Page 7 of Final Proposal

I nod. “Something like that.”

Someone laughs loudly across the room as she takes another handful of the germ mix. I eye her as she proceeds to pick all the pretzels out and place them on the counter beside the bowl. Bizarre.

She meets my gaze and winks. “I’m living dangerously.”

I laugh. “A tropical depression and germs all in one night.”

“You forgot to mention engaging a mysterious and grumpy man too.”

“Yes. That too.” For some reason, the tension in my shoulders eases with each comment exchanged between us.

“Black tie . . .” She twists her lips as she contemplates. “Too early for a Christmas party.”

“Considering it’s April, that would be a safe bet.”

“So my guess is either an awards banquet for the higher-ups—which if you and your brothers put it on, that would mean you—or a fundraiser for something or other. Oh. I know. It was a movie premiere.” She cocks her head to the side. “Don’t tell me you’re a famous actor who’s hiding out here in this sleepy seaside town and is buying this inn to breathe new life into it? You plan on making it a destination—an elite bed and breakfast, if you will—because you and all your friends are sick of not being able to go on vacation and have privacy.”

“Anyone tell you that you have an overactive imagination?”

Her grin widens. “Another one of my many party tricks.”

“Clearly.”

“Is your lack of an answer confirmation that you are in fact Chris Hemsworth in disguise?”

“Shh. Don’t blow my cover.”

“Your secret’s safe with me,” she whispers. “Your American accent is perfect. So . . .”

“A charity fundraiser.”

“Yes,” she says and pumps her fist.

“It’s an annual black-tie event we host,” I say, thinking of the Alzheimer’s charity gala we throw in our late father’s honor. “And yes, we went on with it despite the impending storm because it’s tradition and . . . who the fuck knows why.”

“Because you’re men and no one, not even Mother Nature, tells you what to do.”

“Now, when you put it like that, it sounds rather ridiculous. But, yes. Something like that.”

She nods and eyes me above the rim of her glass. “And so, your fight was about what? They didn’t have the right canapes at the event, or one of your brothers hit on your girlfriend and it pissed you off? Or . . .” She shakes her head as if to ask the question. “Something even more scandalous than that? Give me all the juicy details.”

“Nothing juicy or scandalous. Sorry to disappoint you.” I smile. Imagining my brothers taking their eyes off their wives long enough to look at anyone else is comical. If there were ever a visual of what falling hook, line, and sinker looked like, it would be them.

Besides, we may be triplets, but our taste in women is completely different. I’m . . . Just Ford.

I bristle at the thought and my anger fires anew.

How do I tell her that what I’m upset about has more to do with feeling invisible without sounding like a pussy? That my last name defines who I am, and how people perceive me—it always has—but I didn’t realize how it also obscured me too?

“We just . . . we had a difference of opinion. Something unexpected came up, and I had a different perception of it than they did. Words were exchanged, and I was less than thrilled with what was said.”

“That means you guys are close.”

“Aren’t all siblings?”

She snorts and there’s definite derision to it that piques my curiosity. “Of course,” she says but doesn’t sound convincing.

“So yes, we are close.” And isn’t that partially why it bugged me so much? That they didn’t see where I was coming from? That most days we can finish each other’s sentences, thoughts even, but this time they didn’t understand why I was hurt not by what was said, but by what wasn’t said?