Page 20 of Final Proposal

“Since when do you make moves on your own regarding properties without consulting Callahan or me first?” he counters, crossing his arms over his chest and sitting in the chair in front of my desk.

“I wasn’t aware you were the king of all things around here.” I pick up the folder and toss it back onto the other side of my desk. “Last I checked, my last name is on the sign out there in the lobby too.”

“True, but it’s my name too. And considering all your correspondence is on company letterhead, that would seemingly make it my business as well.” He shrugs, but his eyes narrow. “Funny though how I’ve never heard of this place before and here you are about to bid a shit ton of fucking money to buy something that doesn’t even fit in our portfolio.”

“The amount is a blip on our financial radar.”

“That doesn’t mean it’s okay.”

“No. It doesn’t. It doesn’t make it wrong either.” I point to the folder that our real estate team has composed for me. Comps for similar properties. Preapproval papers from our lenders. Notes on other buyers who might be competition for its purchase. “It’s going up for auction, and I plan on being there to buy it.”

“This motel, inn, whatever the fuck it is, is beneath S.I.N. and you know it. Let’s end the charade. Move on.”

“Jesus, Ledger.” I push up out of my chair and pace to the window, hands shoved in my pockets, and look at the city below. I don’t really see it through my anger, though. “Can you just stop being . . . so Ledger?”

It’s been four weeks since our fight. Four weeks where in typical Sharpe fashion, we’ve brushed it all under the rug and acted like it never happened.

Things have smoothed out between us—we don’t bring it up so we don’t have to talk about it—but it’s not the same.

I’m still hurt, and they still think I’m being a pussy.

The kicker was I thought my brothers and I’d gotten better at this. That we’d learned how to talk or communicate or whatever the hell you call it. We’ve worked through a lot in the past four years since our father’s death. How to cope with his loss, how to be a family when there are no parents left to parent, and how to be who the other one needs when they need it.

Or maybe it only matters when the issues pertain to Callahan or Ledger. After all, I’m Just Ford.

Yeah.

It still fucking bugs me.

And I think what fucking pisses me off more is that they still don’t understand why I’m hurt. Or moreover, haven’t even addressed it with me again other than to ask, “We good?” when I came back from Sag Harbor that next week.

It’s not like the book or the fanfare around it is going away any time soon. With its release day coming up, and a sizeable advance having been paid to the biographer, the publishing house will do everything they can to recoup their money and then some. Press junkets. Radio ads. An hour-long special in prime time. My father would love all the attention. Too bad the mere mention of it feels like a knife twisting in my back.

“What’s going on, Ford? What are you not telling me?” His voice sounds sincere, and I hate that.

Because this is what I wanted. For him to ask and for me to answer but now I don’t want to. It’s suddenly easier to be angry at him and Callahan rather than to talk.

I rock back on my heels and sigh. “Do you ever just get a feeling sometimes . . . one that . . . you know what, never mind.” It’s not worth it.

“Do I ever what?”

His words hang in the air as I turn to face the man who is the spitting image of me, save for a few scars and a slight difference in height, and wonder how we can be so close yet feel so far apart.

I glance down to the file folder, its label, and then back at him.

“I’m buying the property.”

“For what? To tear it down and restore the beach’s integrity by getting rid of that eyesore?”

“Don’t look, Ledger, but your privilege is showing.”

“So is yours when you assume you can take millions without asking and throw it away on a pet project.”

“Fine, I’ll use my own money. Not a problem.” Our glares hold as the silence stretches. I pace from one side of my office to the other before scrubbing a hand through my hair and groaning. I’ve been working nonstop for over a decade. Nonstop to build this company and its name. The constant pressure. The relentless pace. My brothers have found love, taken breaks, and created families, while I’ve stayed put and held down the fort through it all. God for-fucking-bid I want something that I can call my own. Sure, it’d still be under the Sharpe name, but it’d be mine. My vision. My success. My failure. “I need a break.”

“Okay. Take one. You’ve been working nonstop and deserve some time off. You know you don’t have to ask. Just fucking take it. Hell, it’s not like we don’t have over twenty resorts worldwide to pick from. Ocean. Desert. Mountains. What’s your pick and what woman are you taking?”

“Not that kind of break.”