“I’m aware. Just as I’m sure you’re well aware of how the things you’ve said in the past sound.”

  “As in?” I cross my arms over my chest and prepare for Chandler of the Hurt Ego to begin his degradation of me.

  “As in the fact that you don’t even believe in love. That romance is a ridiculous notion. That a relationship needs to be mutually beneficial for everyone involved.”

  “You’re right. I did say that. I do believe that,” I reply, hoping those same words will be what lets him off easy. “But don’t you want more than that? Just because I don’t believe in it, doesn’t mean you don’t deserve better.”

  Kill him with kindness. Make it all about him. Flatter his ego.

  “Elle . . . look at you. You’re intelligent and successful and beautiful. What man wouldn’t want you at his side?”

  “One who deserves love? Who wants a family? Who . . . I don’t know.”

  “But our sex life is good, is it not?”

  A tight smile paints my lips. “Of course, it is.”

  But good sex isn’t enough.

  Isn’t that what this is all about? It has to be. Because for a woman who’s only ever been left by the ones she truly loved—first my father when I was nine and then my mother when I was eighteen—I don’t exactly subscribe to the notion of love.

  It only leads you into a false sense of security before it devastates you and leaves you to fend for yourself.

  So yes, this arrangement of sorts would have professionally benefited us. It might have given me a leg up in my family business dynamic.

  Chandler is a great guy. He’s polite and successful and yes, he’s a decent lover. I was willing to go along with it. There are worse things than being stuck with a good man when the notion of love doesn’t exist.

  But I realized it also made me a pawn in a game I had no control over.

  And this entire epiphany came from one damn, unexpected night.

  The same night I fell asleep on a stranger’s chest after talking for hours. The same night I dreamt for the first time in forever. Dreams filled with faded memories of my parents and scenes from their unique and unmatched love for one another.

  The same night someone told me nothing worth wanting is ever easy.

  Ford.

  Ford, named after the college and the car. Ford of no last name, which in a sense makes everything that much more profound. The man with the grumpy scowls and beautiful smiles. Sure, he was attractive and sexy and all of the above, which had my stomach twisting every time he leveled me with those amber eyes of his, but it was more.

  It was the words he said and the conviction with which he said them. It was watching him struggle with some unknown demon and realizing that even though we were on different paths, we were in a sense going through something very similar.

  One night talking to a man I never met proved to be the catalyst for change within me. A refusal to settle. A refusal to let my brothers and father take what is rightfully mine. A refusal to be stifled. And the need to prove I can have everything I want.

  I remove the ring from my finger as gracefully as possible and meet Chandler’s brown eyes while holding it out for him. “This belongs to you.”

  He squeezes his eyes shut almost as if to say if he doesn’t see it, he doesn’t believe this is happening. “Can we postpone this conversation?”

  “What?” I laugh the word out, my hand still extended.

  His shoulders sag. “I said can we postpone this conversation? The breaking up with me part?”

  “Chandler—”

  “Please, Ellery.” He reaches out and closes my fingers around the ring so that it sits in the palm of my hand. “I feel like an idiot asking you, but . . .”

  “The reception,” I murmur, thinking about the event next month where he’s being honored for all his work. Architect of the Year.

  “Yeah. I know it’s a lot to ask—”

  “It’s the least I can do.” I sigh and pull my hand back, the ring weighing heavily in it. So much for leaving here with a clean break.

  “You sure?”

  Why does he have to be so nice? So understanding? It would make this ten times easier if he were a dick.

  “I’m sure, but after . . . I’m giving this back to you,” I say, holding the ring up.

  The smile he gives doesn’t reach his eyes but is genuine nonetheless. “No. I want you to keep it. Maybe you’ll change your mind.” The hope lacing the edge of his tone feels like acid in my stomach.

  “Chan—”

  “Please. I insist.” He takes a step back and shrugs. “Give it a few months. Maybe you’ll reconsider. Maybe you’ll realize you can learn to love me as I have you.” When I start to shake my head, he continues. “Please. For my ego’s sake.”

  “Yes. Yeah. Okay.” I nod when I already know I won’t change my mind. I gave it twelve months. And now I know we’re done.

  Today is my day for starting new.

  First breaking things off with Chandler.

  Then, fingers crossed, everything else I’ve been working on over the past couple of weeks will fall into place at my next stop on today’s schedule.

  That’s a big if, but it’s a chance I’m willing—no, I need—to take.

  Funny how you can meet someone in the oddest of times to find out they gave you the advice, the hope, and the will to change something that you haven’t had the strength to change before.

  One night stranded in a thunderstorm and my perspective changed. My wants have changed. I take that back. My wants have always been there; it’s more the drive to secure them for myself that has been strengthened.

  I’m a win at any cost kind of girl.

  As I walk out of Chandler’s apartment, past bits and pieces of me that have migrated here over the past year and into this new me, I just hope I have enough currency to make it all work in my favor.

  Because falling flat on my face and proving everyone right isn’t an option I’m willing to accept.

  Ford

  I bump shoulders as I move through the small space, surprised at the number of people here. The last time I was at a property auction was . . . never. Hell, I can’t even remember how long it’s been since I was involved in a project at the grassroots level.

  I’m excited.

  “By the size of the turnout, I think we’re already outbid,” a woman murmurs to her companion as I push past people and move toward the front of the room.

  When I glance around, I don’t recognize any faces in the crowd, nor do I expect to. The general sale price I think the inn will go for is less than a tenth of what we pay for our typical S.I.N. properties.

  “Let her bid,” a guy on the left of me says as I get stuck behind a woman oblivious to her surroundings. “It’s her money. And if she’s actually able to turn it around, then we quitclaim deed it into the company. Her risk. Our reward.”

  Underhanded fuck.

  “She’ll go broke,” his counterpart replies.

  “And that’s a bad thing why? More proof that she can’t handle shit. Besides, if she fails then it’ll be ours even quicker.”

  Correction. They’re both assholes.

  I glance at the strangers—sure I know one of them from somewhere—and offer a subtle nod in polite greeting to the one facing me before the oblivious woman realizes there is a line of people waiting on her and steps out of the aisle.

  “Can we get this damn show on the road?” a woman grumbles as I take a seat in the only available one beside her.

  The smile I offer is unreturned. Perfect. That means I don’t have to make small talk. And luckily it remains that way as the auctioneer takes her spot at the dais and begins to go through several of the properties on the block today.

  Some are single-family homes. Others are commercial buildings. One is an apartment complex. Each one is an empty shell representing a dream shattered for whoever owned it before the bank took possession of it.

  The crowd has dwindled with each successful auction and then refilled with the start of each new one.

  Right now is no different.

  “Next up,” the auctioneer says, adjusting the red frames of her reading glasses on her nose as she looks down at the paper, “is the White Sands Inn. Property located at 13212 White Sands Drive. This is a unique opportunity to create a world-class, income-producing luxury destination in East Coast’s most desirable beach enclave a little more than two hours from New York City. Located on a sprawling five and a half acre waterfront parcel, this noteworthy compound offers sweeping views of the water and western exposure for spectacular sunsets.” She goes into the details of the property at length. The existing number of cottages. The bulkhead waterfront. The private beach. Other possible ideas for the location such as razing it and creating a condominium complex or a sprawling high-rise hotel.

  All details and possibilities my team has already vetted and verified while many of us wait for her to open the bidding.

  And where I plan to step in with a price on the first bid that will knock everyone out.

  “Bidding opens at ten million. Do I have any takers?” At a quick glance of the room, about a dozen people call out and lift their paddles. “How about at eleven million?” Paddles raise again with voices saying aye.

  “Fifteen million,” I state loudly with a raise of my paddle so that many people in the room look my way with eyes wide, including the auctioneer.

  “Fifteen, sir? Did I hear you correctly?” she asks as her assistant next to her takes down my paddle number and scribbles furiously.

  “Yes. Fifteen.”

  “Do I hear anyone at—”

  “Fifteen-five,” a female voice I can’t see calls out from the far end of the room.

  “Fifteen-five for the lady in red. Do I have—”

  “Sixteen,” I say.

  “Sixteen-five,” the female voice counters, which has me rising to my feet to look at my competitor. I can’t see her. She’s obscured by the two men earlier talking about letting her bid. I take in their smug smiles and knowing glances.

  “Seventeen,” I respond before the auctioneer even prompts, causing her to emit a slight chuckle as the audience swings their heads back over expectantly in the direction of my competitor.

  “Seventeen-five,” the woman says, and I can finally see her paddle raised above the heads of people seated around her. It’s then that the two men shift, and I see her.

  I do a double take about the same time she looks over at me. I know those blue eyes and that startled smile.

  “Ellery?” I mouth her name as I stare at her in absolute shock, my head shaking, my jaw lax.

  She stares at me and the men beside her—the one I know but can’t place—stare at her in a way that tells me they know her. That . . . it’s her stepbrothers.

  The thought dawns on me as the comments I overheard earlier and her explanation of things a month ago take root in my mind.

  “Sir, would you like to counter?” The auctioneer’s voice finally breaks through the surprise that’s shocking my thoughts.

  Yes.

  No.

  They spend all their time hoping to be the one selected to take over dear old Dad’s ownership when he retires. Hell, everything I achieve they try and take credit for. Every idea I float out there is shot down only for them to say the same thing the next day and it’s deemed the best thing in the world.

  I open my mouth then close it.

  “Going once,” she states. My eyes dart over to Ellery and the silent plea she’s asking of me. “Going twice.” I go to raise my paddle but don’t. “Last call for any bids.” Ellery’s eyes hold steadfast to mine. “Sold to the woman in red for seventeen million five hundred.”

  Applause ripples through the crowd as I stand there stunned, staring at her and realizing everything I pleaded with my brother for yesterday, she possibly needs more.

  The question is, why did I give it to her? And where the hell did she go?

  Ellery

  I’m going to throw up.

  That’s a normal thing to feel when you’ve just spent a large chunk of your life savings—including some of the trust fund you haven’t received yet—and funds from a loan you are the personal guarantor on . . . for a property that needs a shit ton of money put into it to have any chance at thriving.

  I’m seriously going to throw up.

  My hands shake from the adrenaline—of the auction, of what I did, of seeing Ford there bidding against me.

  Ford.

  What the hell is he doing here?

  I glance over my shoulder to see if I can find him, but my brothers usher me through the crowd, their hands on my back as they lead me to the cashier’s office.

  “Stop. Just give me a minute,” I say, shrugging their hands off me as I take in deep breaths to prevent myself from hyperventilating.

  “You okay, Elle? Get caught up in bidding to prove your point? Did you just realize how much money you spent?”

  I level my youngest stepbrother, Gregory, a look. “Go away. Go gloat somewhere else.”

  “Me, gloating?” He chuckles. “You should be the one gloating after buying a dump for a cool seventeen-point-five mil just because you couldn’t let the kings of hospitality outbid you.”

  “Kings of hospitality?” I ask as I put my hands on my knees and focus on breathing.

  Almost eighteen million.

  Oh my God.

  “Fordham Sharpe? Sharpe International?” Gregory asks as if I’m a dumbass. And yes, my head spins at the name. At the conglomerate that is S.I.N. That’s who he was? Is? Jesus. “We’ve stayed in their resorts before. We’ve discussed how we’d beg, borrow, or steal to get on their preferred contractors’ list. We’d be set with work for life. Are you really that dense that you don’t know who they are?”

  I don’t react to Gregory’s condescending bullshit because I’m focused on two simple words: Fordham Sharpe.

  Not just Fordham the University, grumpy guy whom I threw the word vagina around to numerous times because it made him blush.

  But Fordham, the uberwealthy, wheeling, dealing, empire running, everybody knows his family, Sharpe.

  “I went to Wharton with those fuckers too,” Joshua says, and I look at him. “Triplets who think they’re perfect in every goddamn way.”

  “Why thank you, Joshua. I didn’t recognize you with the beard. I’d love to return the compliment, but I don’t believe you were giving one.” I look up to see Ford standing there, a smug smile on his lips, and his eyes on my brother briefly before they meet mine.

  Whew.

  He’s still got it. Has it. Whatever. Because even now with my insides a mess and my head all over the place, one look from Fordham Sharpe reconfirms he definitely still has it.

  And I still definitely want it.

  And by it, I mean every single thing that makes everyone stand up and take notice.

  Even me. Even now.

  Fordham Sharpe.

  Jesus. How did I not put that together?

  “Sharpe.” Joshua holds his hand out in greeting to Ford, trying to cover his ass. “You know I was just joking, man.”

  Ford looks at Joshua’s hand and then back up to his eyes, his expression stoic. “Of course, you were. If you’ll excuse me, I need to speak to Ellery alone for a minute.” His smile is patronizing and if I weren’t still reeling, I might find more amusement in Joshua being dismissed so easily.

  In a show of awkwardness I’m almost certain I’ve never seen from my brother, he pulls back his un-shaken hand and shoves it in his pocket as if he never extended it.

  When neither Joshua nor Gregory move away because they’re too busy trying to figure out how to right their wrong and gratify Ford, Ford places his hand on my back and says, “Shall we go outside for a moment?”

  “Sure,” I murmur, but he’s already leading us out the doors, and I attempt to process that he’s here. That he bid against me. That his hand is the one currently heating my back and sending shock waves through my system.

  We don’t speak as we move through the random people milling around outside and take a seat on a bench under a shady oak tree. Ford sits so that he’s angled toward me, leaning forward with his forearms on his knees and his face close to mine.

  “Fancy meeting you here,” he says, his eyes kind but curious. Cautious.

  “Well, that certainly was unexpected,” I say to give myself a minute to find words and thoughts that sound coherent, because the ones in my head are a jumbled mess.

  “It most definitely was.” He gives a measured nod. “What do you think you were doing?” he asks and instantly my back goes up because one, that wasn’t what I expected him to say. And two, he sounds like my brothers, like he doesn’t believe I can handle a project like this. I immediately have a sour taste in my mouth.

  Don’t ruin the man I thought you were, Ford. Please, don’t.

  I straighten my shoulders, prepared to defend myself. “What do I think I was doing? Seems to me I was doing the exact same thing you were. Bidding on a project that has a lot of possibilities. A lot of potential.”

  “You were bidding against me.”

  “I wanted it. Of course, I was going to bid against you and everyone else in there. How was I supposed to know that Fordham Sharpe of Sharpe International Network was going to march in there and try to steal the show?” I ask with a healthy dose of sarcasm. “It’s not like I even knew your last name when we met.”

  “A conversation in a bar doesn’t warrant a requirement for you to know everything about me. For the record, I talked to you way more than I normally talk to anyone, so . . . take it for what it’s worth.”

  And the grumpiness makes its appearance.

  But he’s right. He didn’t owe me shit, just as I didn’t owe him anything.

  I reach my hand out to him. “Ellery Sinclair. Of Haywood Redesigns.”

  “I assumed the Haywood part if those were your brothers. I didn’t know the Sinclair part.” He leans back on the bench and scrubs a hand through his hair. He smells of cedar and ocean and everything desirable. “Jesus. What a small fucking world.”

  “You know my brothers?”