Of course. I told her about the damn interviews last week and now she throws them in my face? Fuck that. Fuck this.
“You’re telling me to leave? Fine. You got it.” Fucking unbelievable. “You win. I’ll leave in the morning. I’ll go do the morning show circuit with my brothers while you stay here and be boss of everything but what matters.”
“Fine.”
“And then when that’s fixed, when I’ve been unselfish, you have to do the same. You’ll have to be unselfish and figure out what the fuck you want here, because I’m sick of not knowing. Deal?”
“Fine.”
“Say something else besides fucking fine,” I thunder, my voice reverberating through the room, my frustration at epic proportions.
She stares at me with that hollow, fearful look in her eyes that I wish I weren’t the cause of but know I am. Her nod is slight, but there as she opens her mouth and then closes it again. I know I may have pushed too far.
But don’t I deserve to know where I stand? Where we stand?
She blinks away tears and whispers, “Fine,” before walking out of the suite, the comforter still wrapped around her, and shutting the door at her back.
It takes everything I have not to go after her. Not to rush down the hall, press my lips to hers, and tell her that whatever it is, whatever is scaring her, we can figure it out. We can work through it.
But I don’t.
I stay where I am, staring at the closed door, and know it shouldn’t be this hard to love someone.
“Shit,” I mutter to an empty room.
If I was looking to push her into acknowledging we were something, that sure as shit just fucking backfired.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
Ellery
My chest aches.
Deal?
From the words he didn’t say but that I could see in his eyes.
From the fight that I picked because I needed space and time to think. To make him realize I’m not that girl. That he can’t love me. That this can’t be any more than it already is.
From the tough love I had to dish out so he could see what he has when so many others would kill for it. What I would kill for.
From the truth behind his question: why don’t you read the epilogues, Ellery?
And it continues to ache all night as I sit in the empty rooftop bar, wrapped in the comforter, staring out at the moon, high over the ocean. I watch its reflection ripple with the swells as they ebb and flow. I listen to the muted sound of the waves crashing on the beach below. I sink further into my own thoughts as the new framing creaks and settles all around me.
You’ll have to be unselfish and figure out what the fuck you want here, because I’m sick of not knowing. Deal?
Is that why I ran away? Or rather ran to the bar, which sounds ridiculous in and of itself?
Because, God yes, he’s gotten too close. And when someone gets too close, I panic? Is it because I’m mad at him for having a family I could only dream of and not wanting to preserve it? Some of one, a little of the other.
Or is it because I’m afraid to believe that I could actually deserve that happily ever after? That he could be my happily ever after? And I’m terrified to hope, terrified to believe, that if he is, he won’t be ripped away from me too?
Or is it simply that I’m questioning everything about last night? His promise to partner up. His suggestion to tie my stepfather’s hands so that I have a stake in what is rightfully mine.
Was it all legitimate? Does he really want to partner up with me, or was he trying to bind me to him in some way so that I can’t run? So that I don’t have a reason to walk away?
But then again, the binding would only be of our companies since he would front the capital.
And how do I feel about that? Less than? Bought? Bribed?
I scrub a frustrated hand over my face as the questions spin and spiral out of control, the doubt not far behind them, as the dark night turns into the early morning hours.
Where did my resolve go? When did my willingness to just have fun and enjoy him disappear?
I was willing to marry a decent man for what boils down to helping our business prowess. What is so wrong with dating a man and working with him at the same time? A man I’m crazy about no less?
Fordham Sharpe.
So much more than Just Ford. I just wish he’d understand that.
Maybe having the night to our own thoughts will help us realize the truths we’re refusing to face. Maybe it will help us find a middle ground where we can meet and agree. One where he sees that he needs to go to his brothers and that I’m not a happily-ever-after kind of girl—while I realize it’s okay to be with him without freaking out.
Time settles everything down.
Time gives clarity.
At least I hope it does.
The sky begins to lighten to that miserable morning gray before the sun thinks of rising.
More than anything, we need to clear the air before we face a hotel full of workers trying to finish this monstrous task in such a short amount of time. We have to be able to work together even while at odds.
It’s something we’ve yet to face during this entire project—adversity between each other—but isn’t that what a true partnership is about? What a true relationship is about?
Because that’s what this night has allowed me to accept. Ford and I are a thing. What type of thing is the question, but I’m willing to acknowledge that and make that conclusion.
I’m willing to admit to him there is more here than I’ve ever felt for someone before and that’s huge. I’m hoping he’ll let me leave it at that. I’m hoping he’ll realize and accept that I’m not an I love you type. That he’ll realize as Josh did that what I can give isn’t—will never be—enough for a relationship. That eventually, Ford would want to leave me too.
Professionally?
Yes, it’s a deal, Ford.
It was last night when I told you.
With the comforter still wrapped around me, I make my way back to the suite. I need to get dressed before the crews start arriving, but more importantly, I need to talk to Ford. I need to tell him that yes, I’ll make that deal. That if he goes and fixes things with his brothers, then I’ll let him know where we stand. That we’re in a relationship . . . but that I can’t give him what I think he needs. What he deserves. But that I can be everything but.
It’s something, right? While it might not be exactly what he’s looking for, at least it’s a jumping-off point.
With each step I take downstairs, I rehearse the words in my head. The phrasing. The reasons behind it. The everything.
But when I walk into the suite, the sheets, sans comforter, are pulled up as if the bed is made, and Ford is nowhere in sight. His laptop is gone. His keys are too.
Panic vibrates through me.
He left.
We argued. He left.
I go through the room like a mad woman, only to find his clothes still there, his toiletries on the counter, random work notes strewn about on the dresser.
Relief hits me like a battered tidal wave.
Maybe he just needed space too.
But he didn’t leave me.
He didn’t walk away.
Tears of relief fall while I’m in the shower. It’s the only moment of weakness I allow as I reassure myself that he’s coming back.
That he’s still fighting for us.