Page 11 of Final Proposal

“That’s bullshit,” Ledger says.

“Bullshit?” I bellow.

“You’re goddamn right, bullshit,” Ledger says stepping into my space. “I paid prices you don’t have a clue about, so fuck you and your bullshit comments.”

The muscle in his jaw pulses as fury I rarely see from him sparks in his eyes. Well good, because I’m furious too.

“Ford,” Callahan says, trying to break the tension when typically, he incites it. “We’ve grown up with cameras in our faces and false rumors being the norm. We all know how they twist words and sensationalize shit to sell an extra copy. It’s the same with that.” He points to the book.

“But these were Dad’s words,” I shout. “Those weren’t made up.”

“You’re being ridiculous.” Ledger rolls his eyes. “Dad was proud of all of us. Even you—”

“What if the roles were reversed? What if—”

“I wouldn’t fucking care. Neither should you,” Callahan says. “Quit being so goddamn sensitive.”

But I do care.

I care more than I want to admit.

“Fuck this. And fuck the both of you.” I head to the door and ignore their shouts of my name.

There is no point in continuing this dead-end conversation.

None.

I’m so much more than Just Ford. Fuck them if they think otherwise.

I will not settle for being a mention.

For being the disregarded Sharpe.

For being just anything.

Ellery

I look around the darkened room. Some stranded customers have selected chairs and curled up in balls to settle in for the long haul. Others have purchased their bottle of alcohol and are finding a place to get comfortable. Some have stupidly opted to leave and try their luck at getting around the roadblocks.

I, on the other hand, am standing with my bottle of cabernet tucked under one arm, the bowl of germ mix in one hand, and my wine glass in the other, scanning the room while completely ignoring the constant buzzing of texts from my phone inside my purse.

There was a reason I took this road trip, and the person most likely texting is it.

I scan the room and find myself rather disappointed that I don’t see Ford.

Did he leave too?

Did he buy his bottle of whiskey and then escape to a room he had reserved but didn’t say anything about?

Why do I even care?

Because I do. Isn’t that me? To care about everyone and everything at the expense of myself?

But it was more than that. It was . . . him.

Without knowing the exact details of whatever happened to him tonight, I know that I can commiserate. A battle with your brothers. Seeing how they perceive you and being knocked back a bit.

And it didn’t hurt that the man hits every check mark on what I find attractive. Jesus, did he. The dark hair with a slight wave to it. The amber eyes with flecks of gold. The strong jaw and straight nose. The broad shoulders and seriously sexy forearms. The hands . . . oh, he has good hands.