Page 107 of Final Proposal

Was it all legitimate? Does he really want to partner up with me, or was he trying to bind me to him in some way so that I can’t run? So that I don’t have a reason to walk away?

But then again, the binding would only be of our companies since he would front the capital.

And how do I feel about that? Less than? Bought? Bribed?

I scrub a frustrated hand over my face as the questions spin and spiral out of control, the doubt not far behind them, as the dark night turns into the early morning hours.

Where did my resolve go? When did my willingness to just have fun and enjoy him disappear?

I was willing to marry a decent man for what boils down to helping our business prowess. What is so wrong with dating a man and working with him at the same time? A man I’m crazy about no less?

Fordham Sharpe.

So much more than Just Ford. I just wish he’d understand that.

Maybe having the night to our own thoughts will help us realize the truths we’re refusing to face. Maybe it will help us find a middle ground where we can meet and agree. One where he sees that he needs to go to his brothers and that I’m not a happily-ever-after kind of girl—while I realize it’s okay to be with him without freaking out.

Time settles everything down.

Time gives clarity.

At least I hope it does.

The sky begins to lighten to that miserable morning gray before the sun thinks of rising.

More than anything, we need to clear the air before we face a hotel full of workers trying to finish this monstrous task in such a short amount of time. We have to be able to work together even while at odds.

It’s something we’ve yet to face during this entire project—adversity between each other—but isn’t that what a true partnership is about? What a true relationship is about?

Because that’s what this night has allowed me to accept. Ford and I are a thing. What type of thing is the question, but I’m willing to acknowledge that and make that conclusion.

I’m willing to admit to him there is more here than I’ve ever felt for someone before and that’s huge. I’m hoping he’ll let me leave it at that. I’m hoping he’ll realize and accept that I’m not an I love you type. That he’ll realize as Josh did that what I can give isn’t—will never be—enough for a relationship. That eventually, Ford would want to leave me too.

Professionally?

Yes, it’s a deal, Ford.

It was last night when I told you.

With the comforter still wrapped around me, I make my way back to the suite. I need to get dressed before the crews start arriving, but more importantly, I need to talk to Ford. I need to tell him that yes, I’ll make that deal. That if he goes and fixes things with his brothers, then I’ll let him know where we stand. That we’re in a relationship . . . but that I can’t give him what I think he needs. What he deserves. But that I can be everything but.

It’s something, right? While it might not be exactly what he’s looking for, at least it’s a jumping-off point.

With each step I take downstairs, I rehearse the words in my head. The phrasing. The reasons behind it. The everything.

But when I walk into the suite, the sheets, sans comforter, are pulled up as if the bed is made, and Ford is nowhere in sight. His laptop is gone. His keys are too.

Panic vibrates through me.

He left.

We argued. He left.

I go through the room like a mad woman, only to find his clothes still there, his toiletries on the counter, random work notes strewn about on the dresser.

Relief hits me like a battered tidal wave.

Maybe he just needed space too.