“Joshua. I know him from Wharton and beyond. Not exactly a fan.”

  “Neither am I, as you know,” I say as I study him.

  “Then why did you let them urge you on?” He throws his hands up. “Why were you bidding? Why did you bump up the bid?”

  “Me?” I shriek. “You were the one who wouldn’t concede. And my brothers have nothing to do with this. This is all me. I wanted this project. And I just spent a hell of a lot of money to get it. So if anyone should be mad, it should be me for how you walked in there like you owned the place to inflate the price and screw everyone over. Meaning me.”

  “Screwing you over? Maybe you should be talking to your brothers about that? They’re the ones hoping you fall flat on your face so they can rush in and save the—”

  “You think I don’t know that?” I laugh. “There’s a reason I just used my own damn money to qualify. To bid with. My trust fund. My name on the loan.” There is a tinge of hysteria in my voice as reality hits me. I now have five and a half acres and a hotel that I could afford to purchase, but that price was driven above my comfort zone by the man currently questioning me. Do I still have money for the needed improvements? Yes, but with the inflated price from our bidding war, I don’t have as much as I budgeted for.

  And that’s without accounting for unforeseen problems and expenses that always happen on a project.

  Tears well in my eyes that I blink away because I refuse to give him any iota of the vulnerability I’m suddenly awash with.

  “Then why did you keep going?” he asks, his tone softening as if he hears the panic in my voice.

  “Because I wanted it. Because I needed it. Christ,” I mutter as I pull my hair back and twist it into a knot on top of my head. “Clearly you did too.” I glance over at him and hold his gaze, suddenly needing to know the answer to a question I haven’t had time to think to ask. “Why did you stop?”

  He lifts his chin toward the door of the auction house where my brothers stand, pretending not to be staring our way. “Because of them. What I overheard. And what you told me.”

  I do a double take. “So you gave up the property for me?”

  His nod is slow and measured, his lips twisting for a beat as he thinks about his answer. “I think you need it more than I do.”

  The gesture hits me squarely in the gut and makes the panic flutter anew. “Thanks. Thank you.” I shove up from my seat and pace back and forth in front of him. What have I done? How did I think I could handle this project on my own? I could remodel it with my eyes closed. I have plans and projections and spreadsheets coming out my ass, but there is so much more to it than that. And the so much more is hitting me now. Overwhelming me now. “It’s yours. You can have it.”

  He snorts. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Sorry. Never mind.” I chuckle nervously and pinch the bridge of my nose. “Forgive the mini-panic attack, but it’s one thing to dream it and want it. It’s another thing to act on it and have the chance to. It’s hitting me now. That I do have the chance. That it’s mine. All at once. Oh my God.”

  “Okay.” He draws the word out, his eyes studying me. “I think panic might be a normal reaction. So would elation. Pride. Excitement. Anticipation.”

  I move back and forth in front of him again, my hands trembling from the adrenaline again. “Was I a fool for thinking I could pull this off? For getting caught up in the auction and going over what I had told myself I’d pay for it? I was, wasn’t I? I was—”

  Ford is in front of me in an instant, my hands in his, and his head stooped low so our eyes are level. “You’re not a fool. Knock that shit off, Ellery. You know you can handle this. You know you’re capable. I know you’re capable. You know this is exactly what you want and what you deserve.”

  I shake my head back and forth as if it will prevent me from hearing what he’s saying. “Being capable is one thing. Handling a project of this magnitude is . . .” Projects always overrun on costs. Manpower and rising costs on building materials. Labor shortages. My head spins with things I’ve already factored in but are still panic-inducing in this moment.

  This is my own money.

  Not Haywood Redesigns.

  Mine.

  I knew the risks. I was more than willing to take them. I’m aware you have to spend money to make money. But you can be the fiercest person in the world and still get overwhelmed when you take a chance on yourself.

  “Ellery.”

  “Just give me a minute.” I hold my hands up and force my feet to stop and my breath to slow down.

  I can do this.

  I know I can do this.

  “Ellery. Look at me,” Ford says in that implacable tone of his.

  “What?”

  “Have you filed the paperwork yet?” His question throws me.

  “Paperwork?”

  “For the purchase. The auction.”

  I stare at him, blinking, clearly not following him. “No. I mean, I was going to, but I needed some fresh air. Then you were here . . . and, no, I haven’t.”

  “Okay. Then let’s go fill out our paperwork.”

  My head snaps up to meet his. “What do you mean by our paperwork?”

  “Ours. As in yours and mine. Co-owners split fifty-fifty. That’s my proposal.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me. Ours.”

  “You can’t just—”

  “Yes, I can,” he says nonchalantly as if he’s used to people agreeing to whatever he tells them. He is a Sharpe, after all, and they have a reputation for getting exactly what they want. “We’d make a good team. You’re stressing about capital, and I have capital I was already willing to spend. You’re worried about risks, while my forte is the market and what the property needs to be competitive. The remodel part is your baby since that’s your specialty. And then when you’re done, I have the connections to market and sell its uniqueness to the clientele I have in mind. Add to that, us going in fifty-fifty lessens our financial exposure and risk.”

  “But it also splits the profits,” I counter, more to sound like I’m being reasonable.

  “Beggars can’t be choosers,” he teases as I stare at him dumbfounded. Here’s a man I’ve met a whole of two times, asking to partner with me, telling me we’d be a good team, and the levelheaded, look-before-I-leap me is considering it.

  What is wrong with me?

  “What if our visions for the property are different?”

  “We’ll compromise.”

  I snort. “A Sharpe compromising?”

  “Are you judging me, Ellery?” he asks, that playful grin of his owning my attention.

  “No. Yes. I mean, you are probably used to—”

  “Having partners and having to compromise? Yes. In fact, I am. What else are you going to throw at me?”

  “But what about the division of duties? I’ll be living on-site. If I’m there one hundred percent of the time while you’re here in the city, then it shouldn’t be a fifty-fifty split. I think we should revise your proposal to a forty-sixty split.”

  “Ohhh, she’s already playing hardball. That means you’ll negotiate well with subs. I’m impressed. And I like it.” He rocks his head from side to side as he contemplates my comment. “Well, if you’re going to be on-site, then I will be too.”

  “You’ll what?”

  “You heard me. Hell, I’d welcome the change of scenery. I can work from anywhere, and if I’m needed in the offices, I can always have the chopper come get me.”

  The Sinclair/Haywood family is successful by almost anyone’s standards. If we never wanted to work another day in our lives, we’d still be fine.

  But we’ve got nothing on the Sharpes. They are at a whole other level of ridiculousness.

  And Ford casually mentioning their private helicopter is a stark reminder of the disparity between our lifestyles when I live a damn good one without complaints.

  “You’re out of your mind, you know that?”

  “But you’re considering it, aren’t you?” He flashes a boyish grin that has a smile tugging at the corners of my mouth.

  I am, aren’t I?

  “Just like that?” I ask. “I mean . . . you don’t even know me.”

  “I do too.”

  I cross my arms over my chest. “You do? What do you know about me?”

  “I know you hate pretzels in Chex Mix, aren’t shy about germs, and that you prefer red wine—a good cab to be exact—over whiskey. What else? Hmm. That you deserve more credit than you’re given when it comes to your dickhead stepbrothers. That you rub your feet together like a cricket when you sleep.” His shrug complements his chuckle. “Oh, and you have a vagina.”

  A woman walking past us gasps at that last part as I crudely burst out laughing. “Jesus.” I cough the word out.

  “You were the one who let it be known, not me.”

  I take a step closer to him. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

  “I thought we already established that.”

  “Don’t you have to consult with your brothers or something? I mean . . . your fight that night. Are things better? Will they want approval? I mean—”

  “Everything is status quo. Not the same but not any different. And, no. No approval needed. This is my decision. My choice.”

  “Ford . . .” I look around at the people walking through the courtyard as if they’re going to give me an answer I’m pretty sure I already know. “I can’t let you do this. I don’t even understand why you’d want to—”

  “Give me one good reason why you can’t.”

  Because this is ridiculous.

  Because I barely know you and we might end up hating each other.

  Because this is supposed to be mine.

  “All those reasons flashing through your eyes aren’t good enough. Okay. You wore me down,” he teases and holds his hand up in surrender. “Fifty-fifty split, we both live on the premises, and I’ll make sure you have an endless supply of Chex Mix without pretzels in it.”

  “Hmm. I’m not sure if that’s enough for me,” I say, my grin telling him my words are just that. Words.

  “Okay. Fifty-fifty split. We both live on the premises, and you get first pick on where you want to sleep. Final proposal.”

  “Final proposal?” I belt out a low whistle. “You drive a hard bargain, Ford. That must be why you Sharpes rule the world.”

  How did I go from feeling like I had the weight of the world on my shoulders when I walked out here to suddenly feeling like this could be feasible?

  “C’mon, Celery Ellery. Take a chance on me. Take a chance with me.” He holds his hand out—the one he withheld from my brother’s handshake. “Deal, partner?”

  “I can’t believe I’m agreeing to this,” I groan as a thrill of excitement shoots through me.

  “Is that a yes?”

  I meet his eyes, take in his smile, and reach out to shake his hand. What the hell am I doing? “Yes.”

  Ford

  She didn’t have a ring on her finger.

  I just signed on the dotted line to co-own a property with a woman I don’t particularly know, and as I slide into the back seat and my driver heads back to the office, that’s the one constant that keeps going through my head. That big, sparkly diamond engagement ring was nowhere in sight.

  And believe me, I looked.

  My cell rings, and I know who it is before I even look at the screen.

  “It took you long enough,” I say as a means of greeting.

  “Dude. If you only knew the hell I’ve just endured. A bazillion-hour Zoom call. Trying to figure shit out through broken English and my non-existent Portuguese. I deserve a goddamn medal,” Callahan says.

  “Oh. Poor baby. You actually had to put in some hours today where you couldn’t fuck off in between calls?”

  “Says the man trying to buy . . . cottages? A motel?” He snorts. “What the fuck, Ford?”

  “So you’re calling to read me the riot act because I ignored the one that Ledger gave me earlier?”

  “Nope.”

  I let silence sit on the connection as I wait for the but to come. However, nothing comes. “What do you mean, nope?”

  “You have an MBA. I’m pretty sure you know the meaning of the word.”

  “Fuck off.”

  “Gladly.” He chuckles. “Honestly though, I think it’s an interesting idea that has decent potential.”

  “Wait? You’re serious?” Callahan is agreeing with me? Is hell freezing over?

  “I am. Sutton thinks it’s a good idea too,” he says, referring to his wife.

  “Well, that’s an unexpected turn of events.”

  “See? I’m not always an asshole.”

  “Just most of the time,” I say.

  “Pretty much. So you really bought an inn?”

  “You could say that.”

  “Aren’t you full of surprises.”

  “Always,” I say as my driver honks his horn when a cyclist cuts in front of him.

  “So, the usual? Hillary on the transition team? Stanley on the off-sites?” he asks, referring to our project managers.

  “No. I’m taking lead on this.”

  Callahan’s laugh rumbles through the line. “Funny.”

  “I’m dead serious.”

  If disbelief had a sound, the silence stretching between us would be it. In our dynamic at S.I.N., I’m the big-picture guy. I look at our properties, old and new, and assess what they need, what’s trending that we need to follow, ensuring that our overall brand is consistently strong. Callahan is the hands-on one. When resorts are making the changes that I suggest, he’s the one who oversees the transition. And then there’s Ledger who oversees the entire company as well as being the point person for all acquisitions.

  So for me to tell Callahan I’m going to be hands-on, doing what is typically his realm, is understandably comical to him.

  “So you’re going to be staying there? On-site? Boots on the ground?”

  “Yes. I’m going to live there for a bit. Work remotely. Fly into the office when I’m needed.”

  His chuckle is disbelieving. “Who’s the woman?”

  I startle. “What do you mean, who’s the woman?” How does he know about Ellery?

  “I mean, this isn’t like you, and when a guy starts changing shit this drastically, there’s usually pussy involved somehow.”

  “Jesus Christ, Callahan.”

  “Tell me I’m wrong.”

  “You’re wrong.”

  “Not buying it. Who is she? Does she live near the property? Nothing like being able to roll business and pleasure into one, right?”

  “Yeah. Sure. That’s it. I just blew millions so I can be close to a woman. That’s a move out of your playbook. Not mine.” I chuckle. “Did it ever occur to you that maybe I need a change of pace for a bit, and this presented itself so I took it?”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “Believe me. Don’t believe me. I don’t fucking care.”

  “Testy. Jesus. You do need a change of scenery.”

  “I’ll be at the office soon. I need to meet with you and Ledge on this. We want to get started ASAP on this project.”

  “We?”

  “Yeah. We.” I’m not sure why I grin at the thought. “It’s a long story, but I partnered with someone on the purchase, and we went in fifty-fifty on the project.”

  “Partnered? I thought we were your partners?”

  “You are. This just . . . just go with it. Everything will be fine.”

  “Everything will be fine? Jesus. I’m already worried when you say shit like that. That begs me to ask, who’s the partner? What’s his name?”

  “Her name is Ellery Sinclair.”

  Callahan’s laughter echoes through the connection. “Told you a woman was involved,” he says. “Next thing you’re going to tell me is that she’s ugly.”

  “Horribly. A snaggletooth. Disgusting breath. Warts all over her body,” I say in jest, while my mind is filled with the exact opposite. Blonde hair. Blue eyes. A great smile. And a killer body with curves I never noticed that first night because they were hidden by her baggy clothes.

  “So there’s no need to worry about you sleeping with her and fucking up your partnership since she’s repulsive, right?”

  “Never even crossed my mind,” I lie. “I’ve gotta take this call coming in.”

  And just as I’m about to push the button to switch over to my incoming call, I hear him mutter, “Change of scenery, my ass.”

  Ellery

  “You what?” Joshua stares at me with eyes wide and expression horrified.

  But my focus is on my stepfather, Garland Haywood. He sits before me with his shock of gray hair going every which way as per usual and his dark brown eyes locked on mine. There’s the slightest lift to one of his eyebrows as his lips purse.

  “Starting when?” he asks in that gravelly baritone of his that used to strike fear in me as a teenager. Now it just sounds pathetic.

  “A few weeks. We’re finalizing the details and schedules now. I’ll know more in the next week or so.”

  He nods as a muscle pulses in his jaw. “And you’ve been using company time to do this? To meet with them and plan things?”

  “No. Not at all,” I lie. It’s amazing. They don’t want me around “in their way” most days, but when I’m possibly doing something other than fetching coffee, taking calls, and filing, suddenly, where I am and what I’m doing matters. “It’s been in my free time at night.”

  “And you didn’t use any company funds for the purchase of this whatever it is?”

  “None.” Like he wouldn’t know if I took millions from the company. Give me a break.

  “Ballsy,” he murmurs but doesn’t say anything else. His words have me standing a little taller. Garland Haywood’s words of praise are few and far between. Ballsy is the most I’ve gotten in years.

  I’ll take it.

  I remain standing, refusing to sit and be at eye level with them. I’ve rehearsed this entire scenario in my head over and over. What I’d say. How I’d say it. What might be said to me. And the trump card I know I’ll have to pull at some point to secure my position here at Haywood while I’m away doing my own thing at the White Sands Inn.