CHAPTER NINETEEN
Ellery
The property is abuzz.
Contractors and laborers are everywhere. In the halls. In the rooms. Outside. Freaking everywhere.
Noise fills the air from the demolition of interior walls of the suites, the backup alarms of the trucks hauling out the debris, and the jackhammers chipping up concrete to make way for the café.
It’s complete and utter chaos, and I welcome every second of it.
Especially because it keeps both Ford and me busy—in different parts of the property—at almost all times.
Every time I walk into a room, it seems like he walks out of it.
And that’s probably for the better seeing as every time I catch a glimpse of him, I’m brought back to a few nights ago. To the sight of him naked, to the arrogance in his smirk, and the taunt in his eyes.
Partners are off limits.
Isn’t that the motto I settled on last night as I laid in bed fantasizing about my absurdly attractive partner?
Then why do I so desperately want to shove that motto where the sun doesn’t shine?
But now that I need to talk to him, he’s nowhere to be found.
I walk through hallways lined with floor liners and past furniture being moved out to be resold.
“Do you know where Ford is?” I ask several people along the way only to get random gestures in the direction of where the rooftop bar will be.
“There you are,” I say when I see him. He has drywall dust in his hair, his shirt has a ring of sweat around the neck, and his jeans have a tear in the knee.
And my ovaries were just put on standby to explode.
Dress shirt and tie-Ford is handsome.
Wharton sweatshirt over soaking wet skin is tempting.
And yes, naked Ford is more than mouthwatering.
But contractor, average-joe-looking Ford is a whole other level of deliciousness.
Partners are off limits.
“I’ve been looking all over for you.” I hold up my clipboard and the ever-growing list clipped to it. “I need to ask you a few—”
“No, you don’t.” He flashes a smile and averts his eyes. “Make the decision, Sinclair. I have complete confidence in any and all decisions you make.” He looks around as if he’s looking for someone. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m needed downstairs.”
“Wait.” I reach out and grab his arm as he starts to walk away from me. “What’s going on? It’s day one and you’re already avoiding me. I thought we had a good week or two at least before you got sick of me.”
I don’t get the laugh I was going for. Instead, I get a shrug of his arm from my grip while the muscle in his jaw pulses as he clenches and unclenches his teeth. I hate that he won’t look at me. “More like trying to do the right thing.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
He lifts his gaze to meet mine, and I wish I knew what that look in his eyes means. Confusion? Discomfort? Why would either of those be there?
“Look. It’s a busy day. I have a lot on my mind. And I truly do trust you to make the decisions that need to be made.”
“Then why do I feel like I’m being avoided and blown off?”
He drops his head and sighs before looking back up to meet my eyes.
“You know how you had stuff? Well, I have stuff too, and rather than take my frustration out on you, it’s best if I just avoid you for the time being for your own sake.
” The smile he offers doesn’t quite meet his eyes. “Yes, Grumpy Ford is back.”
I narrow my brows, wanting to ask more, needing to understand, but force myself to bite my tongue. In my thirty years, I can count on one hand the times a man has verbally expressed to me that he needs space. The norm has been lashing out and irrational behavior to push me away.
So as much as it kills me, as much as I wonder if I’m at fault for whatever is bugging him, I simply nod and give him what he asked for. “Okay.”
I watch as he walks away, my mind still curious, and my common sense telling me how arrogant I am assuming his problem was with me instead of stuff.
So we work as a team but apart, each of us tackling different facets of day one. Ford works with coordination and flow, while I do what I know best—dealing with the individual trades, one-on-one.
But even with the accelerated schedule and the agreed-upon extended work hours, at some point, the noise starts to abate. The crews start to stack their equipment in corners for the night. The rumble of engines can be heard in the parking lot as they start their cars and head home.
And we’re left with a gutted hotel and a whole lot of silence.
I move through the first floor and the lounge Ford and I met in two months ago.
It’s the only place that hasn’t been touched yet with a sledgehammer or a Sawzall.
Its burgundy chairs are stacked in one corner waiting for the consignment shop to pick them up tomorrow, and the bar remains still partially stocked with half-empty bottles lining the dark wooden shelves.
It looks exactly like it did the night of the storm.
Exhausted but still wired from the high of the day, I prop open the door to the boardwalk, unstack one of the chairs, and awkwardly move it out onto what’s left of the old patio. Night has fallen, and the moonlight brightens the white of the sand and sparkles off the water on the horizon.
When I slink down into the seat, I wonder if I’ll ever be getting up. I’m that exhausted. The hiss and crash of the waves hitting the shore is a lullaby all in itself.
“Here.”
I jump at the sound of Ford’s voice. I must have been so lost in thought and exhaustion that I didn’t hear him walk up behind me.
When I turn, I find him holding out a glass of red wine to me while he carries a tumbler of something else in his other hand.
“Thank you,” I murmur, taking the glass from him, uncertain where we stand at this point of the night.
He disappears momentarily and returns, setting a chair next to mine. His groan sounds exactly how I felt when I sat down minutes ago.
I wait for him to start the conversation and the longer it takes, the more I wonder if we’re simply going to sit in silence under a canopy of stars. I’m fine with that too.
He lifts his drink and swirls it around in the glass before taking a sip. “It’s a cool feeling, isn’t it?”
I don’t even have to ask what he’s referring to because I’ve been reveling in it all day.
Ownership. Having something that’s mine. Being able to create as I see fit.
“It is. I’ve never had something of my own that I get to be hands-on from start to finish.”
He holds his glass out and taps it against mine. “To new beginnings,” he says.
“To new beginnings.” I chuckle, my head spinning with how much life has changed for me over the last two months.
I’ve bought this property, taken a hiatus from my job, broken off an engagement, gained a partner, secured my place at Haywood, and spent endless hours planning the transformation of the building behind us.
It’s been a whirlwind to say the least.
And there’s still so much left to do.
“What does that mean?” he asks.
“What does what mean? My chuckle?” I can see him nod in my periphery, and my thoughts veer to where I was supposed to be today versus where I am—sitting here, beside him. “Today was supposed to be the final fitting for my wedding dress.”
He clears his throat. “I’m not exactly sure how I’m supposed to respond to that.”
“No need to respond to anything.”
“So you rescheduled the appointment so you could be here for demolition day? That’s awfully generous of you.”
“No. I didn’t reschedule.”
“No?”
“Uh-uh.” How do I explain to him that I was going to marry for the sake of marriage? That doesn’t exactly paint me in the greatest of lights.
“I can ask if you want to talk about it, if this is the stuff you were figuring out that night . . . but it’s not my place to, so I’m going to sit here, enjoy a drink with you, and relax.”
“Thank you.” I slink down and lean my head back on the chair, my eyes focusing on the stars above.
The need to talk is there, to explain so he understands, but I’m not even sure that I understand the why behind my actions with Chandler.
“I can hear you thinking over there, Elle.”
I smile. “I’ll try to think quieter.”
“For the record, you don’t owe me any explanation.”
“I know I don’t.”
Just like he didn’t offer me one today either.
“Do you think there’s any leftover Chex Mix behind the counter?”
I laugh. I don’t know why the comment strikes me so funny, but it does. “It’s probably stale.”
“And full of pretzels.”
“The horror.” I mock shiver.
“There’s that smile of yours,” he says, pulling me to look directly at him for the first time since he sat down. “It’s about time it showed up.”
Our gazes hold as my heart begins to race. I’m grateful for the glass of wine so that my hands have something to do besides fidget, because that confession just cost me in ways I’m not even sure I understand yet.
“I’m just tired is all.”
“Exhausted.” He groans and runs a hand through his hair. “And they’ll start bright and early at seven in the morning.”
“Ten whole hours from now.” My shoulders sag.
“You’re the one who wanted an accelerated schedule.”
“We. We are the ones who wanted that,” I correct.
“I think we weren’t comprehending how exhausting it would be.” His groan turns into a chuckle.
“No rest for the weary, Sharpe. Even if it’s us who are the weary.”