I wait for him to start the conversation and the longer it takes, the more I wonder if we’re simply going to sit in silence under a canopy of stars. I’m fine with that too.

  He lifts his drink and swirls it around in the glass before taking a sip. “It’s a cool feeling, isn’t it?”

  I don’t even have to ask what he’s referring to because I’ve been reveling in it all day.

  Ownership. Having something that’s mine. Being able to create as I see fit.

  “It is. I’ve never had something of my own that I get to be hands-on from start to finish.”

  He holds his glass out and taps it against mine. “To new beginnings,” he says.

  “To new beginnings.” I chuckle, my head spinning with how much life has changed for me over the last two months.

  I’ve bought this property, taken a hiatus from my job, broken off an engagement, gained a partner, secured my place at Haywood, and spent endless hours planning the transformation of the building behind us.

  It’s been a whirlwind to say the least.

  And there’s still so much left to do.

  “What does that mean?” he asks.

  “What does what mean? My chuckle?” I can see him nod in my periphery, and my thoughts veer to where I was supposed to be today versus where I am—sitting here, beside him. “Today was supposed to be the final fitting for my wedding dress.”

  He clears his throat. “I’m not exactly sure how I’m supposed to respond to that.”

  “No need to respond to anything.”

  “So you rescheduled the appointment so you could be here for demolition day? That’s awfully generous of you.”

  “No. I didn’t reschedule.”

  “No?”

  “Uh-uh.” How do I explain to him that I was going to marry for the sake of marriage? That doesn’t exactly paint me in the greatest of lights.

  “I can ask if you want to talk about it, if this is the stuff you were figuring out that night . . . but it’s not my place to, so I’m going to sit here, enjoy a drink with you, and relax.”

  “Thank you.” I slink down and lean my head back on the chair, my eyes focusing on the stars above.

  The need to talk is there, to explain so he understands, but I’m not even sure that I understand the why behind my actions with Chandler.

  “I can hear you thinking over there, Elle.”

  I smile. “I’ll try to think quieter.”

  “For the record, you don’t owe me any explanation.”

  “I know I don’t.”

  Just like he didn’t offer me one today either.

  “Do you think there’s any leftover Chex Mix behind the counter?”

  I laugh. I don’t know why the comment strikes me so funny, but it does. “It’s probably stale.”

  “And full of pretzels.”

  “The horror.” I mock shiver.

  “There’s that smile of yours,” he says, pulling me to look directly at him for the first time since he sat down. “It’s about time it showed up.”

  Our gazes hold as my heart begins to race. I’m grateful for the glass of wine so that my hands have something to do besides fidget, because that confession just cost me in ways I’m not even sure I understand yet.

  “I’m just tired is all.”

  “Exhausted.” He groans and runs a hand through his hair. “And they’ll start bright and early at seven in the morning.”

  “Ten whole hours from now.” My shoulders sag.

  “You’re the one who wanted an accelerated schedule.”

  “We. We are the ones who wanted that,” I correct.

  “I think we weren’t comprehending how exhausting it would be.” His groan turns into a chuckle.

  “No rest for the weary, Sharpe. Even if it’s us who are the weary.”

  Ford

  “And things are going good with the Snaggletooth?” Ledger asks.

  “Yes. Fine. We’re feeling our way around each other.”

  “Does that mean there’s trouble in paradise?”

  “No. Not at all.”

  “That doesn’t sound convincing.”

  “I don’t need to convince anyone of anything.”

  “Huh.”

  “What the hell does that mean, Ledge? I’m tired and not in the mood for bullshit.”

  His chuckle reverberates through the connection. “It’s been a long time since you’ve been on the ground level. It’s a lot of work.”

  “It is. Is that why you’re calling? To razz me, or is there something else?”

  “You haven’t R.S.V.P.’d yet.”

  “And you know this how?”

  “The publisher called. They asked that we all be there.”

  “I might be busy here. I’m not sure yet since we’ve just started.”

  I already know the look on my brother’s face right now, and the way he’s chewing the inside of his cheek as he contemplates how to control a situation he has no control over. It has to be killing him. “You’re really going to miss it?”

  I shrug, not that he can see. The last thing I want is to go to the book launch party for the biography. As it is, I can’t escape the hype of it. It’s everywhere. Inquiries for interviews or requests, comments to use as a lead-in for an article.

  Why do they need us to promote it? Isn’t my father and his success enough cause for intrigue? I mean, there is the whole incredibly handsome and successful triplets thing going for us of course.

  But no.

  It’s because people are obsessed with money. Nothing captures an audience more than a family dynasty, and the drama that comes with it.

  And I refuse to contribute to the family picture I fear they want to paint.

  “I said I don’t know. If that’s not good enough for you, I don’t know what is.”

  “Don’t be an asshole.”

  “You’re one to talk.” I chuckle.

  “Look, I know you’re still bothered by Just Ford. I can’t change that. I wasn’t going to tell you until I knew for sure, but I did reach out to the biographer and ask him if we could have copies of all of Dad’s taped interviews.”

  “What for?”

  “He has over fifty hours of tapes. I thought it would be cool to hear new things about Dad in his own voice. Things we might not have known. Have something to help keep him alive for our kids someday.” When I don’t say anything, he continues, “We don’t have much of Mom so I didn’t think it would hurt to ask.”

  “Smart.” My throat feels like it’s constricting. Will tapes only prove I was just a bystander in this family in my father’s eyes? “Hey, I’ve got to go.”

  “So the launch party?”

  “Ask me next week.”

  When I end the call, I’m antsy. Unsettled. Not used to the confines of this small hotel room, I need some fresh air.

  But haven’t I felt that way all day even when I have been in the fresh air?

  Ellery.

  Isn’t that what prompted my restlessness? This . . . irritation?

  There must be a simple answer to why she cancelled the dress fitting. Her lack of explanation only served to muddy the waters even more.

  Desire is a son of a bitch when you can’t act on it.

  A run. Some exercise.

  That’s what I need to clear my head. The ocean. The moonlight. Some exertion. Distance from her and her perfume that I catch whiffs of every now and again.

  It’s been less than a week here, and I already feel like I’m going fucking crazy. I knew I wanted her. I knew it would be tempting with her so close. What I didn’t know is that it was going to be absolute bedlam to my system every time she gets close to me.

  Talk about torture.

  I fling open the door to my room and head out into the hallway. I reach the corner and pull up when I come face-to-face with Ellery.

  She’s standing there, face scrubbed fresh from makeup and hair piled on top of her head. She has an oversized sweatshirt on that’s lopsided, exposing one shoulder, and a pair of tiny shorts that display her killer legs.

  Yeah, desire is definitely a son of a bitch.

  “Hi,” she says, her smile sheepish as she takes a bite of an ice cream bar.

  “Hi.”

  Who knew the sight of one shoulder could be so sexy?

  “I’m sneaking an ice cream bar. You caught me.”

  “Why do you have to sneak it?”

  “Because that’s what women do. If we eat it and no one sees us, then the calories don’t count.”

  “So it’s only if someone sees you that they count?”

  She nods, her bun bobbing with it. “And now you’ve saved me the hassle of having to hide the wrapper in the trash.”

  “There’s a whole routine to this, isn’t there?”

  The bun bobs again as she eyes me up and down. “Where are you going?”

  “For a run.”

  “Like that makes me feel better.” She snorts. “This is why you have muscles that have definition, and I have curves that are squishy.”

  “There’s nothing squishy about your curves, Ellery.” The comment is out without thought. Her cheeks flush, but her eyes never back down from my stare.

  She nods. “Then maybe I should eat another ice cream bar while you jog. Since these calories count now, and those won’t since you won’t see them. And getting a few more milligrams of calcium is never a bad thing.”

  “I think you should.”

  “Never openly encourage a woman to eat more ice cream. It will cause an irrational and obsessive attachment to the person doing the encouraging.” She flashes a grin that reminds me of the first night when I thought she was adorable before I saw her as sexy.

  Right now, I’m trying to hold on to that picture of adorable because this woman does things to me that shouldn’t be legal.

  “I’ll try to remember that.”

  “You should. It’ll save you someday.”

  “I’m eternally grateful.” I place a hand to my chest and mock bow.

  “Go. Run. Before my irrationality sets in,” she says as I simply stare at her and shake my head. “What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

  Because the more I know you, the more you surprise me . . . and that’s not a bad thing at all.

  “No reason.” I go to jog past her at the same time she moves to the right to let me. Too bad I went to her right too.

  We collide against each other, the ice cream bar in between us. Its chill hits my skin, and at the same time she yelps and jumps back.

  We both look down at the vanilla ice cream mark squarely in the middle of my bare chest.

  “Oh my God. I’m so sorry. Let me—” She reaches out with her bare hand to wipe the ice cream away, but once her hand connects, she realizes her hand isn’t going to do any good.

  Thoughts of her tongue on my skin as she licks up the ice cream invade my thoughts. Own them. The heat of it. The feel of it. Christ.

  I force a swallow down my throat as her hand stills and her blue eyes flutter up to meet mine.

  Time stands still for the briefest of moments as I realize my hand is on her wrist and her face is inches from mine.

  She’s off limits, Ford.

  Fucking off limits.

  I draw in a ragged breath. Lips part, but words aren’t voiced as the tension practically snaps between us.

  Does she have any clue how bad I fucking want her? Since that first night stranded here. Since seeing her again at the auction. Every minute of every goddamn day I think about her in some way, shape, or form . . . and the notion of her tongue on my chest isn’t helping matters any.

  “Oops,” she finally says, her smile widening but her eyes steadfast on mine.

  “Don’t worry about it,” I murmur as I consciously try to remove my fingers from her wrist and take a step back. “Next time I know to go to your left.” She nods, her eyes looking at my chest and then back to my eyes. “And now you really need another one since I just ruined that one.”

  “Yes. Sure. Okay.” Her words come out in a stilted staccato.

  I need to get out of here before I do something I’m going to regret. Like pin her up against the wall and kiss her until that ice cream bar is a melted puddle on the floor.

  I take another step back, the smile on my lips strained. “I’m going to go. Take my run.”

  She nods and runs her tongue over her thumb where ice cream has dripped. I grit my teeth. “I’m going to get another ice cream.”

  “Save one for me, will you?”

  She takes a bite of the mess that’s left of her bar, her lips closing around the chocolate innocently as I wipe the ice cream off with the shirt in my hand, but my imagination has already been fired. “So you’re one of those.”

  “That doesn’t exactly sound like a positive statement.”

  “Most people don’t go for a run and then eat ice cream.” Her eyes scrape down my torso. “Do abs just appear out of nowhere as you sleep too? There’s an ab. Oops, and another one. I mean, how do you ever get any sleep with all these abs forming left and right?”

  I throw my head back and laugh, grateful for the levity to interrupt my thoughts. “It’s a hard job—”

  “But somebody’s got to do it,” she murmurs.

  I give her one last look before turning and pushing open the door.

  Run.

  Distance.

  I need to keep my distance from her and from fucking things up.

  And if taking a run every minute of every damn night while I’m here will help achieve that, then I guess I’m going to be the fittest damn guy on the planet. With self-growing abs apparently. Can’t say I mind that she noticed.

  Seems fair given I stare at her hot-as-sin body every chance that I get. Squishy curves, my ass.

  Ellery

  “You’re kidding me, right?”

  “I wish I were, Ms. Sinclair—”

  “Ellery.” I correct our demolition crew foreman for what feels like the hundredth time. If there is one thing I know about being a woman in construction, it’s don’t let anyone call you Miss or Ms. or ma’am. And sure as hell, not sweetie or honey. Any chance you give a man to reassert that you’re a woman is a chance for you to be handled with kid gloves when all you want is to be treated like just one of the guys.

  “Ellery,” he says as I nod. “I wish I were.”

  I roll my shoulders and stare at him while feeling like my head is going to explode. “So let me get this straight. Your crew all came down with the stomach flu at the same time?”

  He nods but doesn’t meet my eyes. The question is why? “Yes, ma’am.”

  “And you have no other crew you can replace them with?”

  His sigh is heavy. “I don’t. No. You knew we were doing you a favor and traveling outside of our normal coverage area. They were all staying together in the hotel in town. The bug cycled through them.”

  “Well, fuck.”

  “I know it puts you in a tough position. I can make calls to some of the firms I know around here, but with the local union here on strike, I’m not sure how much help I can be.”

  I twist my lips and place my hands on my hips as I turn and take in the drywall-dusted debris disaster before me.

  “I have plumbing and framing coming tomorrow for that wing, and they don’t have any wiggle room on the schedule,” I say more to myself than to James. This is the problem with an expedited schedule. Trades aren’t moving in, finishing their work, and then moving out once the whole site is complete. We have them coming and going at all times for each of the varying renovations in various locations. It allows us to get one thing done and finish it in totality while other rooms are in partial stages.

  It’s perfect in theory.

  Until it’s not.

  And right now . . . it’s not.

  “I know you don’t. Believe me, I know.” His sigh sounds like the stress that was just heaped on my shoulders. “But I’m here. I’ve found two day laborers who can help with some of the less technical tasks. Between them and me . . . and maybe anyone else you can spare, we can try to get as much done as possible.”

  “Thanks. Let me see what I can do.” I take a few steps away, already frazzled when it’s only seven a.m.

  I lean my back against some rough framing and sigh as I fire off a text.

  Me: My demo crew?

  Joshua: What about it?

  Me: A whole crew out sick. One you often use.

  Joshua: Maybe they don’t like working for you.

  Me: Don’t fuck with me, D.

  Joshua: I don’t need to. You’ll fuck this up enough by yourself.

  Me: Asshole.

  Joshua: True, but I didn’t touch them.

  I stare at my screen with pursed lips and debate if I believe him or not. Is he that stupid that he’d try to screw me over when he believes my success will ultimately benefit him?

  No. I might not be his biggest fan, but he’s too selfish to do anything to jeopardize something he could gain from.

  And now I’m left with the bare bones of a crew, a schedule I can’t budge much with, and only hours to figure out how to fix the issue.

  The worst part?

  Now I need to hunt down Ford to heap bad on top of worse with the news reporting this morning that a summer storm is going to hit us in a few days. It won’t exactly hinder our progress inside the inn, but it will slow things down on the café, kitchen, and rooftop bar.

  Sure, our first week started off with a bang. It was productive. We further finessed our construction schedule as well as agreed upon interior choices so our designer could get everything ordered. Furniture, light sconces, fixtures, and everything in between had been selected. We have little room for errors or not being on the same page with our turnaround time to get this place back up and running so quickly.

  And yes, Ford and I sat side by side or across the table while making these decisions, but every other waking moment has held a healthy distance between us. No more bumping into each other in the hallway while he goes out for a run, and I eat my ice cream. No more drinks on the boardwalk. Just grunts in response and him conveniently busy on a call whenever I need to talk to him.

  Grumpy Ford has returned with a vengeance.

  His father’s biography is the only thing I can pinpoint as being the external source of annoyance. The few times the book and its impending release have been mentioned on the television in the old bar—kept for our entertainment’s sake—he’s promptly turned it off. Even his phone calls to his brothers—or at least the ones I’ve been within earshot of—seem clipped.