CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Ford
She’s gorgeous.
I can’t sleep. My mind is reeling—too many thoughts, too many emotions to process in this early morning hour—but the one that’s constant is, she’s gorgeous.
But isn’t that what I think every time I look at her?
It is, but it never gets old. Never.
Her hair has fallen over her cheek, and I itch to push it off but don’t want to wake her just yet. I’d rather enjoy these few moments where I can study her without her being self-conscious.
Then again, how can anyone be self-conscious after how fucking hot that was earlier?
The woman is incredible. And a turn-on in every sense of the word.
And her books? Those scenes? One word. Fore-fucking-play.
My sigh is deep as I relive the fun we had. The laughter. The sex. The falling asleep sated and satisfied. The . . . asking her to be my partner.
Was that my chickenshit way of keeping her close without admitting to her I’m head over fucking heels in love with her? Without scaring her away?
Unequivocally, yes.
And I have no shame in doing so. None. I’m not ready to give her up just yet. Or to admit how I feel and have her run the other way.
Too bad life isn’t like that romance novel, right?
But she said yes.
And for now, that’ll have to be enough.
I roll onto my back, the next few weeks on my mind. What is going to happen with Ellery and me in the in-between—the end of this project and the beginning of the next one? There’s only so many bullshit meetings I can call before she’ll catch on.
Just tell her you want this to be a thing, Ford. You don’t have to tell her you’ve fallen for her. You don’t have to admit you want so much more than a fling. Just tell her you don’t know what this is between you two and you want more of it.
In the morning. It can wait till then. Until the sun has risen and she has woken up.
I’ll do it when she has that sleep-drugged voice and pillow creases on her cheek. When her lips are swollen and these thin sheets cover her body.
I give her one last look, determined and feeling slightly surer of myself.
Decided, I try to will myself back to sleep. To quiet my thoughts. To count fucking sheep. Nothing works. Insomnia is something I deal with on the regular. I thought the sexhaustion would help tonight. That the several orgasms would lull myself to sleep.
I was wrong.
Because other than the shadows dancing on the ceiling and the bathroom light we accidentally left on, it’s just me, a sleeping Ellery, and not a single Z for me in sight.
Scrolling through my cell it is then. But when I go to reach for it on the nightstand, I notice her Kindle where we left it.
That scene was hot.
I opt for the Kindle instead of my phone.
For the sexy scenes in her books over the cold, hard facts of the business and stock market apps on my phone.
I go to tap on the screen and practically drop it on my face—clearly, they are hazardous.
In my attempt to catch it and not end up with a battle scar, I somehow push buttons or the screen or whatever and end up in her library.
Romance novel upon romance novel fill the screen. I scroll through the covers, laughing at the titles, comparing the image I have in my head of my abs with those of the men on their covers and wondering if I’m close, and then just as I’m about to click back on the book, I stop.
Maxton.
My dad’s face looks back at me. His book is in her library with a “Read” in the corner to say she’s read it in full.
What the fuck?
With a lump in my throat, I press on the cover. The book pops up to the last place she was reading, and there is one sentence highlighted on the bookmarked page and one sentence only.
“He’s . . . just Ford.”
I stare at the words colored in yellow and a myriad of emotions charge through me. Anger. Betrayal. Confusion. Hurt.
She knows? And yet, she hasn’t said a word?
“Ford?” Ellery’s sleep-drugged voice asks beside me.
I don’t respond, too involved in my head and trying to hold back from lashing out at her.
The bed dips. The covers pull some. And the hitch of her breath cuts through the room when she sees what I have in my hand. When she takes in the words and their highlights that blanket the screen.
When she reaches out and squeezes my forearm, my whole body tenses.
“You wouldn’t tell me what was wrong.” She sounds like she’s talking to a wounded animal and that only makes things worse.
“You’re putting a wedge between you and your brothers, and I thought if I knew what that wedge was, I might be able to help. ”
“So, you invaded my privacy?” I can’t look at her. I don’t want to see the pity in her eyes or hear the Poor, Just Ford on her lips.
“It’s not private if it’s public information.”
“It’s none of your business,” I shout and yank my arm out from her grip.
“Bullshit it isn’t.” She sits up and pulls the comforter around her.
“I’m the one here, remember? I’m the one on the other end of it all.
Your mood swings every time you see a news clip.
The comments your brothers made before they left when they were here.
Your silence when a reporter shows up or hounds your assistant for a reason why you’re not on the publicity tour.
So yes, it affects your day-to-day. You may think no one else sees it, but I do, Ford.
And I’m the one here. So it is my business because I’m the one waiting with bated breath for it to hit you out of the blue.
And I will help hold your pieces together since you refuse to get it all out, fall apart, and then go from there. ”
“Leave me the fuck alone, Ellery.”
“Really? That’s all you’ve got for me? Leave me the fuck alone?” She throws one hand up. “I’ll tell you the same thing I’m sure your brothers have told you: who cares what some random person on the street thinks about you?”
“You’re not a random person on the street, though. You’re . . .” The woman I love.
“I’m what?” she demands, but when I look at her through the dim light of the room, when I’m more than certain the truth flashes in my eyes, she shakes her head as if it’s going to erase what she just saw there.
That I’m in love with her.
“No, no, no.” She rocks back and forth before getting up out of bed and pulling the comforter with her to cover herself. “Don’t you dare say it. Don’t, Ford. Not now. Not here. Not . . . just please, don’t.” Tears well in her eyes that I don’t understand but wish I could.
There’s undisputable fear there. Genuine panic.
Why, though? Why does the idea of someone loving her terrify her?
“Then what do you want me to say?” I ask, my own words sounding defeated.
She paces back and forth, her head shaking with each step, almost as if she’s talking herself out of something.
She stops and stares at me, eyes pleading but voice resolute.
“I think you’re forgetting what matters the most. The real relationship you had with your dad.
You’re so busy allowing the outside noise of someone else’s perspective to ruin and taint the memories you have of and with him. ”
“Here we go. Here’s what you really think of me,” I counter, crossing my arms over my chest and leaning back against the headboard with a smug smile on my lips. “So, you think I’m being a chickenshit?”
“No, Ford.” She shakes her head and sighs. “I think you have every right to be upset about what’s not said, but in the same breath, you get the chance to pay homage with your brothers to the man you wanted to be like. The man you idolized. You. Have. The. Chance.”
“And your point?”
She growls in frustration. “I’d kill for a quarter of that opportunity. To let the world know just how incredible my mother was. To have siblings who I can lean on. To know why my dad . . . left.”
Her words connect right where I don’t want them to connect. In my gut. In my heart. She’s lost both of her parents too. One in an accident. One by suicide.
I hear what she’s saying. I feel what she’s saying. But just like my brothers, that doesn’t invalidate how I feel.
What I feel.
Two damaged people trying to hurt each other more.
“Those are just words. Easy to say when you’re not in someone else’s shoes.”
Her bottom lip quivers as she glares at me. “Quit being so goddamn selfish.”
“Selfish?” She’s calling me fucking selfish?
Like she’s one to talk. A woman who shows every bit of love but can’t see past herself to let me own it.
“The book isn’t about you. It’s about your dad. It’s about letting the rest of the world admire and respect the man in a way that only the three of you do. So yes, quit being so selfish and making it be about you when it’s about him.”
“So, at first this is about my relationship with my brothers. Then it’s about my dad.
” I stare at her and shrug, itching for the fight.
Itching to take this anger out on someone.
“Who the fuck are you to give advice? Are you really going to lecture me about relationships and how to foster them and take part in them while you stand there and deny that we’re in one? Fucking classic, Ellery.”
“Don’t do this, Ford.” She takes a few steps back and forces a swallow down her throat. That familiar panic flickers through her eyes.
“Don’t do what?” I shout, flinging my arms out to the sides. “Talk about what’s staring us in the face? What we’ve been doing for months and you refuse to even acknowledge?”
“This isn’t about us.”
“No? Really? My bad. I didn’t realize it was okay for you to stick your nose in my business but not when it’s our business.”
“This is about you, about your family.”
“Of course. Isn’t that what it’s always about? I mean, it’s never about us. Or you. Every time the topic turns to you, you change the subject, making sure it comes back to me. You hide from revealing any little part of yourself that God for-fucking-bid makes you vulnerable.”
She stands there, bottom lip trembling, but her eyes cold as fucking ice. “Go to hell.”
“Why don’t you read the epilogues, Ellery, huh?” I ask, needing to hurt her like she’s hurting me. Needing to push her away since she’s hitting so damn close right now. “You want me to give answers, it’s high time you do the same. Why don’t you read them?”
I ignore the hurt glancing through her eyes, my own hurt jading my thoughts.
“Leave me alone, Ford.”
“Oh,” I say and chuckle condescendingly. “Now, I’m supposed to leave you alone.”
“Stay out of my business.”
“No. Not on your life. Why don’t you read them? Are you too afraid to find out what happens after they fall in love? Is that what it is? You self-sabotage yourself and so—”
“Shut up,” she shouts at the top of her lungs, her voice breaking. Tears well and slip down her cheeks. Her head shakes from side to side yet her eyes lock on mine. The expression on her face guts me and yet her words hit even harder.
“Why? So you can run and hide from answering the question?”
“Like you? The man who ran here, who partnered with a random woman he’s only met one other time, just so he could stick his head in the sand and avoid his daddy issues?”
If she’s aiming for the bullseye, she just fucking nailed it.
Motherfucker.
My chuckle is low and haunting. “That’s a low blow, Elle. But that’s what you were aiming for, right? To piss me off so I drop it and let it go? Because that’s way easier than you actually talking to me. Than actually having to face fucking facts about us—”
“The only thing to talk about is why you’re not on your way to the city to be on the morning shows with your brothers right now.”
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.