Page 99 of Final Proposal

Ellery

“What? No ice cream bar celebration?” Ford asks, interrupting a rather juicy part of my book, as he walks into our newest room we’re staying in since where we were is now under major overhaul.

“There is no way I’m eating in here.” I look up to find him standing in the doorway, fresh from the shower with a pair of gym shorts on and everything else left wonderfully bare for my eyes to feast on.

“Because?”

I motion to the suite around us. It’s the nicest, cleanest, most comfortable place we’ve gotten to sleep and live for the past few months. “The last thing I want to do is dirty it up.” He snorts with a glance to the bed that has me smiling in turn. “Of course, you’d think that.”

“I’m a guy. Do you expect any less? But you do realize in less than a month’s time, people will be ordering room service and eating in here, right?”

“I’m well aware.” I internally huff and set my Kindle down on the bed beside me. I guess the hate-fuck about to occur in my book will have to be revisited and enjoyed in a bit. There’s nothing worse than being interrupted mid-sex scene.

“Are you feeling okay?” he asks. “It’s late, and you’re opting to read versus sneak non-caloric ice cream.”

“I’m opting to enjoy the softness of this bed.” I lean my head back against the headboard and revel in the feel of the mattress. “Remind me to give Katarina a raise,” I say of our interior designer who helped us pick out all the furniture and décor. “She did a hell of a job selecting mattresses.”

“Really? Let me see.” He falls back on the bed and sighs, much like I did when I first sat on it. “Talk about heaven, but then again, I think anything would feel like it at this point after sleeping on what felt like plywood the last few months.”

“I told you to stay in Sag Harbor.”

“And I told you that if I go, you go, and you refused to go so . . . we stayed.”

“Stubborn man.”

“Hardheaded female.” We both chuckle, but as the silence stretches, Ford’s eyelids grow heavy. “We did good today, Elle.”

“Really good.”

“Every last item of furniture has been delivered save for those two broken barstools. Both kitchens passed inspection today. The exterior was painted. So many things. I feel like it’s so close.”

“It is, but we still need a name so we can get the signage ordered.”

“I know. I know.”

Yes, each day brings us closer to the grand opening, but it’s also bittersweet too. Every item checked off our punch list, every trade finishing and clocking out for the last time, every walk-through of the inn in complete awe at the transformation is more than bittersweet.

It’s a reminder that this is ending.

It means . . . who knows what it means for Ford and me? We’ve yet to even broach the subject.

“I’ve been thinking,” he murmurs, his eyes still closed, his arm stretched out so his hand is on my calf. His wet hair is leaving dark marks on the comforter beneath his head.

“About?”

“What if we partnered up again?” he asks as my heart leaps in my chest. “I mean, I’m more than certain your stepdad would jump at the chance for a long-standing contract with S.I.N. Who wouldn’t?” His arrogance knows no bounds, but he is right.

Isn’t that what I had leveraged to get the okay to come here in the first place?

“I know the financial burden of something like this could be overwhelming. S.I.N. could buy the properties and take on the fiscal responsibilities, and Haywood Redesigns could do the improvements with the caveat that I’ll work with you and no one else. Garland would be handcuffed, and you’d continue to get to do what you love and are incredible at. I mean, that is if you’re interested in working with me, Celery Ellery?”

I stare at him and his closed eyes, my mouth agape. How can he just say something like that so casually and not freaking look at me?

“Hear me out,” he says, mistaking my shocked silence for hesitation. “I’m not saying S.I.N. would take you out of that picture. You’d get a percentage of ownership in each property. I get that you think it’ll come off like you slept your way into the position, or that I’m only asking you because I feel obligated to or out of plain pity to stick it to your brothers, but that couldn’t be further from the truth. You’re talented and crazy good at what you do. Besides, you’ve spoiled me. I don’t think I could do this with anyone else. So that’s why I’m asking you.”

Excitement at the thought of getting to do this again bubbles up. Of doing it with him, even more so. The “yes” I want to shout from the rooftops is sitting on my tongue. I wish I could say it, but don’t we need to address the white elephant in the room? Or rather, the fact that we’re on the same bed, his hand on my leg, and basically living together?

I mean, I was going to marry and live with Chandler with a whole lot less than there is between Ford and me . . . so why am I hesitating?