We’re face-to-face, chest to chest, and I’m reminded of the smell of her hair as she slept on my chest that night. The fullness of her lips as she murmured in her sleep. The warmth of her body against mine.

  We both draw in ragged breaths as our eyes meet. We should step away from each other. We should let go.

  But seconds pass.

  Breaths are inhaled. Exhaled.

  Goosebumps break out on her skin beneath my palms.

  Every sense of mine is way too damn aware of her. Of everything about her.

  My eyes dart down to her lips, to the pulse pounding in her neck, and then back up to her eyes as my body fights against reason. Against desire.

  The ring of her cell phone has the two of us jolting apart as if we were doing something wrong.

  Or perhaps about to.

  I turn my back and pace a few steps from her as I run a hand through my hair and gain some distance.

  “Chandler?” Her voice is soft, almost as if she doesn’t want me to hear.

  Chandler. The same man who was on the phone the first night we met. Clearly, he’s still in the picture and the reason behind the tan line on her finger.

  “I said I’ll be there.” Her sigh is one of frustration. “You know I won’t let you down.” She moves a few steps toward the window and looks out to the night beyond and murmurs something I can’t hear.

  I begin to collect the prints and the papers to look like I’m not doing exactly what I am doing, eavesdropping.

  “I understand. Yes. I have meetings all day with . . . clients. I’ll have to meet you there.” Her voice is soft, soothing even, and my curiosity is piqued. “Agreed. Okay.”

  But no, I love you. No, I’ll see you later.

  “Everything okay?” I ask absently as I roll up a set of blueprints and rubber band the roll of paper.

  “Yes. Fine.”

  “That doesn’t sound convincing.” I chuckle and spare a fleeting glance her way to find disquiet etched in her expression.

  “It’s a long story.” She waves a hand my way as if to say it’s irrelevant. “Let me help you with that.”

  “No, I’ve got it. Why don’t you take off?”

  “You sure?”

  “Yes. I’ll have Phillip give you a ride home,” I say, mentioning my driver who’s taken her home before.

  “I couldn’t impose. I’m sure you need him for—”

  “I have an hour or two left here. Please. I insist.”

  She gives me a halfhearted smile and nods. “Okay. Thank you.” She lifts her designer tote bag weighed down with her laptop onto her shoulder and looks around to make sure she hasn’t missed anything. Her eyes meet mine one last time. “I appreciate the pep talk, Fordham.”

  I watch her walk out the conference room door, her heels clicking on the marble floors. The elevator dings. The door shuts. I take a seat and lean back in my chair, hands behind my head, feet propped up on the table, and exhale a long, low breath.

  I know they’re already there.

  I know they’ve been waiting for her to leave to make a comment.

  “Shouldn’t you both be home with your families?” I crack one eye open and see Callahan standing, shoulder leaning against the doorway.

  “Snaggletooth is looking absolutely horrid tonight.” Callahan coughs out a laugh and raises his eyebrows in appreciation.

  Ledger whistles. “And you’re going to be living on-site with her for how long?”

  I lift my middle finger at my brothers and then go back to closing my eyes and ignoring them.

  “Beds everywhere,” Callahan says.

  “Long nights alone. Just you. Just her. Just sheets to get tangled up in,” Ledger adds.

  “If you looked close enough, she has a ring line on her finger,” I say.

  “But no ring on it.” Ledger lifts his eyebrows and glances at Callahan. “So . . . she just broke up? She needs a good rebound screw?”

  “Ha. That’s what I thought and look where that landed me,” Callahan teases, but I know he wouldn’t change his life for the world. “Married with kids.”

  “Rebounds can be good. Great sex. No want for attachment.”

  “Hell, Ledge, I think we should give him the same speech you two gave me when I headed to Ocean’s Edge to work with Sutton,” Callahan says, referring to a conversation we had the week before he left to go to the Virgin Islands with his then consultant—now wife.

  “I don’t remember any conversation,” I mutter, full-well knowing what’s coming, and wishing for a beer to at least give me something to do while enduring this harassment.

  “Selective amnesia. Convenient.” Ledger snorts.

  “Let me refresh your memory. Something like: don’t sleep with her. Be professional. It’s our name on this company too, not just yours.” Callahan flashes a shit-eating grin at me. “Would you like me to keep going?”

  “And you followed the rules so well.” I lift my eyebrows and level him with a look.

  He shrugs. “Yeah, but breaking rules is expected of me.”

  “And what exactly is expected of me?” I ask.

  And isn’t that the question of the day?

  Ellery

  The sky is painted in colors, pinks and oranges and every color in between. I’ve waited almost five whole weeks from signing on the dotted line to standing here with the sunset as my backdrop, the crash of the waves as the soundtrack, while I dig my toes in the sand and stare in awe at what is now mine.

  Technically, ours, but that’s just semantics.

  I’ve felt pride before. I’ve felt ownership. I’ve known fear. But I’ve never known how potent a combination of the three could feel as I stare at what was formerly called the White Sands Inn.

  It’s D-Day. Or technically, tomorrow is, so I’m going to soak up the silence and solitude of being here all by myself before the chaos ensues. We have an army of contractors ready to take this place by storm.

  The sand is cool beneath my bare feet as I imagine our renditions coming to life. The seaside café we’re adding on to the left will offer cuisine from a renowned chef that Ford’s people are currently in talks with. The balcony to the right, which was an empty conference room, will be converted into a lounge. And then the rooms in between will become suites with top-of-the-line amenities.

  Pipe dreams.

  Isn’t that what Chandler said to me last night after all the pomp and circumstance of his big night died down, and we were left with that awkward silence that only proved we would never have worked?

  “He’s only partnering with you because you won the bid.”

  My eyes whip up to Chandler’s. “Ford?”

  He nods. “Who did you think I was talking about? Think about it. Why would a man of his stature buy a little-known nothing on a beach with someone he barely knows?”

  Because we have the same vision. Because we both need this reprieve from our day-to-day. Because we want something of our own.

  “I’m thinking that was meant as an insult. Jealousy doesn’t look good on you, Chan.”

  “I’m not jealous. Not in the least. But don’t be surprised if you get there and he pushes you aside and steamrolls you right out of the picture. The Sharpes don’t take a back seat to anyone.”

  “God forbid a man thinks I’m competent, capable, and worthy of a partnership.”

  “You are. That’s why this whole thing hits me weird.”

  There is no use arguing with him, so I simply smile and nod. “You’re on the outside, though.”

  “When it all goes to shit, just remember I warned you.”

  “Good. Great. Thanks for the vote of confidence.” Sarcasm drips from my voice.

  “Look, Elle. I get your need to fulfill this pipe dream of yours. Maybe it’ll work. Maybe Sharpe won’t railroad you and take over. And if he doesn’t and you accomplish your goal, maybe you’ll be satisfied and be ready to settle down. Be ready to marry me.”

  It is the first time I’ve ever looked at Chandler Holcomb and not liked him. Hence why the engagement ring he refused to take back is tucked away in my Tribeca apartment, safe until this project is completed.

  How weird is it to have one man essentially mock me and the other unconditionally support me? Ford barely knows me and he believes in me while Chandler, regardless of how much of a good guy he is, clearly thinks I’m in need of a hobby to knock some sense into me.

  The weird thing though is I honestly don’t care what Chandler thinks anymore. I’m so over and done with men who think less of me because I want more for myself.

  And I was going to marry him. Jesus Christ. If I thought being the coffee girl at Haywood was bad, I can only imagine what being married to someone who expects the same at home would be like.

  No fucking thank you.

  I should be angry.

  I should be disgusted.

  What I really feel is relief. Pure, unadulterated relief that I escaped this fate I had willingly subjected myself to.

  Chandler the misogynist in disguise who I’m grateful to be rid of.

  And Ford . . . whew. Ford, the man who knows how to get to a woman without even trying. He’s been in my dreams in ways that are definitely not safe for work. He’s constantly on my mind because of the project and the many things I need to tell him or want to discuss with him.

  And now we’re going to be living under the same roof. In close quarters. Day after deliciously torturous day.

  There is definitely chemistry there. Hell, it was there that first night we met. But we’re partners. It’s never a good idea to sleep with your equal. Because you mix things like feelings and emotions and that makes things not so equal anymore.

  But then again, it’s me we’re talking about. The woman who only does the physical. Who only likes lust and refuses anything remotely close to love.

  Emotions are irrelevant. Always.

  Concentrate, Elle. On the project. On making this work.

  And so, I do. I leave the sand behind for the worn brick of the inn’s back patio. The terrace and balconies will offer incredible views when they’re modernized.

  When I enter the hotel through the back door, the stillness hits me again, just as it did when I was handed the keys an hour ago and everyone left.

  I found solace in the silence then and now. What I didn’t expect is the sudden eeriness I feel in being the only person in an otherwise empty hotel. Not creepy as in The Shining, but rather desolate with every creak of its structure compounding the next.

  Maybe that’s why I turn on every light as I walk through the old building. Perhaps that’s why I put my earbuds in and crank up the music as I tread over worn floors with an extra bounce in my step to the beat. What I can’t hear, I can’t be freaked out by.

  I run my fingers up the dated oak banister that will soon be replaced with a more modern cable railing, and wonder what laughter and secrets have been shared in these hallways. And what new ones will happen when we’re done?

  I make notes on a pad of paper and add things to my checklist that I need to address with either Ford or the contractors. Things we possibly need to alter or things we didn’t know needed to be addressed since it’s hard to figure out a remodel when you haven’t been given complete access to the property. Headlights light up the road outside. Some pull into the parking lot and turn around to go back the way they came, and I wonder how we’ll make this the private haven for the elite when there’s a public access road outside.

  Another question to add to my list.

  And call me crazy, but each item added makes me happy. I relish the excitement of this new venture.

  You’ve got this, Sinclair.

  Ellery

  When I look at my watch, I’m shocked to see that hours have passed. I guess my excitement to get started has trumped my rationality of having one last night of nothing before the real work starts. So much for settling in the room I’ve picked, eating the sandwich I grabbed on the way in, drinking a glass of wine, and finishing the last few chapters on my romance novel before falling asleep for the night.

  The book may still be an option. Then again, I still have a slight bruise on my forehead from last week when I fell asleep and dropped my Kindle on it.

  I’ll read on my stomach this time. At least that will help prevent any droppage injuries.

  Deciding that I’ll take my shower first, before the eating, reading, and sleeping portion of what’s left of the night, I make my way back downstairs to the room I’ve picked as my short-term residence.

  A room with a door that I’ve debated closing and locking behind me when I go to bed. Or is it better to leave it propped open so I know what’s going on in the rest of the hotel? Which should be nothing.

  I double-check the entry doors on the bottom floor to make sure they’re locked as one of my favorite songs comes on. I have no shame as I dance down the hallway. With each shimmy and shake, I discard an item of clothing, before closing the door behind me and dumping clothes unceremoniously on the bed. The room is dim, save for a muted desk lamp and the bathroom light I left on earlier.

  I give another little shimmy and a hard shake of my hips before twirling around and running smack dab into something.

  Or rather into someone.

  A whole lot of wet, naked someone.

  The screech I emit is on a whole other level as I jolt back—earbuds falling out, phone clattering to the ground. I have a brief glimpse of the man in front of me. Chiseled and tanned and perfect and . . . cock. Oh my God. I’ve just seen Fordham Sharpe’s impressive cock.

  The thought registers at the same time I step in a puddle of water and my feet slip out from under me.

  I fall backward in all my own naked glory—boobs bouncing, arms flailing, and hips jiggling. Graceful isn’t exactly the word I’d use to describe me. Instinct has me reaching out to Ford, and he tries to catch me.

  But then he slips in the same water that I do.

  His curse echoes off the tile walls, followed by the oomph as I hit the chaise lounge behind me, seconds before Ford lands smack dab on top of me.

  I’d like to think my first thought is thank God these old, oversized bathrooms have a soft chaise lounge in them I could fall on instead of the hard edge of the bathtub. That should be what’s first and foremost on my mind. My safety.

  But it’s kind of hard to think rationally when the only thing that’s hard is about six foot three inches and planking my entire body right now.

  And whose hands are grabbing my wrists beside my head and whose grinning mouth is inches from mine.

  I’ve never been more aware of every nerve ending in my body than I am at this moment.

  We stare at each other for a beat. I’m not sure if our minds are catching up with what just happened to our bodies, but our eyes lock and our bodies tense.

  Which of course presses that rather impressive cock against my thighs.

  “I’m sorry,” we say in unison.

  Kiss me.

  It’s not the first time I’ve thought it.

  It most likely won’t be the last either.

  How can any normal woman not think something like that when she’s skin-to-skin, body to body, with a man as gorgeous as Ford?

  I part my lips to say something, anything, as the agonizing and embarrassing seconds tick by.

  “You’re in my bathroom. What are you doing here? What in the hell do we do?”

  He chuckles. “You’re in my bathroom. I texted you that I was coming.” He quirks an eyebrow at his word of choice, his grin widening, and his voice suddenly lowering. “And as far as what we do now . . .”

  His eyes shift to his right seconds before I catch a glimpse of something glance through his eyes. A warning? Fear? I don’t exactly know what, but he pushes up off of me in a hurry. Before I can comprehend what’s happening, yet again, Ford throws a bath towel my way, giving me nothing but a perfect view of his bare ass as he walks away.

  I look.

  Of course, I look as I scramble to wrap the towel around me and rise from my more than awkward position on the chaise—because it’s hard not to.

  “What in the hell are you doing here? Why?” I ask as he keeps his back to me and yanks another towel off the towel rack next to the shower door.

  “Taking a shower. Clearly.” Annoyance tinges the edges of his tone when moments ago he was lying on top of me, smirking.

  “But my bags were in the room. I was here first. You weren’t supposed to be here until tomorrow.” I sputter each sentence out.

  “And I texted you I was coming early. I called out when I came in the front door. It’s not my fault you had earphones in or didn’t check your phone,” he says, and I’m confused by his sudden wintry tone.

  When he turns to face me, he’s holding the towel over his crotch so that every maddening gorgeous inch of him is on display. The hip dents. The happy trail. The firmness of his thighs. The definition in his chest.

  Lord, have mercy.

  I make a concerted effort to look up at his eyes, and when I do, there’s indifference in his expression, almost anger, that matches the tone of his voice. That throws me.

  Talk about fueling a woman’s insecurities in herself when she’s at her most vulnerable.

  He’s in my shower. In my bathroom. When I’m supposed to be alone. And he’s mad at me?

  “You shouldn’t be here.”

  But don’t be surprised if you get there and he pushes you aside and steamrolls you right out of the picture. The Sharpes don’t take a back seat to anyone.

  Chandler’s words flood back to me and sow seeds of doubt that shouldn’t be there. “Come again?”

  He drops his head for a beat. “That’s not what I meant.”

  “Then what exactly did you mean because last I checked, I own half of this building too.”

  “You do. We both do. Fifty-fifty.” He chuckles and holds one hand up in front of him, the smile I’ve come to know breaking through the pained expression on his face.

  Despite his smile, I’m already on the defensive. Already primed for a fight reserved for Chandler that Ford doesn’t deserve.

 

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