“Not a problem. She was here again. I got rid of her.”
“See? I knew we could count on you to look out for everything to do with this project.” Ford’s smile is electric. “I’ll walk you out.”
And as the two men clear the doorway, Ford looks back at me and gives a shake of his head.
He overheard Roddy all right.
And since there are only a couple of weeks left . . .
Roddy’s comment repeats in my head.
Is that what’s been bugging me? Why I’ve been kind of bitchy this last week? Because like it or not, Roddy’s right. There are only a few weeks left here on the project. Then what? What do I do next? How can I go back to the life I lived with people who didn’t believe in me when I’ve spent the last few months with someone who has done just the opposite?
Ford has let me make decisions. He’s let me struggle and applauded me when I’ve figured out the solution. He’s let me succeed and told me he knew all along I could do it. He’s looked to me for my suggestions and allowed me to bend his ear when I’m trying to find my own answers about a problem or a situation.
He’s let me grow in ways no one ever has before. And when I’ve doubted myself, he’s looked me in the eye and either given me the tough love I deserved or the soft words of encouragement he somehow knew I needed.
And that’s only touching the professional side.
Personally? How do I unpack that?
He’s been my friend. My confidant. My lover. All three combined have been something I’ve never experienced before.
What does the future hold for us? It’s not something we’ve talked about while we’re in “project land” where we don’t have to think about beyond this.
But beyond this is coming.
Beyond this is only weeks away.
Then what?
I can’t imagine him not being a part of my life. It’s just that simple. It’s like he convinced me to do this project with him, has held tight, and hasn’t let go.
It’s almost as if I’ve fall—
“Well, that was awkward,” Ford says with a huge grin when he walks into the room. But his feet falter and his eyes narrow when he sees the expression on my face. “Elle? What’s wrong?”
No.
No.
No.
This can’t be happening.
I can’t be—I haven’t—there’s no way I’ve fallen for Fordham Sharpe.
It’s impossible.
I don’t do that. I don’t fall. I don’t love.
I don’t let myself love.
This is sex.
This is companionship.
This is loneliness mixed with a forced proximity combined with great sex and a good friendship.
“Nothing is wrong,” I assert forcefully. “I’ve just got work to do.”
His chuckle is low and taunting, oblivious to the internal war I’m simultaneously waging and freaking out over. “That’s not what you said about fifteen minutes ago.”
“You’re right. It’s not.” I emit a nervous chuckle. “But Roddy and his asking me out kind of killed the mood.”
“Love the guy but not in particular right now.”
“Please tell me you didn’t get mad at him for—”
“I didn’t say a word. Acted like I never heard a thing. Didn’t want to embarrass the guy.”
“Good. Great.” I go to walk past Ford, and he grabs my hand.
“What’s going on?”
“I said nothing.”
“C’mon, Sinclair. Lay it on me. What are you not telling me?”
“Nothing.”
His face is a foot from mine, and I have nowhere to hide. I try to keep a straight face, but I’m certain there’s panic in my expression. Desperation.
I need space. Time. Distance. Anything to have a few minutes to build that wall back up that I clearly let slip.
I am not in love with Ford Sharpe.
That’s absurd.
Ellery Sinclair does not fall in love.
Correction, Ellery Sinclair will not fall in love.
He nods. His lips are pursed. His eyes searching. “Okay. I’ll accept that answer. For now. But I know you well enough to know something’s going on. I just hope you trust me enough to tell me what.”
Emotion I don’t want to acknowledge clogs in my throat. Trust and love go hand in hand. So no, I don’t want either it seems. I clear away the emotion and straighten my spine.
Deflect.
Dodge.
Redirect.
“The book? What’s bugging you? The reason the reporter is snooping around?” I shrug dramatically. “It appears the same thing could be said of you, Ford.”
And with that comment, I turn on my heel and walk away.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Ford
This is ridiculous.
It would be one thing if she gave me an all-out cold shoulder for whatever she’s pissed off at me about.
But she hasn’t.
We work side by side. We sleep side by side. We fuck . . . well, we fuck in all different positions that are anything but side by side.
Yet . . . something is off with her. And the only clue she’s given me was the whole comment about the biography and what I haven’t told her.
Not exactly sure I believe that.
When my phone rings, I look at the screen and groan. “I’m not in the mood for your shit,” I answer in greeting.
“Wow. Hello to you too,” Callahan says.
I take a step outside of the inn for some privacy away from the craftsmen crawling all over the place.
“If you’re calling to rehash the same bullshit Ledger called about yesterday—”
“Yes, but . . . for other reasons.”
“So, we’re back to good cop then?”
“No. I’m the brother who says you have a right to be pissed. Hurt. Whatever it is you want to be. But I’m also the brother who is going to give you a little tough love and say those things but also be part of this with us.”
My hand pulling down on my neck eases some. “What was that?”
“You heard me, you fucker. Being nice is a rarity so don’t make me repeat myself.”
“Why?” It’s the same question I asked Ellery weeks ago. I have a feeling this answer will be just as important to me.
Callahan’s sigh is heavy. “Because we’re the only family we’ve got and we don’t like doing this without you. Look, I’ll be the first one to admit Dad was a bastard at times. It’s not exactly like the two of us got along all the time . . . and yet, he’s still my dad. I still love him. Just like I know you still love him too.”
“Callahan . . .”
“I know. Believe me, brother, I know. But you’re letting what someone wrote—what someone chose not to write—come between the three of us. Mom would be fucking pissed at that.”
I stand in silence before emitting a long, drawn-out sigh and moving to a set of chairs just delivered for the café. “You know what’s the hardest?” I finally ask. “I know you guys know what Dad felt about us, but it’s embarrassing for other people to know too.”
He barks out a laugh. “Dude, the whole world knows what a fuckup I am. How I dropped out of Wharton. How I was a challenge who rebelled every chance I could and got in trouble more times than not. He even retold that story about how he caught me screwing that intern on the desk.”