Final proposal, p.1
Final Proposal, page 1
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TABLE OF CONTENTS
TITLE PAGE
PRAISE FOR K. BROMBERG
ALSO WRITTEN BY K. BROMBERG
COPYRIGHT
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
CHAPTER THIRTY
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
CHAPTER FORTY
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
CHAPTER FORTY-NINE
CHAPTER FIFTY
CHAPTER FIFTY-ONE
CHAPTER FIFTY-TWO
EPILOGUE
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Ford
Wind whips through the trees, and the sky flashes bright as the lightning strikes in the distance beyond. For the briefest of moments, I get a glimpse of the angry ocean beyond the wall of windows before me.
And then darkness hits again.
The drive here did little to abate my rage.
The half-drunk glass of whiskey in my hand even less so.
I was certain that with every mile I put between myself and my brothers, their placating tones, and bullshit explanations, the fury would dispel . . . but I was wrong.
The time has only served for my thoughts to run wilder, and the gut punch of hurt to intensify.
I can still see it. The newly printed hardcover on the table. The words on its pages edited for consumer resale. For the public with its voracious appetite for one of three things: scandalous backstories, a how-to guide to make billions out of nothing, or tidbits to tarnish a reputation.
Shock and awe have always sold well.
Who knew the benign biography of Maxton Sharpe, my father, would leave me feeling this way?
What was in the book shouldn’t have bugged me. Or rather, what wasn’t in the book. It shouldn’t still bug me.
But it does.
I take another sip, welcoming the burn and warmth of the alcohol, and mutter, “Just Ford.”
Fuck that.
Noises filter into my thoughts. The low hum of chatter from the bar patrons who are stuck here like I am. The howl of the wind outside. The vibration of my cell on the bar top beside me alerting text after fucking text. My brothers. Little too late on their part.
Dramatic.
Sensitive.
Ridiculous.
Aren’t those the words they used to describe me? To invalidate everything?
It’s only what the people you love say that matters.
My mom’s words echo in my head.
My phone vibrates with another text. What? Has the jet landed back in New York, and they’re suddenly worried about me driving into this storm? Where was their concern earlier?
Like I said, fuck that.
I’ll sulk through this drink.
And the next one.
And the one after that.
It’s not like I can go anywhere else right now.
I glance around the small bar. I’m more than certain the crowd in here isn’t usual, and they’re not here because of the ambiance. We’re just the only dumbasses who chose to drive through a tropical depression, waiting for an uprooted tree to be cleared off the road a mile or so from here.
The bar is attached to a rather nondescript, non-spectacular, non-everything inn nestled on a strip of beach just outside of the Hamptons. A town halfway between here and nowhere. A middle ground that the well-to-do ignore on the way to their Hamptons playground and the lower middle class notice, wishing they could afford to stay at one day.
This place . . . hell, I don’t even remember the name of it—it’s that plain and unexciting its name escapes me—is dated and generic. Burgundy leather and dark wood seem to be the theme. Cheap fixtures and generic, mass-replicated pictures are the décor that no place ever needs.
It has potential.
But it seems that whoever owns this place doesn’t choose to invest the money in it to allow it to reach it.
Not that I fucking care.
There might not be any vacancies for the night, but it’s dry, and for now, seems secure against the raging storm outside. Oh, and it has alcohol. That’s a definite plus.
Something thumps rather loudly on the floor to the right of me, followed by a woman’s frustrated sigh. “They closed the roads. Fucking closed ’em. Can you believe that?”
If I can’t be at the Sag Harbor house—where I was heading—I should be able to drink in peace.
And a Chatty Cathy choosing to sit next to me is not exactly peaceful.
Nor what I’m in the mood for.
“Nice mouth,” the man on the other side of me mutters.
“Hello? Did you hear me?” she repeats, drawing a heavy sigh from me. “Closed. We’re stuck.”
She didn’t get the hint from my silence—or his comment—that I really don’t fucking care.
“Bri lliant observation,” I say into my drink. “There’s a reason we’re all sitting in here, and it’s not because of the ambiance.”
“I don’t believe I was speaking to you.”
“Good. Great.” Thrilled to not have to speak with anyone, I lift my finger for another drink to the bartender when something she said soundly hits my ears. “Wait. They closed the roads?”
Ford
I turn to look at the stranger standing beside me with the raspy voice and intriguing perfume. A pair of large, sapphire eyes meet mine, narrowed but full of curiosity. Her lips are full and currently pursed, her cheeks pink from what I can assume is the cold outside. Her dirty-blonde hair is swept up in some kind of messy bun but currently is more damp than dry, as is her jacket.
To say she’s pretty is an understatement. In fact, she’s really quite gorgeous in her own way.
But it’s the kind of gorgeous that is equal parts cute and beautiful all rolled into one. She’s more girl next door than sophisticated sexy, and the quirk of one of her eyebrows tells me she knows I’m looking and assessing.
And she’s not exactly thrilled about it.
Tough shit.
“Chandler?” she says into the cell phone I didn’t notice she’s holding to her ear. “Yeah. I have to go. Don’t ask. I’ll figure it out. I always do.” She drops her cell with a clatter onto the counter and turns to me with a sigh even heavier than mine. “Yes. That’s what I said. As in the roads.” She emphasizes the S. “As in more than one. You’ve got a stretch of about a mile going either way and that’s about as far as you’re going to get tonight.”
“Christ.”
“Sorry to be the one to break the bad news to you.” She shrugs unapologetically.
I wave my hand in indifference. “What happened?”
“Um . . . the torrential downpour outside? Storm Watch 2022? The same reason I’m assuming you’re sitting here in this less-than-appealing bar like I am?”
“What the actual fuck?” I mutter.
“Oh. So it’s okay when you say fuck, but when I say it, you mutter under your breath like that’s not how a lady should talk?”
I chuckle to ignore the she’s crazy alarm bells going off in my head. I’ve learned from experience to heed them. “I didn’t say a word or give a look or anything over your fucks.” I shake my head and scrub a hand over my jaw. “I just . . . I thought the road closure was temporary until they cleared the tree from the road.”
“Well apparently, another one fell past that one and then the other way.” She hooks a thumb over her shoulder. “The ocean water is breaching the sea wall and flooding the road, so it’s been deemed too dangerous to pass.”
“I would laugh, but it’s par for the course tonight.” I scrub a hand through my hair. “Thanks for being the bearer of bad news.”
“It could be worse. This place could be closed. They could be out of alcohol. I mean—”
“I get the picture. Thanks.”
“C’mon,” she coaxes and then nudges me as if we haven’t just met. “It can’t be that bad.”
I give her a smile that’s anything but amused. “Aren’t we Miss Rainbows and Sunshine?”
“Says the man trying to be a grumpy asshole to ensure I don’t talk to him or disturb his”—she makes a show of looking at my glass—“whiskey, is it?”
“Sunshine, rainbows, and a mind reader?” I raise my eyebrows and give a low whistle. “More than impressed.”
She mock curtsies and gives me a smile that lights up her face. Jesus, I was wrong. There’s a whole lot of sexy there too.
“Thank you. It’s one of my many party tricks.”
“One of your many?” I ask.
“Oh, he does know how to smile,” she murmurs just above the fray, her eyes meeting mine again. “It’s a good look on you. You should try it more often.”
I slide a bemused look her way. “Noted.”
“Oh, see, a glimpse of cute and then right back to grumpy.” She takes a seat and swivels on her stool to face me. A hint of her perfume hits me with the motion. The irony that it smells like bottled sunshine isn’t lost on me.
“Exactly.” I give a curt nod as if I’m annoyed by her and her interruption—which I was and still should be—and yet I engage when I could easily excuse myself from the bar. “See? It’s fruitless to waste your time trying to make me smile.”
“Noted.” She repeats my word back to me and smirks. “I have much better things to do than try and make you smile anyway.”
It’s my turn to swivel and face her, my knees bumping against hers. “Is that so?”
“It is.” She orders a glass of Cabernet sauvignon and looks back at me expectantly.
“What exactly do you have that’s better to do?” I point around the bar and as if on cue, thunder rumbles again to emphasize that we’re stuck here and she can’t leave.
She angles her head to the side and works her tongue in her cheeks. “Stuff.”
“Stuff? How descriptive.”
“How about, stuff I don’t want to do? Stuff I’m avoiding doing? Stuff I’m simply trying to make sense of? Is that descriptive enough for you, Mr. Grumpy?”
Something flickers in her eyes that tells me she’s glossing over whatever it is. “Sure. Fine. Whatever floats your boat.”
“Apparently, I’m going to need that boat to find my way out of here if the water keeps rising.”
“And she has jokes too.”
“Always. Why is it that you’re grumpy? Is this an everyday occurrence?” She narrows her eyes and studies me, her teeth sinking into her bottom lip as she does. “Hmm. I don’t peg you as the type though. Moody possibly. A brooder perhaps but simply for effect. But not perpetually grumpy.”
“Thanks for the psych eval.” I slide my empty glass toward the bartender, signaling for another. “I didn’t ask for one.”
“And yet that comment just confirmed my diagnosis.”
“Aren’t you the jack-of-all-trades,” I say.
Her smile just grows wider and damn it. It’s hard not to smile in return. Doesn’t she know my plan was to come here and brood? To self-medicate with this whiskey and tell myself how I have every right to be hurt and pissed and everything in between?
“So what is it? Girlfriend problems? Dog got run over? Car out of gas?”
My only response is a blank stare.
“Oh my God.” She brings a hand over her heart. “It’s your dog, isn’t it?” Tears well in her eyes—something I totally don’t expect—as her voice lowers. “I’m so sorry.” She reaches out and squeezes my knee.
Here’s my out.
I can let the lie stand as it is and use it to pull sympathy and get her to leave me alone. Nod my head and abandon my seat for one of the chairs over by the opposing window.
All alone.
But when I open my mouth to do just that, nothing comes out. I mean . . . there’s worse company to keep than a gorgeous woman who seems—so far—to have a great personality.
“Sorry to burst your bubble, but I don’t have a dog who died.”
Lightning strikes again and there are a few gasps around us. The woman beside me nods, almost as if she’s disappointed in me and I’m not sure why.
“I never claimed to have one either,” I continue. “You’re the one who jumped to conclusions.”
“You do have a dog, though, right?” she asks, as if it’s a very important question.
“And that matters why?”
“Because it says something about you if you have a dog.”
“Like what?” I ask, even though I’m of the same mind.
She shrugs. “That you think about more than just yourself. That you’re willing to share time and space. That you’re not afraid to get your hands dirty—I mean, picking up poop is a necessity.”
“What?” I all but spit my drink out.
“No one likes a person who isn’t willing to pick up their own dog’s poop.”
“You surprise me at every turn,” I mutter and stare into my glass before looking back to her.
“Good. Surprises are a good thing.” She flashes a megawatt smile. Who is this woman and why do I suddenly want her to not stop talking? “So? Dog? No dog? What?”
“No dog.” I hold up my hands. “But don’t judge. I love dogs. Big dogs. But that’s the downside to living in the city.” And why do I care that she’ll think differently of me because of my answer?
