Page 65 of Final Proposal

He belts out a laugh that I’m sure has other sailors looking our way. “You what?”

“You heard me.”

“I wasn’t aware there were hazards in reading. Well, was it a good book at least?”

I think of the chapters I flew through. The hero fighting for the heroine. The push. The pull. The incredible, hate-fuck scene that followed where I admit—embarrassingly—that I was picturing Ford and me as the characters.

And then the thunk followed by my yelp as it hit my face when I dozed off.

“Very good.”

“Why are you blushing, Ellery?” He angles his head to the side and stares at me, his smile widening as if he already knows.

“No reason.”

He laughs again, his stare unrelenting. “Maybe I should read this book of yours.”

The red on my cheeks darkens. “I don’t exactly picture romance as your genre of choice.”

“You never know. I’m full of surprises. Maybe that’s one of them.” He stretches his foot out and bumps mine with his, his grin widening. “Regardless, maybe you should take up less hazardous ways to occupy your time.”

“Like what?”

My question is answered with a hundred-watt grin and a long, languorous appraisal of my body that has me smiling and shaking my head in return. “I can think of a few things.”

I walked right into that one.

“I’m sure you can.”

An airhorn sounds to our left as someone shouts and then jumps off their bow into the water. Clearly there’s an abundance of alcohol on that boat, but it’s entertaining to say the least.

“Do you want to try?” he asks, pointing to the till.

“Try what? Sinking us?”

He chuckles but reaches out and tugs on my hand. “Come on, I’ll help you.”

I crawl on my knees toward him, terrified that if I stand, I’ll rock the boat and lose my balance. “Where do I—”

“Right here.” He directs me so that I sit between his spread legs, leaning my back against his chest. He moves us out of the parade of boats before spending the next few minutes directing me on what to do. He does this by covering my hands with his to show me when to steer the tiller or swing the jib. After a bit, he lets go so I can do it on my own, but he remains where he is.

“There you go,” he encourages as I take control of the jib for the first time by myself and the boat turns in the water. He rests his chin on my shoulder. “You’ll be a pro in no time. Then again, it seems you’re good at everything you do so there’s no surprise there.”

“Whatever.” I roll my eyes.

“I’m serious. You are, and it’s not a bad thing.”

“Who taught you to sail?” I ask, changing the subject off me as I contemplate if I’m turning too sharp. “You seem pretty comfortable on the water.”

“My father. It was a requirement for the Sharpe boys to be schooled in all things,” he says with a hint of sarcasm in his voice. Or was that melancholy? I can’t quite tell.

“Tell me about him,” I say.

His sigh is a clear indication that he’s uncomfortable with my request, so I don’t push. I just let him rest his chin on my shoulder and settle into the silence.

“He was a good man. Fair but strict. A man who started from nothing and made a whole helluva lot of something. But Dad being Maxton Sharpe the mogul is all I really remember, with each year elevating his status even higher than the last.”

“I meant, tell me about him as your father,” I say, not caring in the least about the businessman because clearly, he was good at what he did. “Did he attend little league games or barbecue in the backyard? Tell me about him.”