Page 52 of Final Proposal

He stops and looks up. “Yeah?”

“Bad news,” I say and then explain the situation with the help of James.

“I can help. Put me to work,” Ford states when we’re both done. “No offense, James, but putting a sledgehammer through some drywall doesn’t seem like rocket science.”

“No offense taken, but you really want to?” James asks, clearly shocked that a Sharpe is willing to get dirty.

“Yes.” Ford flashes a smile. “I could use something to smash to hell to take my frustration out on.”

“Follow me, then,” James says.

The work may look easy, but it’s exhausting. It’s not just the weight of the sledgehammer that tires your muscles, but it’s pulling the tool out once it’s stuck in the drywall. It’s the Sawzall vibrating as you cut the non-load-bearing walls and then hitting the beams with a hammer to knock them out of place.

And of course, since it’s all hands on deck, I decide to help too. Ford shouldn’t be the only one who has to switch gears.

“For like the hundredth time, Ellery, I can do this on my own,” Ford groans when I grunt as I try to kick a cut two-by-four free.

My arms ache and my eyes burn despite the safety goggles, but I refuse to show any sign of it. “I know you can, but why should you get all the fun?”

“Fun?” He snorts.

This is anything but fun. However, I feel the need to prove I’m pulling my weight, especially given this strange weirdness between us. And if this shows that, then I’m here for it.

“Sinclair.”

I wave the dust that’s floating in the air away from my face and look toward one of our plumbers who is working upstairs. “Yeah?”

“Just walked past the lobby. Someone’s looking for you.”

“For me?”

“Guy in a suit. He’s not too thrilled about the dust.” He chuckles.

“Thanks.” I set my sledgehammer against the wall and wipe the dust off the front of my jeans out of habit, despite how futile it is. When I glance up, Ford is standing across the room staring at me, and I just shrug as I walk out of the soon-to-be luxury suite.

As I turn the corner, I come to a halt when I see Chandler, stiff and definitely out of place, at the entrance to the inn.

He’s picking something off the shoulder of his perfectly tailored suit, and no doubt his Bruno Magli shoes are gathering drywall dust simply because he’s standing there.

Fish out of water.

“Chandler? What are you doing here?” I ask as I move toward him at a hurried pace. Almost as if I need to get to him before someone else does because he doesn’t belong here.

Which is a totally irrational thought, but one I feel nonetheless.

The last place I want my past mixing with my future.

“Surprise.” He holds his hands out to his sides. “I wanted to come and see how things were going.”

“Why? Last we talked, you told me you hoped I’d be railroaded so I’d come running back to you with my tail tucked between my legs.”

“Come on, now,” he says as I stop before him. “Don’t exaggerate.” His expression sours as he takes a long look at me from head to toe. “Forgive me for not giving you a hug, but you’re filthy.”

When did he become such a prima donna?

I grin in response. “I know.”

He studies me with an intensity and disbelief that is almost comical. “Is the charade over? I mean”—he gestures to me as a whole—“this really isn’t you.”