Then there were the day-to-day items to do here at the inn. A site walk-through with the superintendent where we check off items completed and add things that need attention. Discussions over logistics. The breakup of an argument between a frustrated Ellery and a plumber who refused to take orders . . . and, I’m assuming, take them from a woman, because when I told him what to do, he did them quickly. Asshole.
The day has been exhausting yet satisfying. Just like it seems every other day here has been.
Isn’t that what I was hoping for when I came here? To work with my hands and see something materialize from that hard work?
And what’s even better? To do all these things with a partner, with Ellery, and watch the joy and satisfaction she finds in the process too.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Ellery
“What?” I pull my phone from my cheek and look at it—as if seeing is believing—before putting it back to my cheek. I can’t possibly have heard that correctly.
“I said I was reviewing everything for the Revlon job with Gregory, and I am thoroughly impressed with all the prep you did for it. Stellar work. Simply stellar.”
“Um. Thank you.” What’s the catch here? Why is Garland complimenting me now when this is the same kind of work I’ve always done for Haywood?
“The project is going well, I presume?”
I feel like I’ve stepped into the Twilight Zone.
“Yes. Very. Most days.” I laugh. “You know how projects are. They always have their hiccups, but for the most part, yes, things are running smoothly.”
“Good. I’m glad. I hope they continue down the same path.”
“Thank you.” An awkward silence stretches across the line, and I struggle for something to fill it with. Just as I’m about to speak, he does.
“Her birthday is coming up soon.”
My throat constricts at his words and the atypical emotion woven in them. “I know.”
Another pause. A clearing of his throat. “It’s a tough day for me to get through. I can’t imagine how it is for you.”
I have absolutely no idea what to say to his comment. He’s never said anything of the sort in the years since her death. I open my mouth. Close it.
“I just wanted you to know I’ll be thinking about you, Elle. And that she’d be proud of what you’re doing because it’s exactly what she would have done too.”
“Thank you.” I can barely get the two words out over the emotion clogging my throat.
“No need to thank me.”
When the call ends, I stand there and stare at my cell, replaying the conversation in my head and wondering what it meant.
The skeptic in me would say he’s just calling to check on things because he’s hoping for a future payday when it comes to S.I.N.
But there was something in his voice, something that the woman who reads romance novels and pretends like she doesn’t believe in happily ever afters, heard the faintest strains of.
Garland loved her.
He truly did.
While I may not have understood or seen that love on display in a conventional way, he still did.
Clearly there are more ways than one to love. Not all relationships . . . look the same.
You can still be devastated by its loss in the end.
Perhaps that proves my point.
Love is dangerous, something to be avoided at all costs.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
Ford
“It’s coming along, isn’t it?”
I look over to where Ellery stands in the doorway to the room I’ve acquired as my quarters. It’s a larger room off the balcony bar. I’ve moved in an old table to use as a desk. The bed is a king but as the constant ache in my back can attest, the mattress completely sucks. My clothes are hung haphazardly in a closet where the door does nothing to protect them from the dust, which seems like it’s coating everything. Not my usual living standards, but it will do.
But it’s not the room I’m focused on right now. It’s the woman in the doorway with her jeans worn at the knees and her red T-shirt partially untucked.
She fits and yet she doesn’t somehow.
She belongs in the elegance I know she normally lives in, and yet she’s perfectly comfortable with work boots on, dust in her hair, and a pencil tucked behind her ear as she runs this remodel with a perfection I’ve rarely seen from S.I.N.’s contractors.
She’s sharp. She’s gorgeous. She’s . . . fuck. I’ve got it bad.
“Earth to Ford?” She waves her hands in front of her to flag my attention. Little does she know she already owns it.
“I’m sorry. You standing there kind of made me lose track of my thoughts.” Her smile widens. “I’m sorry, what did you ask?”
“I’m hoping the distraction was for good reasons and not because I have paint smeared over my cheek or something.”
“You’d still be beautiful even with paint.”
“Is someone trying to smooth-talk me?” she asks as she moves toward me.
“Never,” I say as I nod. Not unless I need to. “And yes, I think it’s coming along. Smoother than I expected.”
“Don’t jinx us.” She laughs. “I prefer things to stay as they are.” She takes a slow appraisal of my space. The made bed. The haphazard desk. The little pieces here and there that show I exist. “You know you don’t have to stay here, right? I’m sure your house in Sag would be more comfortable and less”—she runs a fingertip along over my table and leaves a streak—“dusty.”
“It would be.”
“I know you’re busy with a lot more on your plate than this place so . . .”
“Are you kicking me out, Celery Ellery?” I ask as I reach out and tug on her waist so that she sits on my lap. I’m more than aware of the tensing of her body as I wrap my arms around her waist and fit my chin onto the curve of her shoulder.
Affection makes her uncomfortable.
It’s something I’ve noticed over the course of the past few weeks since we’ve been . . . whatever it is that we’re doing. Strange for such a passionate woman to be sidelined by touch when it occurs outside the act of sex.
“Not kicking you out. I just thought you might want a break from this place because, God knows, living and working in the same place can make you go a little batty at times.”
She’s right. It has. But not for the reasons she’s thinking. I can live anywhere. Luxury isn’t required despite what people think or associate me with.
It’s her that’s making me batty. My want to be with her all the time. When she’s dealing with contractors so I can admire how easily she finesses them. When she’s sitting in the dark at the kitchen table eating an ice cream bar where calories don’t count. When her butt is planted in the sand, a glass of wine in one hand, and her face lifted toward the sun. When I sink into her and she makes that noise in the back of her throat that sounds like enviable pleasure.
“It can,” I say, “but I’m managing just fine.”
“I heard you scared the shit out of Diego. I walked in on some of the guys laughing about it, but then they shut up when they noticed me. Care to explain why and what happened?”