Page 40 of Final Proposal

But it’s kind of hard to think rationally when the only thing that’s hard is about six foot three inches and planking my entire body right now.

And whose hands are grabbing my wrists beside my head and whose grinning mouth is inches from mine.

I’ve never been more aware of every nerve ending in my body than I am at this moment.

We stare at each other for a beat. I’m not sure if our minds are catching up with what just happened to our bodies, but our eyes lock and our bodies tense.

Which of course presses that rather impressive cock against my thighs.

“I’m sorry,” we say in unison.

Kiss me.

It’s not the first time I’ve thought it.

It most likely won’t be the last either.

How can any normal woman not think something like that when she’s skin-to-skin, body to body, with a man as gorgeous as Ford?

I part my lips to say something, anything, as the agonizing and embarrassing seconds tick by.

“You’re in my bathroom. What are you doing here? What in the hell do we do?”

He chuckles. “You’re in my bathroom. I texted you that I was coming.” He quirks an eyebrow at his word of choice, his grin widening, and his voice suddenly lowering. “And as far as what we do now . . .”

His eyes shift to his right seconds before I catch a glimpse of something glance through his eyes. A warning? Fear? I don’t exactly know what, but he pushes up off of me in a hurry. Before I can comprehend what’s happening, yet again, Ford throws a bath towel my way, giving me nothing but a perfect view of his bare ass as he walks away.

I look.

Of course, I look as I scramble to wrap the towel around me and rise from my more than awkward position on the chaise—because it’s hard not to.

“What in the hell are you doing here? Why?” I ask as he keeps his back to me and yanks another towel off the towel rack next to the shower door.

“Taking a shower. Clearly.” Annoyance tinges the edges of his tone when moments ago he was lying on top of me, smirking.

“But my bags were in the room. I was here first. You weren’t supposed to be here until tomorrow.” I sputter each sentence out.

“And I texted you I was coming early. I called out when I came in the front door. It’s not my fault you had earphones in or didn’t check your phone,” he says, and I’m confused by his sudden wintry tone.

When he turns to face me, he’s holding the towel over his crotch so that every maddening gorgeous inch of him is on display. The hip dents. The happy trail. The firmness of his thighs. The definition in his chest.

Lord, have mercy.

I make a concerted effort to look up at his eyes, and when I do, there’s indifference in his expression, almost anger, that matches the tone of his voice. That throws me.

Talk about fueling a woman’s insecurities in herself when she’s at her most vulnerable.

He’s in my shower. In my bathroom. When I’m supposed to be alone. And he’s mad at me?

“You shouldn’t be here.”

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.

Chandler’s words flood back to me and sow seeds of doubt that shouldn’t be there. “Come again?”

He drops his head for a beat. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Then what exactly did you mean because last I checked, I own half of this building too.”