere to put it.
Speaking of schedules, I need to get whatever this is I’m here to pick up and get back.
I glance at the address again on the text Ford sent me and then back to the building in front of me.
Yep. It’s the right place. Just not exactly where I’d expect to pick up something for a remodel.
The building is Cape Cod blue with white shutters and flower boxes on the sills. A few women mill about, passing back and forth in the windows. One has a glass of wine in her hand. Another has foils in her hair.
I reach up and touch the ends of my own hair. When is the last time I had it cut and blown out? I’ve been so involved in the inn, in my time with Ford, that it hasn’t even crossed my mind.
Maybe I’ll make an appointment while I’m here.
But what do a salon and a remodel have in common? Ford had to have transposed numbers or something on the address.
Me: You sure this is the right address?
Ford: Yes. Blue building. Pink flowers?
Me: Yes.
Ford: Millie has what you need.
I stare at my screen and give a shake of my head.
“Here goes nothing,” I mutter as I climb out of my car and up the steps. The inside is airy and sizeable. It smells of the jasmine climbing in the planters. There is the low hum of chatter and blow-dryers as I wait for someone to spot me at the front desk.
“May I help you?” a woman with curly brown hair and a kind smile asks.
“Yes, I’m looking for Millie. I’m here to pick something up for Fordham Sharpe.”
Her smile spreads to a million watts. “Isn’t that man the greatest? Brains and kindness and looks all rolled into one incredible package.”
“Um-yes. I guess,” I stutter, thrown off guard by her comments.
She waves a hand at me. “Honey, it’s more than okay to agree. There is no judgment here. You must be Ellery.”
“Yes. Millie?”
“Guilty as charged,” she says, her southern accent coming through a little stronger.
“I’ll just grab whatever it is he needs and get out of your way.” My smile is polite, but I’m not exactly thrilled with this woman fawning all over the man who currently occupies way too much of my time to be considered healthy.
Her laugh draws the attention of everyone around us. “Oh darling, you’re not grabbing anything you can take with you.”
“What do you mean?” I ask as she extends her hand with what looks like a card in it.
I eye her curiously as I open the envelope and pull the card out.
Elle-
You’ve been working nonstop. You deserve a break. A little relaxation. Millie has the works set up for you. A massage. A facial. A manicure and pedicure. Other things I don’t even know what they are.
And when you’re done for the day, there’s a nice waterfront condo with your name on it for the night. Food is ordered and will be waiting. Wine is chilling. I’ve been promised by the owner that some excellent romance novels have been left to aid in that relaxation. Enjoy the time away from the noise and the dust.
Someone once said this place can make you batty. It can. Take this time for yourself to unwind. I’ll see you tomorrow.
-Ford
I don’t know why tears spring to my eyes, but they do.
“He’s not too shabby, if I do say so myself,” Millie says softly.
“No. Not at all.” I blink away the tears and hate how one escapes down my cheek that I wipe away as soon as it falls.
“It takes a good man to recognize when his girlfriend needs a break from the day-to-day.”
“I’m not . . . we’re not—”
Her laugh cuts me off. “You can I’m not, we’re not all you want, but if a man takes time out of his day to make a woman happy who isn’t his momma, then I’m thinking you’re more than just a friend.”
My cheeks flush, and I’m not sure what to say. I nod. “We’ll go with more than just a friend.”
“Well, it’s something all right.” She holds her hand out to me. “Phone, please.”
“Why?”
“Because if I have your phone, then you’ll have a valid excuse why you can’t respond to work questions. And because it’s what Ford asked me to do, and you know as well as I do there is no saying no to that fine specimen of a man.”
I reluctantly hand over my phone, almost feeling like I’m giving her an arm or a leg. As I do so, a text sounds off, but she just smiles and tucks it into a drawer and locks it.
“Now that that’s taken care of, let’s get that pampering started. Time’s a wasting.”
I spend the next ridiculous amount of time being treated like I’m royalty. When I ask if I’m supposed to drink water after my massage, I’m told “champagne is made of water so it’s okay.” When I’m asked what color to paint my fingers and toes, I choose red because I know how much Ford liked my red lipstick the last time I wore it. When I’m asked if I feel relaxed as I head out the door, the tears burn in my eyes as I nod and realize just how much I needed this decadent reprieve.
I tell myself I don’t deserve this, all this pampering and attention, but I’d be remiss to deny just how much I’m enjoying it.
Every knot in my shoulders has been kneaded. My skin is glowing. My body’s relaxed.
And all because he noticed I needed it when I didn’t even notice it myself.
The thought repeats as I walk up the front steps to the condo Millie directed me to.
I’m like a giddy teenager as I unlock the door and look at the luxurious bed and huge clawfoot tub to soak in. I run my fingers over paperbacks by some of my favorite romance authors and revel in thought over how whoever brought them knew what I liked. A charcuterie board is set up on the table. Beside it is a box of chocolate-covered strawberries, a bowl of Chex Mix without the pretzels, and a bottle of the cabernet I like. The doors to the balcony are open, looking at the same ocean our inn does, but for some reason—maybe it’s my relaxed state, maybe it’s the day I’ve had—it sparkles even bluer.
I dial Ford the minute I finish taking it all in.
“So, I take it you didn’t have any problems today picking up what I needed picked up?” Ford asks by way of answering.
“Ford.” My voice breaks. Why does this feel like the nicest thing anyone has ever done for me? Seeing that I needed a break. Giving me that break. Not being put out that he’s taking the brunt because of that break. “I don’t even know what to say. Thank you doesn’t even begin to cover it.”
“There’s no need to say thank you. I just hope you relaxed rather than thought of ways to escape.”
“Why would I escape?”
“Says the woman who put the capital A in Type A?”
“You’re so full of it.”
“I am? Because I bet you that bottle of wine you’re pulling the cork from right now that you struggled with giving someone else control for the day, even when that someone was me.”
I burst out laughing because he is so right. I did worry about not being there. About someone needing me when I couldn’t be reached.
“See, I know you well. That’s why I had Millie take your phone away.”
“Apparently.” I pause and it dawns on me. “Oh my God. Something happened today, didn’t it?”
“Stop frantically scrolling through your texts. Nothing happened. And if it had, do you not have any faith in me?”
He’s right. I’m not alone. I have a partner who is more than capable.
“Okay. Panic attack averted.” I sit on a cushy chair and put my feet up. “Seriously though, that, this . . . everything was so thoughtful. I truly think it’s one of the nicest things anyone has ever done for me.”
“Well, that’s a shame because that is a drop in the bucket on the things you deserve, Ellery.”
Silence falls on the line. It’s not awkward, but I feel like there is so much unspoken in the space of time that neither of us are comfortable putting a voice to.
“Should I be jealous of those books you plan on reading tonight?” he teases.
“Whoever picked them has good taste.”
“Is that code for they have great sex scenes in them?”
“Something like that.” We both laugh. I’m not sure why I half expected to hear a knock on the door and have him be talking to me on his cell from the other side of it.
But there is no knock.
There are no expectations.
And I’m not sure if I like that he doesn’t expect anything in return for his kindness or if I’m disappointed that he didn’t come share this night with me away from the inn.
