CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Ellery
“We still need a name for the inn.”
I look over at Ford sitting beside me on the beach. “I know. I’m working on it. I just haven’t found anything catchy enough that goes with your regal-sounding half of it.”
“Oh, please.” He rolls his eyes and playfully tugs on a piece of my hair. “There’s nothing regal about Signature Sharpe Collection.”
“Uh-huh. Well, it seems to be everywhere right now. Too bad we can’t have the remodel finished and this place open to help cash in on all that visibility.” Ford blanches at the comment but doesn’t say anything. So I continue. “You’re still mad about it?”
Talk to me, Ford.
“More like indifferent at this point.”
I purse my lips and nod, guilt overwhelming me about the lie—or rather the omission—that I’m making.
I know why you’re hurting.
The biography is well-written. Its stories and insights about the larger-than-life Maxton Sharpe have held my attention for the past three days since its release. It’s not exactly my normal read, but I’ve surprised myself by how much I’ve enjoyed it.
In fact, I was plowing through it, one chapter after another, loving learning the relationship his parents had.
Laughing at Callahan’s rebellion and antics.
Amazed by Ledger’s drive and focus. I was eager to learn more about Ford through his father’s eyes .
. . but the stories never came. The insight was not there.
In fact, there was nothing more than a few generic sentences that painted Ford to be nothing close to the spectacular man that I’ve come to know.
And to add insult to injury, the author included a quote about how Maxton referred to him as Just Ford.
That’s it. Just. Ford.
Ford’s eyes hold mine, and I completely understand why he’s indifferent. Why he’s harboring hurt. I would be too.
I just wish he’d talk to me about it.
“Okay,” I murmur. “Indifferent is okay.” My smile is soft as I take a sip of my wine and hold his eyes over the wine glass.
“Have you figured out what’s next for you yet, Celery Ellery?”
I shrug. “No. I need to sit down and have a face-to-face with Garland.”
“Have you talked to him or your brothers at all?”
“My brothers? Beyond the obligatory normal check-ins? Not really. But I was quite surprised that Garland has called me a few times to ask for my input on several things.”
“What’s that about?”
“Absence makes the heart grow fonder?” I joke and then roll my eyes. “But seriously, there were a few things he wanted to ask me on some of the ongoing projects, things, details, what have you, that I’ve done on past projects.”
“Things your brothers took credit for, I presume?”
“Yep. You got it. And when they couldn’t answer him, he figured that out.”
“So he had to call you and now he knows you were the mastermind behind all of the good things there?” Ford asks, grin widening.
“Well, when you put it that way . . .” I chuckle and brush imaginary dust off my shoulder.
But it’d felt damn good when he’d called to get my input. And even better when right before I hung up, he subtly commented about how my absence there was noticeable.
I may have fist-pumped the empty room.
I might have skipped a step or two as I went back to work.
“And how exactly do you intend to use that to your benefit when you go back?” He lifts his eyebrows and waits for an answer while my brain is still focusing on go back.
On the notion that this is all going to be over soon.
“On one hand, I know I can show him what we’ve done here and that’s all the proof I’ll need that I’m capable and experienced—”
“More than capable.”
“But on the other hand, I almost don’t want to taint what we’ve done here by using it to get a better footing there.” I twist my lips and look at the waves breaking on the shore. It’s as if I don’t want to share this with them.
“Then don’t,” Ford says as a Sharpe can. He nudges me and winks. “I know someone who can give you a great reference.”
“Thanks.” I chuckle. “What about you? Do your brothers already have you scheduled out for the next year?”
I hate that we’re talking about next steps like strict business associates. Like there is nothing more between us than this project and seeing it come to an end in the next two weeks.
But isn’t that what I want?
Isn’t that what I’ve tried to convince myself this is over the past week?
“We haven’t really talked about it, to be honest. They’re not exactly thrilled with me at the moment. They’re working double time between S.I.N. and the press junket and they don’t feel I’m contributing.”
“But you’re working double time too. For S.I.N. and here.”
“They don’t exactly see it that way.”
“Do you think you’ll regret it? Not being part of everything surrounding it? The public representation? Preserving his memory, and all the rest that goes with it?” I ask as if I have no clue why he doesn’t want to participate.
“Only time will tell. Does it sit like a rock in my gut every time I think about what they’re doing, what I’m not, and the biography? Yes. I won’t deny that.” He shifts in the sand and clears his throat as the sun sets, and the sea’s end begins to blend with the darkening horizon.
I wait for him to say more. I silently plead that he does, that he trusts me enough to ease the burden that’s weighing on his heart and soul, but he doesn’t.
“You asked what was next for me,” he says, switching topics. Clearly he’s been around me for too long and has taken notes on avoidance. “I have my normal duties with S.I.N. . . . and maybe I’ll look for another property to convert into a Signature Sharpe one.”
“Really?”
He nods. “I’ve been mulling it over. I like the niche. The idea of it. Of course, I’ll have to have some returns from this one first to see if it’s financially viable, but I’ve had fun doing this. Enjoying the hands-on part has been rather unexpected for me.”
I smile and don’t voice the question that’s on the tip of my tongue. Do you want a partner on the next one too?
“You were a pro in every sense of the word, Ford. You blew my expectations out of the water. I seriously would have never known you hadn’t done this before.”
“Same can be said for you.” He taps his glass against mine and holds my gaze with the funniest expression on his face. Like something he wants to say is on the tip of his tongue. But as quickly as it’s there, it’s gone. “I was thoroughly impressed, Sinclair.”
“We make a good team,” I say and rest my head on his shoulder.
“We definitely do,” he murmurs.
And this is what I’m going to miss when this is over.
Our peaceful unwind sessions after a long hard day.
His little pep talks that make me feel validated. Included. Wanted. Heard.
In simple terms, him.