Page 59 of Final Proposal

I don’t speak. I’m not even sure what to say, so I continue to look out the windows in front of me and take another bite of my ice cream bar.

“Okay then,” he murmurs when the silence stretches before stepping up beside me, turning a chair around, and sitting on it backwards. “I guess we’ll sit here until you figure out what you want to say.”

Why does he have to be so charming?

It’s a huge problem because it makes him irresistible.

He’s supposed to be my business partner. He’s supposed to be learned and knowledgeable—not incredibly good at sex. He’s not supposed to be charming and inviting and forgiving when I’m at a loss for words.

Without asking, he grabs my ice cream bar, takes a bite, and then hands it back to me as if it’s no big deal.

Apparently, he doesn’t have problems with sharing . . . unless it’s with Chandler.

Chandler.

Is he who started all of this? Is he who I have to thank for some of the best sex of my life? I mean, sex for the first time with someone is usually a little awkward and not always that enjoyable. Sure, you both know what part fits where, but the rhythm is typically off. The coordination and the knowledge of what the other person needs isn’t there.

Leave it to Fordham Sharpe to blow that notion to smithereens.

My thighs clench just thinking about it.

“I can’t imagine what you must think of me,” I finally say.

“Meaning?”

“Meaning Chandler was here one minute, and then we’re . . . you know, the next.”

“Sex, Elle. We were having sex. Pretty incredible sex I might add. Should I be worried that you’re thinking of Chandler right now instead of me?”

“I’m not thinking of him.” I sigh. “I’m thinking of you. Of what you probably think of—”

“For starters, I’m thinking you need to stop thinking.” He chuckles. “And second, I’m starting to doubt myself and my skills if you’re this depressed.”

I laugh. “I’m not. It’s just . . .”

“You’re wondering if we fucked things up, right?” he asks as he rests a hand on my lower back. A charge jolts through me from his touch.

“Well . . . it’s not exactly the smartest move we’ve made.”

“You’re regretting it already? Jesus. At least let the post-coital glow fade before you start to wish I didn’t exist,” he teases. “Talk about a blow to a man’s ego. If the high doesn’t last longer than a cringe of regret, I’m definitely not doing it right.”

I glance his way and can’t help the smile that slides onto my lips. “I’m not regretting it. No. And your ego should hold just fine. There are definitely no complaints here.”

“Then why are you sitting in the dark like you’re wallowing in every female emotion that I don’t think I care to understand?”

“Because we both know we just made a huge mistake.”

“Perhaps. Perhaps not. Only time will tell,” he murmurs.

I turn to face him for the first time. His hair is wet and in waves. His jaw is unshaven, his eyes clear. How is it possible that a human being can be this attractive?

“Ford.” My sigh is uncertain. “How exactly are we going to work together when we’ve seen each other naked?”

His smile is lopsided. “You forget that we’d already seen each other naked and have seemed to be able to work with each other just fine.”

“That’s not what I mean, and you know it.”

“It’s not?” He feigns naivety.