Page 45 of Final Proposal

Every time I walk into a room, it seems like he walks out of it.

And that’s probably for the better seeing as every time I catch a glimpse of him, I’m brought back to a few nights ago. To the sight of him naked, to the arrogance in his smirk, and the taunt in his eyes.

Partners are off limits.

Isn’t that the motto I settled on last night as I laid in bed fantasizing about my absurdly attractive partner?

Then why do I so desperately want to shove that motto where the sun doesn’t shine?

But now that I need to talk to him, he’s nowhere to be found. I walk through hallways lined with floor liners and past furniture being moved out to be resold. “Do you know where Ford is?” I ask several people along the way only to get random gestures in the direction of where the rooftop bar will be.

“There you are,” I say when I see him. He has drywall dust in his hair, his shirt has a ring of sweat around the neck, and his jeans have a tear in the knee.

And my ovaries were just put on standby to explode.

Dress shirt and tie-Ford is handsome.

Wharton sweatshirt over soaking wet skin is tempting.

And yes, naked Ford is more than mouthwatering.

But contractor, average-joe-looking Ford is a whole other level of deliciousness.

Partners are off limits.

“I’ve been looking all over for you.” I hold up my clipboard and the ever-growing list clipped to it. “I need to ask you a few—”

“No, you don’t.” He flashes a smile and averts his eyes. “Make the decision, Sinclair. I have complete confidence in any and all decisions you make.” He looks around as if he’s looking for someone. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m needed downstairs.”

“Wait.” I reach out and grab his arm as he starts to walk away from me. “What’s going on? It’s day one and you’re already avoiding me. I thought we had a good week or two at least before you got sick of me.”

I don’t get the laugh I was going for. Instead, I get a shrug of his arm from my grip while the muscle in his jaw pulses as he clenches and unclenches his teeth. I hate that he won’t look at me. “More like trying to do the right thing.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

He lifts his gaze to meet mine, and I wish I knew what that look in his eyes means. Confusion? Discomfort? Why would either of those be there?

“Look. It’s a busy day. I have a lot on my mind. And I truly do trust you to make the decisions that need to be made.”

“Then why do I feel like I’m being avoided and blown off?”

He drops his head and sighs before looking back up to meet my eyes. “You know how you had stuff? Well, I have stuff too, and rather than take my frustration out on you, it’s best if I just avoid you for the time being for your own sake.” The smile he offers doesn’t quite meet his eyes. “Yes, Grumpy Ford is back.”

I narrow my brows, wanting to ask more, needing to understand, but force myself to bite my tongue. In my thirty years, I can count on one hand the times a man has verbally expressed to me that he needs space. The norm has been lashing out and irrational behavior to push me away.

So as much as it kills me, as much as I wonder if I’m at fault for whatever is bugging him, I simply nod and give him what he asked for. “Okay.”

I watch as he walks away, my mind still curious, and my common sense telling me how arrogant I am assuming his problem was with me instead of stuff.

So we work as a team but apart, each of us tackling different facets of day one. Ford works with coordination and flow, while I do what I know best—dealing with the individual trades, one-on-one.

But even with the accelerated schedule and the agreed-upon extended work hours, at some point, the noise starts to abate. The crews start to stack their equipment in corners for the night. The rumble of engines can be heard in the parking lot as they start their cars and head home.

And we’re left with a gutted hotel and a whole lot of silence.

I move through the first floor and the lounge Ford and I met in two months ago. It’s the only place that hasn’t been touched yet with a sledgehammer or a Sawzall. Its burgundy chairs are stacked in one corner waiting for the consignment shop to pick them up tomorrow, and the bar remains still partially stocked with half-empty bottles lining the dark wooden shelves.

It looks exactly like it did the night of the storm.