Page 38 of Final Proposal

Ellery

The sky is painted in colors, pinks and oranges and every color in between. I’ve waited almost five whole weeks from signing on the dotted line to standing here with the sunset as my backdrop, the crash of the waves as the soundtrack, while I dig my toes in the sand and stare in awe at what is now mine.

Technically, ours, but that’s just semantics.

I’ve felt pride before. I’ve felt ownership. I’ve known fear. But I’ve never known how potent a combination of the three could feel as I stare at what was formerly called the White Sands Inn.

It’s D-Day. Or technically, tomorrow is, so I’m going to soak up the silence and solitude of being here all by myself before the chaos ensues. We have an army of contractors ready to take this place by storm.

The sand is cool beneath my bare feet as I imagine our renditions coming to life. The seaside café we’re adding on to the left will offer cuisine from a renowned chef that Ford’s people are currently in talks with. The balcony to the right, which was an empty conference room, will be converted into a lounge. And then the rooms in between will become suites with top-of-the-line amenities.

Pipe dreams.

Isn’t that what Chandler said to me last night after all the pomp and circumstance of his big night died down, and we were left with that awkward silence that only proved we would never have worked?

“He’s only partnering with you because you won the bid.”

My eyes whip up to Chandler’s. “Ford?”

He nods. “Who did you think I was talking about? Think about it. Why would a man of his stature buy a little-known nothing on a beach with someone he barely knows?”

Because we have the same vision. Because we both need this reprieve from our day-to-day. Because we want something of our own.

“I’m thinking that was meant as an insult. Jealousy doesn’t look good on you, Chan.”

“I’m not jealous. Not in the least. But don’t be surprised if you get there and he pushes you aside and steamrolls you right out of the picture. The Sharpes don’t take a back seat to anyone.”

“God forbid a man thinks I’m competent, capable, and worthy of a partnership.”

“You are. That’s why this whole thing hits me weird.”

There is no use arguing with him, so I simply smile and nod. “You’re on the outside, though.”

“When it all goes to shit, just remember I warned you.”

“Good. Great. Thanks for the vote of confidence.” Sarcasm drips from my voice.

“Look, Elle. I get your need to fulfill this pipe dream of yours. Maybe it’ll work. Maybe Sharpe won’t railroad you and take over. And if he doesn’t and you accomplish your goal, maybe you’ll be satisfied and be ready to settle down. Be ready to marry me.”

It is the first time I’ve ever looked at Chandler Holcomb and not liked him. Hence why the engagement ring he refused to take back is tucked away in my Tribeca apartment, safe until this project is completed.

How weird is it to have one man essentially mock me and the other unconditionally support me? Ford barely knows me and he believes in me while Chandler, regardless of how much of a good guy he is, clearly thinks I’m in need of a hobby to knock some sense into me.

The weird thing though is I honestly don’t care what Chandler thinks anymore. I’m so over and done with men who think less of me because I want more for myself.

And I was going to marry him. Jesus Christ. If I thought being the coffee girl at Haywood was bad, I can only imagine what being married to someone who expects the same at home would be like.

No fucking thank you.

I should be angry.

I should be disgusted.

What I really feel is relief. Pure, unadulterated relief that I escaped this fate I had willingly subjected myself to.

Chandler the misogynist in disguise who I’m grateful to be rid of.

And Ford . . . whew. Ford, the man who knows how to get to a woman without even trying. He’s been in my dreams in ways that are definitely not safe for work. He’s constantly on my mind because of the project and the many things I need to tell him or want to discuss with him.