20. Maeve
MAEVE
I eventually manage to fall back asleep after my midnight encounter with Hayden, but calling myself “well-rested” would be a total lie. I wake up feeling like I’ve been put through an emotional blender, jittery and flustered, with errant butterflies still flapping around in my stomach.
Ford’s phone alarm goes off before seven, and he rolls over to silence it with the practiced efficiency of a man who’s been waking up early for business calls since he was probably twelve.
He’s technically working even on vacation, and even if he weren’t, I know Elaine has crafted an itinerary that would make a travel agent weep with envy.
So here I am, awake at an hour that should be illegal on vacation.
He glances over as I sit up, blinking a bit blearily. “Sleep well?”
“I did, yes,” I answer. “This mattress is incredible.”
It’s not entirely a lie. The mattress probably costs more than all of the furniture in my apartment combined and feels like sleeping on a cloud. But I’m definitely lying about sleeping well, and from the way his blue eyes narrow, I think he can tell.
I can’t help wondering if he somehow knows about my X-rated dream featuring him and his business partners, or about my middle-of-the-night wandering. Or if he knows about whatever that charged moment with Hayden was—not that anything actually happened.
But even if Ford did know, what would it matter?
We’re not really together. This whole engagement is an elaborate performance piece designed to impress a conservative business partner.
Just because Hayden’s words made me feel things I probably shouldn’t have felt doesn’t make me a cheater.
It just makes me pathetic for getting turned on by a man who was clearly just being kind in his own gruff way.
“You sure about that?” Ford asks. “I could’ve sworn you were a bit restless last night.”
“Nope. I’m positive.” I scramble out of bed with less grace than I’d like, but I need to put some distance between us before he can read any more of my thoughts on my face.
“Uh-huh.” A grin curves his lips as he stands and stretches, and I have to force myself not to stare at the way his sleep shirt pulls across his chest. “You know you’re allowed to admit if you didn’t sleep well, right? Yesterday was a lot to process.”
“I know that, and I would tell you if that were the case.”
“Don’t go all scared and compliant on me now, Spitfire. I’d be disappointed.”
“I’m not being compliant. And you realize if you call me ‘Spitfire’ in front of your parents, they’re going to think you don’t actually like me very much?”
“My parents know me better than that,” Ford replies, and there’s something almost fond in his voice. “They’ll understand it’s a compliment. I like it when someone isn’t intimidated by me—and is smart enough to stand their ground for the right reasons.”
That catches me off guard. I’ve watched Ford reduce grown men to stammering messes when they try to challenge him, but to be fair, those men were usually wrong and deserved whatever verbal evisceration they received.
Still, knowing that he appreciates my willingness to argue with him when necessary makes something warm unfurl in my chest.
Ford reaches for the hem of his shirt, and I spin around so fast I probably look like a deranged ballerina. I snatch up my clothes for the day, and his low chuckle follows me into the bathroom as I shut the door a bit harder than necessary.
“You want me to turn around while you get dressed?” he calls through the barrier between us, amusement in his voice. “I can promise to protect your virtue if that would help.”
I roll my eyes at my reflection in the mirror, even as I can’t quite hide the smile tugging at my lips. I am so screwed. This fake relationship is going to be the death of me if I keep reacting like a teenager with a crush every time the man takes his shirt off.
“My mother will have approximately seventeen activities planned for today,” Ford continues through the door, his tone shifting to something more serious. “If you get overwhelmed or need a break, just say something. I know she can be… a lot.”
“I think it’s sweet,” I counter, pulling on a soft sweater. “She’s trying to make the most of having her whole family together. It’s not exactly something I ever experienced growing up.”
I open the bathroom door and nearly collide with Ford, who’s standing there fully dressed and looking unfairly attractive in dark jeans and a deep blue sweater that complements the brighter blue of his eyes. He’s staring at me with his brows drawn together in an expression I can’t quite decipher.
“What?” I glance down at myself, suddenly self-conscious. “Did I put my sweater on backward or something?”
Ford’s gaze travels slowly down my body before meeting my eyes again, and the expression on his face makes heat creep up my chest. “You look beautiful. Let’s go get some breakfast.”
The compliment makes my stomach flutter, but after we each take turns in the bathroom brushing our teeth and getting ready for the day, I follow him downstairs on slightly unsteady legs, trying to convince myself that’s just how Ford talks to everyone.
Breakfast is served in the formal dining room, but it’s buffet-style with an elaborate spread laid out on a massive antique sideboard that probably belonged to someone’s great-great-grandmother.
There’s thick-cut bacon that’s perfectly crispy, breakfast sausages that smell like heaven, flaky buttermilk biscuits with sausage gravy, fluffy omelets studded with green peppers and mushrooms, smoked salmon that looks like it was flown in from Scotland, chocolate chip pancakes that are perfectly golden, hash browns that are crispy on the outside and fluffy inside, and fresh scones with what looks like homemade jam.
I feel like I’ve stepped into an episode of Downton Abbey, where wealthy people in beautiful clothes leisurely enjoyed five-star meals while discussing the weather and their horses. The only thing missing is someone reading me the morning paper while I sip tea from bone China.
Gabriel is already seated at the long mahogany table, looking effortlessly elegant as he scrolls through financial news on his tablet while eating what appears to be the most perfectly constructed omelet in existence.
He glances up as we enter, and I catch a flash of something assessing in his dark eyes.
“Good morning,” he says, his French accent making even those simple words sound sophisticated. “Your feathers seem a little ruffled today, petit oiseau doux .”
“Nothing is ruffled,” I inform him with as much dignity as I can muster while loading my plate with enough food to feed a small army. “Where’s Hayden?”
I’m not surprised that my three workaholic bosses are up early even on vacation, but Hayden’s absence feels conspicuous somehow.
“Hayden is already working in the office,” Gabriel replies, taking a sip of what I’m sure is perfectly brewed coffee. “He started quite early this morning.”
“That’s early even for him.”
“He tends to bury himself in work when he wants to avoid thinking about something,” Gabriel says with studied casualness, probably assuming it’s related to the Silver Start deal.
My stomach does a little flip. It might be about business, or… it might be about whatever happened between us last night. The thought that I might have kept him awake makes me feel guilty and thrilled in equal measure.
We settle at the table to eat, and the food is every bit as amazing as it looks. I dig in with genuine enthusiasm, grateful that neither Ford nor Gabriel seems inclined to make conversation about my apparent lack of sleep or ruffled feathers or whatever Gabriel thinks he’s seeing.
Gabriel appears genuinely absorbed in the morning’s economic reports, while Ford seems lost in thought, methodically working through his breakfast while staring off into the middle distance.
I would prefer more privacy for what I need to say, but I don’t know when I’ll get another chance before the rest of the family comes down.
“Ford.” I draw his name out, setting down my fork. “I wanted to mention… Lydia told me about Brooke yesterday.”
The effect is immediate and dramatic. Ford’s fork clatters against his plate like he’s been struck by lightning, and his entire body goes rigid.
“She thought I already knew,” I rush to explain. “She wasn’t breaking a confidence, or at least she didn’t mean to. I just wanted to say how sorry I am about what happened to her.”
Ford’s jaw clenches so tightly I’m worried he might crack a tooth. “It’s certainly something that happened, yes.”
He stands abruptly, his chair scraping against the hardwood floor. “I’ll see you in the office, Gabriel.”
My mouth falls open as he strides out of the room without another word, leaving me staring after him with my face burning with embarrassment. I turn to Gabriel, who’s watching this unfold with the calm expression of someone who’s seen this particular reaction before.
“I just wanted to offer my condolences,” I say weakly. “I had no idea he’d react like that.”
“Ford is not an easy man to discuss emotions with,” Gabriel says with a slight shrug, like this explains everything. “He prefers to keep certain subjects locked away.”
“I just had no idea he’d experienced that kind of loss. It explains so much about him—the flying phobia, the way he throws himself into work.”
“What do you think drives men like us?” Gabriel asks, leaning back in his chair. “A happy, carefree childhood filled with puppies and participation trophies? We all have demons we’d rather not face.”
“If that’s really true,” I mutter, unable to keep the bitterness out of my voice, “if trauma and pain really are what drive people to success, then I should be running my own restaurant empire by now instead of being someone’s assistant.”