“This disagreement isn’t the same reason you fought the night of the storm when we met, is it?” I ask.
“It is.”
“Then I’ll tell you now, what I told you then, but in simpler terms. Fuck ’em. You have a right to feel how you feel. To be what you want to be. End of story.”
“In theory your advice, your plan, is flawless. Somehow, I don’t think it’s going to work, though.” He chuckles, sleep audibly edging closer. “And why is it that we’re always talking about me, Celery Ellery? Why do you always get off the hook?”
“I’m far from off the hook.”
“Bullshit.”
“I’m an open book. Just ask me. Too bad there’s nothing interesting on the pages to read.” I chuckle.
“That’s one of your many party tricks.”
“What is?”
“Deflect, dodge, and then change the subject when it veers toward you. Make a joke. Laugh it off. Why are you so afraid to let someone get too close? To know you?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I don’t do that.”
But I know I damn well do. He’s just the first person who’s called me on it in a very long time.
Possibly because he’s the only one I’ve let get this close since . . . since Josh.
“Whatever you say, Elle. But at some point, people stop trying to know you when you won’t let them.”
His words hit me almost as hard as the unexpected memory of my mother. She was the one I had shared everything with. And just like my dad, she left. That was all the proof I needed that it was better to keep myself distanced from people. Because if you don’t love them, if you don’t allow yourself to love them, then there is no loss when they leave you.
“But at some point, people stop trying to know you when you won’t let them.”
Those words replay in my head as we talk about everything and nothing. Favorite sports teams. Bucket list items. Pet peeves. First loves.
We laugh. We grow quiet. We get to know each other on a level we haven’t before. And only when it’s two in the morning do we decide it’s time to get some sleep.
“Good night, Celery Ellery.”
“Good night, Fordham the University.”
It’s comforting having the heat of his body behind mine, and the weight of his arm over my waist.
And suddenly, despite the yawn on my lips, I can’t sleep.
All I can do is think. About Ford. About tonight. About everything he did and didn’t say. About how close I feel to him.
“Hey, Ford?”
“Hmm?”
“I know the why.”
“I’m glad you do.”
I love that he doesn’t ask me what it is. That he doesn’t press me when most would. I think that’s the only reason I decide to tell him.
That’s a lie.
I tell him because it’s important for him to know.
“I broke up with Chandler because I agreed to marry him for the wrong reasons. I never recognized it until the night I met you.” I take in a deep, steadying breath. “I felt more in one night talking to you, listening to you, laughing with you, than I ever did with him, a man I was going to marry. I left him because I never knew that feeling existed, and the thought of possibly never feeling it again scared the hell out of me.”
The admission takes my breath away. For a woman determined not to let herself feel, I just committed a cardinal sin and admitted how much he made me feel.
How much I wanted to feel again.
And while I’m scared as hell over putting it out there in the universe that has been so very cruel to me, I might even feel a tad bit of relief over saying it too.
And in perfect Ford fashion, he responds in the way I need him to most. He picks up my hand and presses his lips to my palm.
“You deserve everything good, Ellery Sinclair. Laughter. Happiness. Love.”
If only I could truly believe that was true.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
Ellery
Days blend together.
Mornings into days. Days into nights. Moments spent together working . . . and enjoying each other in every capacity.
What I didn’t expect was that one night I invited Ford to sleep in my bed to be the start of him being there every night.
It just sort of happened.
The next night he came to talk to me before bed. We both needed to shower, so logically we decided to conserve water. And then we may have lain in the bed with towels wrapped around us and talked for hours before drifting off to sleep.
And then the night after that, I called him in to look at an idea I had on my computer. He gave his input. He told me he trusted my decisions. And then he never left.
There was no conversation about the transition. No, “Hey, what do you think about me moving into your bed on a permanent basis?” It just happened.
And it happened in a way that didn’t allow me to freak out about it.
Even weirder is the self-admission that it’s rather nice to wake up with him beside me. There’s a comfort in him being there. A sense of companionship. A lack of loneliness.
“We can stay at the Sag Harbor house if you want,” Ford says, his shoulder leaning against the doorjamb. “I know it’s a drive, but if we do it together, it won’t be too bad.”
I inspect the freshly set granite in one of the suite’s bathrooms. The edge detail is right. The cuts are clean. The caulking straight. The edge detail craftsman quality.
I’m impressed. The installer did a great job.
Now to inspect fifteen more just like it but in different grain patterns. No two suites here will be alike.
“I appreciate it. It’s a good thought in theory, but even without traffic, we’d spend two hours a day commuting. That time could be better spent here.”
He nods. “I figured you were going to say that, but I wanted to put it out there. They do need to start work on your room though. How do you want to handle that?”
“I’ll move my stuff out. There’s not much. I can float from space to space that’s not being used or—”
“Or you can stay in my luxurious accommodations with me upstairs. Didn’t we agree that will be the last room since it has the least amount to change?”
I nod, my heart pounding in my chest. How ridiculous is it that it’s okay if he sleeps, stays, in my bed, but the thought of moving into his room makes me panic?
I’ll answer for myself. It’s completely ridiculous.
My smile is tight. “Sure. That will work.”
His laugh echoes around the empty bathroom. “Your expression looks like I just asked you if it was okay to amputate your arm or something.”
“It did not.”
“It did too,” Ford says as he moves toward me. His forefinger is on my chin, tilting my eyes up to look at him. “I would say I promise I don’t bite . . .” His lips brush against mine and have me reliving his nip to my shoulder last night. “But you know that’s a lie.”
The chuckle he emits vibrates into the ache forming between my thighs.
Who thought a love bite could be such a turn-on?
“Are you trying to distract me, Ford?”
Another kiss.
Another slide of his hands to squeeze my ass.
“Am I doing a good job of it?”