Page 98 of Final Proposal

I may have fist-pumped the empty room.

I might have skipped a step or two as I went back to work.

“And how exactly do you intend to use that to your benefit when you go back?” He lifts his eyebrows and waits for an answer while my brain is still focusing on go back.

On the notion that this is all going to be over soon.

“On one hand, I know I can show him what we’ve done here and that’s all the proof I’ll need that I’m capable and experienced—”

“More than capable.”

“But on the other hand, I almost don’t want to taint what we’ve done here by using it to get a better footing there.” I twist my lips and look at the waves breaking on the shore. It’s as if I don’t want to share this with them.

“Then don’t,” Ford says as a Sharpe can. He nudges me and winks. “I know someone who can give you a great reference.”

“Thanks.” I chuckle. “What about you? Do your brothers already have you scheduled out for the next year?”

I hate that we’re talking about next steps like strict business associates. Like there is nothing more between us than this project and seeing it come to an end in the next two weeks.

But isn’t that what I want?

Isn’t that what I’ve tried to convince myself this is over the past week?

“We haven’t really talked about it, to be honest. They’re not exactly thrilled with me at the moment. They’re working double time between S.I.N. and the press junket and they don’t feel I’m contributing.”

“But you’re working double time too. For S.I.N. and here.”

“They don’t exactly see it that way.”

“Do you think you’ll regret it? Not being part of everything surrounding it? The public representation? Preserving his memory, and all the rest that goes with it?” I ask as if I have no clue why he doesn’t want to participate.

“Only time will tell. Does it sit like a rock in my gut every time I think about what they’re doing, what I’m not, and the biography? Yes. I won’t deny that.” He shifts in the sand and clears his throat as the sun sets, and the sea’s end begins to blend with the darkening horizon.

I wait for him to say more. I silently plead that he does, that he trusts me enough to ease the burden that’s weighing on his heart and soul, but he doesn’t.

“You asked what was next for me,” he says, switching topics. Clearly he’s been around me for too long and has taken notes on avoidance. “I have my normal duties with S.I.N. . . . and maybe I’ll look for another property to convert into a Signature Sharpe one.”

“Really?”

He nods. “I’ve been mulling it over. I like the niche. The idea of it. Of course, I’ll have to have some returns from this one first to see if it’s financially viable, but I’ve had fun doing this. Enjoying the hands-on part has been rather unexpected for me.”

I smile and don’t voice the question that’s on the tip of my tongue. Do you want a partner on the next one too?

“You were a pro in every sense of the word, Ford. You blew my expectations out of the water. I seriously would have never known you hadn’t done this before.”

“Same can be said for you.” He taps his glass against mine and holds my gaze with the funniest expression on his face. Like something he wants to say is on the tip of his tongue. But as quickly as it’s there, it’s gone. “I was thoroughly impressed, Sinclair.”

“We make a good team,” I say and rest my head on his shoulder.

“We definitely do,” he murmurs.

And this is what I’m going to miss when this is over.

Our peaceful unwind sessions after a long hard day.

His little pep talks that make me feel validated. Included. Wanted. Heard.

In simple terms, him.