“Fancy meeting you here,” he says, his eyes kind but curious. Cautious.
“Well, that certainly was unexpected,” I say to give myself a minute to find words and thoughts that sound coherent, because the ones in my head are a jumbled mess.
“It most definitely was.” He gives a measured nod. “What do you think you were doing?” he asks and instantly my back goes up because one, that wasn’t what I expected him to say. And two, he sounds like my brothers, like he doesn’t believe I can handle a project like this. I immediately have a sour taste in my mouth.
Don’t ruin the man I thought you were, Ford. Please, don’t.
I straighten my shoulders, prepared to defend myself. “What do I think I was doing? Seems to me I was doing the exact same thing you were. Bidding on a project that has a lot of possibilities. A lot of potential.”
“You were bidding against me.”
“I wanted it. Of course, I was going to bid against you and everyone else in there. How was I supposed to know that Fordham Sharpe of Sharpe International Network was going to march in there and try to steal the show?” I ask with a healthy dose of sarcasm. “It’s not like I even knew your last name when we met.”
“A conversation in a bar doesn’t warrant a requirement for you to know everything about me. For the record, I talked to you way more than I normally talk to anyone, so . . . take it for what it’s worth.”
And the grumpiness makes its appearance.
But he’s right. He didn’t owe me shit, just as I didn’t owe him anything.
I reach my hand out to him. “Ellery Sinclair. Of Haywood Redesigns.”
“I assumed the Haywood part if those were your brothers. I didn’t know the Sinclair part.” He leans back on the bench and scrubs a hand through his hair. He smells of cedar and ocean and everything desirable. “Jesus. What a small fucking world.”
“You know my brothers?”
“Joshua. I know him from Wharton and beyond. Not exactly a fan.”
“Neither am I, as you know,” I say as I study him.
“Then why did you let them urge you on?” He throws his hands up. “Why were you bidding? Why did you bump up the bid?”
“Me?” I shriek. “You were the one who wouldn’t concede. And my brothers have nothing to do with this. This is all me. I wanted this project. And I just spent a hell of a lot of money to get it. So if anyone should be mad, it should be me for how you walked in there like you owned the place to inflate the price and screw everyone over. Meaning me.”
“Screwing you over? Maybe you should be talking to your brothers about that? They’re the ones hoping you fall flat on your face so they can rush in and save the—”
“You think I don’t know that?” I laugh. “There’s a reason I just used my own damn money to qualify. To bid with. My trust fund. My name on the loan.” There is a tinge of hysteria in my voice as reality hits me. I now have five and a half acres and a hotel that I could afford to purchase, but that price was driven above my comfort zone by the man currently questioning me. Do I still have money for the needed improvements? Yes, but with the inflated price from our bidding war, I don’t have as much as I budgeted for.
And that’s without accounting for unforeseen problems and expenses that always happen on a project.
Tears well in my eyes that I blink away because I refuse to give him any iota of the vulnerability I’m suddenly awash with.
“Then why did you keep going?” he asks, his tone softening as if he hears the panic in my voice.
“Because I wanted it. Because I needed it. Christ,” I mutter as I pull my hair back and twist it into a knot on top of my head. “Clearly you did too.” I glance over at him and hold his gaze, suddenly needing to know the answer to a question I haven’t had time to think to ask. “Why did you stop?”
He lifts his chin toward the door of the auction house where my brothers stand, pretending not to be staring our way. “Because of them. What I overheard. And what you told me.”
I do a double take. “So you gave up the property for me?”
His nod is slow and measured, his lips twisting for a beat as he thinks about his answer. “I think you need it more than I do.”
The gesture hits me squarely in the gut and makes the panic flutter anew. “Thanks. Thank you.” I shove up from my seat and pace back and forth in front of him. What have I done? How did I think I could handle this project on my own? I could remodel it with my eyes closed. I have plans and projections and spreadsheets coming out my ass, but there is so much more to it than that. And the so much more is hitting me now. Overwhelming me now. “It’s yours. You can have it.”
He snorts. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“Sorry. Never mind.” I chuckle nervously and pinch the bridge of my nose. “Forgive the mini-panic attack, but it’s one thing to dream it and want it. It’s another thing to act on it and have the chance to. It’s hitting me now. That I do have the chance. That it’s mine. All at once. Oh my God.”
“Okay.” He draws the word out, his eyes studying me. “I think panic might be a normal reaction. So would elation. Pride. Excitement. Anticipation.”
I move back and forth in front of him again, my hands trembling from the adrenaline again. “Was I a fool for thinking I could pull this off? For getting caught up in the auction and going over what I had told myself I’d pay for it? I was, wasn’t I? I was—”
Ford is in front of me in an instant, my hands in his, and his head stooped low so our eyes are level. “You’re not a fool. Knock that shit off, Ellery. You know you can handle this. You know you’re capable. I know you’re capable. You know this is exactly what you want and what you deserve.”
I shake my head back and forth as if it will prevent me from hearing what he’s saying. “Being capable is one thing. Handling a project of this magnitude is . . .” Projects always overrun on costs. Manpower and rising costs on building materials. Labor shortages. My head spins with things I’ve already factored in but are still panic-inducing in this moment.
This is my own money.
Not Haywood Redesigns.
Mine.
I knew the risks. I was more than willing to take them. I’m aware you have to spend money to make money. But you can be the fiercest person in the world and still get overwhelmed when you take a chance on yourself.
“Ellery.”
“Just give me a minute.” I hold my hands up and force my feet to stop and my breath to slow down.
I can do this.
I know I can do this.
“Ellery. Look at me,” Ford says in that implacable tone of his.
“What?”
“Have you filed the paperwork yet?” His question throws me.
“Paperwork?”
“For the purchase. The auction.”
I stare at him, blinking, clearly not following him. “No. I mean, I was going to, but I needed some fresh air. Then you were here . . . and, no, I haven’t.”
“Okay. Then let’s go fill out our paperwork.”
My head snaps up to meet his. “What do you mean by our paperwork?”
“Ours. As in yours and mine. Co-owners split fifty-fifty. That’s my proposal.”