Page 5 of Final Proposal

“Is there a problem?” she asks.

I shake my head and realize I’m staring at the bowl she just brought over while wondering what her fiancé or husband—the prick—is like. “What’s this?”

“Chex Mix. Please tell me you’ve had this childhood staple.”

A roll of my eyes is my only response.

“Every pity party needs to have some food.” She takes a mouthful of the snack mix. “And alcohol.” And then a sip of her wine. “And . . . someone to commiserate with and tell you you’re one hundred percent in the right even if that person thinks you’re in the wrong.” She raises her hand. “So I’m contributing as best as I can with this poor offering since this place doesn’t seem to have much of anything.” She takes her seat again. “You should feel honored.”

“I am.” I genuinely smile for the first time. I don’t think I’ve ever worked as hard as she has at making a stranger feel comfortable. “Truly.”

“I mean, this place can’t offer you a vacant room or much of anything else besides this bowl that’s probably had ten different hands in it so far tonight, but I can offer you my great personality and my indiscernible ear.” She smiles cheesily.

“And you just ate a piece of the germ mix,” I point out.

“And then I drank some wine so the alcohol killed off those germs. Simple as that.” She takes a gulp of wine to emphasize her point. “An added bonus is this roof seems sturdy and we’re currently dry.”

“Currently being the operative word.”

She taps her glass against mine. “So, cheers.” When all I do is simply stare at her, she continues, “What? I’m a glass-half-full kind of girl.”

“Clearly.”

She reaches her hand out. “Elle. Ellery, really. Nice to meet you.”

“Ellery? That’s unique.”

She chuckles. “Ha. That’s the way to say it’s an interesting, weird, fill-in-the-blank name.” She shrugs as if she’s heard it all before. “It’s a family name. Celery Ellery,” she singsongs like a kid teasing and then laughs. “God, how I hated it when I was younger, but I don’t mind it so much now.”

“Ford. Fordham, actually.” I shake her hand. “And I’m named after a university—or a car company—so I have no room to talk, Celery Ellery.”

“Then I guess we’re even in the name department.”

“We are,” I murmur.

We both glance down and realize we’re still holding hands and quickly pull them apart before looking toward the window to break the sudden awkwardness settling between us.

Awkwardness laced with attraction.

Shit. I didn’t expect that.

I scrub a hand through my hair and slide a glance her way. She smiles softly as she watches the show Mother Nature is putting on outside—snapshots of destruction highlighted by flashes of light—and for the first time, I notice the slightest dimple.

Of course, she has to have one. Funny. Forward. Gorgeous. And has a dimple. I’m such a sucker for dimples.

“So where were you headed when Fred deterred you?” she asks me when the lightning lulls.

“Fred?” I ask, averting my gaze from her.

“The tropical depression we’re currently sidelined by.”

“Yes. Sorry. That Fred.” I glance around. Some people have dozed off. Others are occupied with their cell phones. Very few are talking with the strangers beside them. But when I bring my eyes back to her, apparently, it’s her turn to study me. My hands. My forearms where the sleeves of my dress shirt are folded up. My chest and the top two undone buttons on my shirt. She jolts when her eyes meet mine and knows she’s been caught.

Now we’re even.

“Thanks for nothing, Fred.”

“Amen to that,” she murmurs, suddenly busying her hands by using a cocktail napkin to wipe away the condensation our glasses have left.