“For like the hundredth time, Ellery, I can do this on my own,” Ford groans when I grunt as I try to kick a cut two-by-four free.
My arms ache and my eyes burn despite the safety goggles, but I refuse to show any sign of it. “I know you can, but why should you get all the fun?”
“Fun?” He snorts.
This is anything but fun. However, I feel the need to prove I’m pulling my weight, especially given this strange weirdness between us. And if this shows that, then I’m here for it.
“Sinclair.”
I wave the dust that’s floating in the air away from my face and look toward one of our plumbers who is working upstairs. “Yeah?”
“Just walked past the lobby. Someone’s looking for you.”
“For me?”
“Guy in a suit. He’s not too thrilled about the dust.” He chuckles.
“Thanks.” I set my sledgehammer against the wall and wipe the dust off the front of my jeans out of habit, despite how futile it is. When I glance up, Ford is standing across the room staring at me, and I just shrug as I walk out of the soon-to-be luxury suite.
As I turn the corner, I come to a halt when I see Chandler, stiff and definitely out of place, at the entrance to the inn.
He’s picking something off the shoulder of his perfectly tailored suit, and no doubt his Bruno Magli shoes are gathering drywall dust simply because he’s standing there.
Fish out of water.
“Chandler? What are you doing here?” I ask as I move toward him at a hurried pace. Almost as if I need to get to him before someone else does because he doesn’t belong here.
Which is a totally irrational thought, but one I feel nonetheless.
The last place I want my past mixing with my future.
“Surprise.” He holds his hands out to his sides. “I wanted to come and see how things were going.”
“Why? Last we talked, you told me you hoped I’d be railroaded so I’d come running back to you with my tail tucked between my legs.”
“Come on, now,” he says as I stop before him. “Don’t exaggerate.” His expression sours as he takes a long look at me from head to toe. “Forgive me for not giving you a hug, but you’re filthy.”
When did he become such a prima donna?
I grin in response. “I know.”
He studies me with an intensity and disbelief that is almost comical. “Is the charade over? I mean”—he gestures to me as a whole—“this really isn’t you.”
But it is. And that’s on me because I was willing to marry a man who never took the time to see it.
My smile is placating. Condescending. “We’re awful busy today.”
“You can make time for me.”
My smile is frozen in place as our foreman, Roddy, walks by and takes in the two of us standing there. I can already feel his judgment without him even uttering a word. Three months ago, I wouldn’t have thought twice about standing next to Chandler, but I already feel like such a different person than the one who agreed to marry him.
It’s crazy how perspective can do that to you.
“Clearly you’re making progress,” Chandler says to fill the awkward silence.
“Hmm.”
“Sharpe has made a good choice on changing the front elevation of the building. It’ll have cleaner lines and a more timeless esthetic. He really knows his—”
“Those were my choices.”
Chandler’s eyes snap over to mine, his condescending chuckle telling me he doesn’t believe me. He doesn’t believe either I’m capable of making educated decisions such as this or that Fordham Sharpe would ever let a woman make decisions for him.
Neither can be further from the truth.
And both piss me off.
“Like I said. We’re swamped today. A whole crew has called in sick and we have a serious deadline to meet. Thanks for stopping by, but—”
“C’mon, Ellery.” He reaches out and tries to lace his fingers through mine. I stiffen in response, repulsion the only thing I feel. “I made the effort to come all this way, the least you can do is show me around.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Ford
Fucking prick.
I smash the sledgehammer into the drywall.
Fiancée, my ass.
The thud of it hitting the gypsum does nothing to abate the jealousy that streaked through me when he put his hand on her back.
Chandler Holcomb with his pretentious smile and condescending tone. He probably practices that smug smile in the mirror every morning. Little does he know it makes him look like an asshole.
How can she like him?
How can she want a man who looks at her as less than instead of as an equal?
Because he sure as fuck does. It was in the stupid questions he asked her. In the patronizing comments he made that clearly questioned her and her abilities. In the way he made it known to every person he talked to that she was his.
He made my blood boil.
And the fact that she is with him and looked so miserable being beside him, does even more so.
She deserves so much better.
She deserves . . . me.
I grunt as I lift the hammer up again, trying to work through the anger seeing him here created. Why did she invite him here?
Thunder rumbles outside as the storm moves in. Fitting for my mood. Fitting for an excuse as to why I need to keep going despite everyone already having left the site.
Lift. Smash. Yank.
I create a rhythm of destruction. A soundtrack to accompany my racing thoughts.
The plan is to do this until I collapse from exhaustion. Until I can no longer think. Until I can no longer want.
In theory anyway.
There is contentment in putting in the labor that I never expected. In tearing something down to build it back up. To having my hands dirty and my shirt sweaty.
I know the minute she’s there.
I can faintly smell her perfume, even with the dust suffocating the room, before I hear her footsteps.
But I don’t turn. I don’t look. I keep working.
Lift. Smash. Yank.
Everything is pent-up—desire, rage, confusion, need—and it’s best if I leave it all the fuck alone.
“Are you enjoying the show or are you going to say something?” I snip at her.
Lift.
“We have a problem.”
Smash.
“Of course, we have a problem.” His name is Chandler Holcomb.
Yank.
“The helpers today? The day laborers we were able to get to help?”
“What about them?” I don’t even stop to look at her.
“They, uh . . . they took down the wall of your room.”
“Great. Perfect. Par for the fucking course. I can sleep on the beach for all I care.”
“You do that.”
“Better than being in here with you,” I mutter.
“What’s your fucking problem, Sharpe?” she asks, stepping into my periphery.
Don’t look, Ford. “My problem?” Do. Not. Look. “I don’t have a problem.”
“Could’ve fooled the fuck out of me.”
“Wouldn’t be hard now, would it?” I grunt as I hit the last large piece of drywall still intact.
“Will you stop for a second?” she yells.
“I’ve got to get this done. Got to stay on schedule. Got to—” She yanks on my bicep as my arm is in mid-swing. I drop the sledgehammer with a thud and turn on her, a ball of fury in my gut. “Are you fucking crazy?” I shout.