Page 104 of Final Proposal

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?”