Page 120 of Final Proposal

“As in?”

He motions to the bar top, to where papers are laid out to the far right. I’m not sure if I’m happy that he’s being all business—buying me more time—or upset. What did I expect after I hurt him? For him to pull me into his arms and tell me he loves me after I rebuffed him once already?

I take a fortifying breath as doubt starts to creep in. Did I wait too long? Has he moved on? Am I too late?

But when he turns and looks at me, that smile warming up his face as he motions for me to move to where he is, I know it’s going to be okay.

He has a way of doing that to me. Soothing away the panic.

Curious, I move toward the papers, graphics really, and then gasp when I see the entirety of the renderings. On the bar are about ten different mock-ups of possible logos and signage for the inn.

But it’s not the masterful designs that bring tears to my eyes. It’s the name of the inn itself that Ford has selected.

Azure. A Sharpe Signature Collection.

I try to blink tears away but fail as I stare at a name that means so very much to me. “Ford? Do you know—”

“I do,” he murmurs as he moves beside me. “Delia Azure Sinclair-Haywood. Mother of one Ellery Jean Sinclair. I thought it only fitting that since I have a way of honoring my father with the inn’s name, that you should have the same opportunity.”

“So you named it after my mother?” I ask.

“I did, yes. I hope you don’t mind.”

I asked you for a sign, Mom, and this was a huge, flashing one that I couldn’t miss. Literally and figuratively. Thank you.

“Fordham . . .” I whisper as I reach out and run my fingers over the designs as if I can feel them before turning to look at him. “Thank you. It’s perfect.”

“Don’t thank me. This is half yours too. Remember—”

“Fifty-fifty,” I say.

“Fifty-fifty. And I figure the next one can be a nod to my mom somehow. Then the one after, a nod to your dad . . . and so on. I want to find a way to honor those we’ve loved and lost, not just exist with the loss.”

“You’re serious?”

“I am.”

“But why . . . I mean . . .”

“You asked for space. I gave you space. But rest assured, I wasn’t letting you go. Not on your life.” He purses his lips and plays with the corners of one of the renderings as words unspoken drift between us. “I even went so far as to call Garland and speak about a new partnership with Haywood, but apparently someone beat me to it.”

He looks at me now, a ghost of a smile on his lips and hope flooding his eyes.

“I did. You see, you’re not the only one who was afraid of letting go.”

He nods, almost as if he wants to say something, but refrains as if he’s afraid to ruin the moment.

It’s my turn to talk. It’s my turn to lay it out there for him.

I have speeches prepared. Explanations and excuses and everything but a Venn diagram basically.

But when I go to speak, only one thing comes out.

And it’s the one thing that matters.

“I love you, Fordham Sharpe.” His breath hitches, and I hold my hands up to let me get through what I need to say. He nods. “I love you, and it terrifies me to death that by me loving you, I’ve put Fate’s target on you. I love you, and it scares me because I’ve never known this kind of love before, and I’m not sure what to do with it. Do I offer it to you after I’ve pushed you away and hope that you accept it? Do I tell you ‘here it is’ and then say you don’t have any choice because I’m never letting you let me walk away? What do I do, Ford, because I’m lost, and I’m terrified that it’s too late and—”

He steps up and presses his lips to mine.