It’s then I get it.
It’s then I know.
Daddy’s gone.
My perfect world inside my perfectly pink room on my perfectly lacy bedspread with my perfectly perfect parents will never be the same.
And he’s never going to be able to come back.
“Sometimes people’s minds are sick. And they can’t help it. I loved him and you loved him . . .”
I nod again because it’s easier than speaking. We both study the photo. A picture of love . . . until it wasn’t. “You have his smile and his laugh and his intuitive sense to make people who are nervous, comfortable.”
It feels good to hear all those things, to feel like I’m like him somehow, some way . . . but it doesn’t take away the sting of his absence.
“Do you still love him, Mom?”
Tears well in her eyes as do mine. “I do. Yes. I’ll always love him.”
“So will I.”
“Of course you will. You’re a part of him.”
“But you married Garland, though,” I say of my stepfather.
“I did.” She gives a measured nod.
“So you love him too, then?”
Her smile falters. “He’s a good man.” Her eyes dart to the doorway as if to make sure no one is there and then back to mine. “But our marriage . . . it’s different from the one your father and I had.”
“How? Isn’t being married the same thing?”
Her sigh is hesitant as she moves to the bed and sits beside me. “Garland is kind. He treats us well. He’s a good provider. I mean, look at the company and everything it has allowed us to do and have. Who would have thought that this could happen to us? That I could build that with him.” She smooths a hand over my hair and leans down to press a kiss on my forehead.
“But wasn’t Dad kind and didn’t he treat us well?”
“Yes, silly. He did and then some. What Garland and I have is just . . . how do I explain this? Sometimes two people meet and decide that they want a partnership in a sense. Meaning, we want the same things out of life, for our children, and in most respects, really.” Her smile is tight, almost as if she’s trying to convince herself of it, and I’m too young to understand why.
But I do know that when I look at my mom, when I see her talk about my dad and then Garland, her eyes go from being alive to hollow.
And I’m old enough to understand that’s how I feel inside too with my dad being gone.
Love isn’t enough.
Lesson learned the hard way. Love is glorious but fleeting. It hurts. It will cut you open and bleed you dry before emptying every other part of you.
I’ve only loved two people in my life. They were my whole world. One is gone. Little do I know that within years of losing Dad, I will have lost them both.
Seems the pain that comes with real, true love isn’t worth it.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Ford
She stands with one hand on her hip and her lips pursed as she studies the papers laid out on the conference room table in front of us. Structural prints for the changes we’re making to the interior—combining rooms to make suites on each floor with individual exits and entrances to them for privacy. Then there are the elevation drawings to show what the new exterior will look like. Next to those are interior design choices on spec boards—colors, carpets, fabrics, tiles. Elegance and luxury mixed with comfort and decadence.
It’s been five weeks since we partnered up and signed the papers. Five weeks of waiting for escrow to close while we prepared for every facet of the remodel. Our hope is to complete it at lightning speed because time spent is money lost. Five weeks of being surrounded constantly by people helping us plan and plot and everything in between or on Zoom calls scheduling and brainstorming from our individual offices across town as we get ready to move on-site.
Five weeks, and this is the first time we’ve been completely and utterly alone. My staff has gone home. Her assistant has left. It’s just her, me, and the night sky outside of this skyscraper’s windows.
The thoughts running through my head right now shouldn’t be there as I study her while she’s busy contemplating something trivial on the table before her.
I welcome them, though. Oh, how I welcome them. What my fingers would feel like digging into her hips. What her lips would taste like as I delved my tongue between them. What her pussy would feel like as it pulsed around me.
Oh, how I’ve thought about them. About her.
And way too fucking much.
My eyes are bleary from staring at prints and my mind is exhausted, but I can still imagine and want and then tell myself I can’t want. Can’t have.
She’s off limits.
The best way to fuck up a partnership is to fuck your partner.
End of story.
But another look at those pursed lips has my dry spell feeling like a goddamn drought.
The big question though is why is there still a tan line where her engagement ring was? Five weeks is a long time for a tan to fade and yet it’s still there. Still a blaring symbol that she belongs to another.
So is she just not wearing it in my presence? Did it drop down the sink drain? Did she chuck it at her fiancé as she told him she wanted me instead? And if she’s not wearing it because of me . . . what in the hell does that mean?
“What?”
When I snap from my thoughts, I realize that I’ve been staring at Ellery with narrowed eyes. “I’m sorry. What did you say?” I ask, trying to run that last fantasy of bending her over the conference room table from my head.
Yeah. It’s bad. And no matter how often I tell myself it’s going to be a long, torturous few months living on-site with her if these are my thoughts now, I can’t stop them.
“I asked what that look you’re giving me is for because it’s really intense. Did I miss something?” She glances to the table and then back to me. “If I did, please let me know. The last thing we need is for one of us to not be in sync with each other on everything.”
“And if we’re not, we’ll figure it out,” I say as I move to her side of the table.
“Spoken like a man used to having such huge decisions on his shoulders.” She sighs as if she doesn’t exactly trust herself. She should though. She’s brilliant.
And her brilliance, input, and keen eye for detail has made me wonder why we never contracted with Haywood Redesigns before. Oh, that’s right. Joshua Haywood. Prick extraordinaire.
“I believe you were the one who wanted to step out from beneath your brothers’ shadows and prove that you could handle the types of projects they handle. That being the coffee girl wasn’t enough for you.” I lean my ass on the table and look at her. “Are you chickening out on me, Elle?”
“Of course not. It’s just—”
“It’s just this is a lot of money and a lot of pressure and what the hell happens if it doesn’t work or if you don’t know what you’re doing and, and, and . . . right?”
“It sounds ridiculous. I’m sorry.” She emits a nervous laugh and starts to fidget with her hands. “You must be wondering why the hell you agreed to this. I’m a rookie. You’re an experienced professional. I mean—”
“Stop.” I step forward and close my hands over hers. The hitch in her breath is audible. So is the visceral reaction my body has from touching her. For someone so brilliant, she lacks confidence now and again. Most likely from years of her brothers disregarding her. Well, not anymore. Not with me. “Quit stressing. In case you haven’t figured out by now, I’m pretty low-key. If a problem arises, we’ll figure it out. If we disagree, we’ll . . . I don’t know, we’ll yell at each other and you’ll tell me I’m being an ass and I’ll tell you you’re being stubborn, and then we’ll shake hands or something and move on.”