Page 19 of Final Proposal

I study him.

Just like I did this morning as he slept. I contemplate why it felt so hard to walk out of the bar earlier this morning.

Those thick lashes on tanned cheeks.

The wave of his hair over his forehead.

A faded white scar above his right eyebrow I didn’t notice in the dim light last night.

The inexplicable pull he somehow has on me when I’m usually immune to second glances and electric touches.

There’s a reason I chose to leave without saying goodbye.

I could tell myself it was because I had things to do and a schedule to keep, but that’s total bullshit. I have no schedule or set place to be. Truthfully, the reason I stood in front of the settee for a good five minutes, debating whether to wake Ford up before I left, has a lot more to do with the object that with the sun’s help is creating prisms all over the inside of my car.

Or rather everything that’s tied to it.

My engagement ring.

Chandler Holcomb.

And the duty that comes with being a Sinclair-Haywood.

But I don’t think about any of those things as Ford stands with his back to me, shoulders broad, ass tight, and studies the inn with a hand shielding his eyes from the sun.

And it sure as hell didn’t cross my mind when I woke up last night with my head on his chest and his hand absently and possessively spread over my thigh.

I know he was asleep.

I know he didn’t mean it.

Yet . . . it seems so vivid in my mind when normally I don’t remember a thing when or if I wake up at night.

I push the ignition button and my engine jumps to life.

Get going, Elle. Move on. It’s not like any of last night mattered.

With one last look at Ford, I shift my car into drive and turn out of the parking lot.

I think of opportunities missed.

Of what ifs.

And how I need to push a little harder on the gas before I do or say something I might regret.

Ford

Four Weeks Later

“What’s this?” Ledger asks from the door of my office, holding up a file folder that I can’t exactly differentiate from the hundreds of others we have in our office.

“What’s what?” I ask. “Pretty sure that’s what we call a folder. It opens and you put papers inside of the two flaps to protect and keep them all together. You can even put a label on it for quick reference of its contents.”

“A regular, fucking comedian,” Ledger says drolly as he walks into my office and drops it on my desk.

The file’s label, White Sands Property, written in my block-style handwriting, looks up at me. I knew this would be coming. No time like the present to get down to brass tacks.

I lean back in my chair and simply stare at my brother. “Since when do you take shit off my desk?”