“So you have Callahan the rebel and Ledger the Type A, tell us about your middle son, Fordham.”
Maxton’s eyes grow wistful, and a smile ghosts his lips. “My wife went to Fordham University. That’s where I met her actually. I had a side job delivering flowers, and I accidentally ran into her. I plucked the card out of the bouquet right then and there and gave them to her instead.” His smile widens. “That’s where Ford got his name from. A nod to the day I knew I would marry Carly.”
The imposing man sits back in his chair and looks out the window of his tower in the sky. The city moves at breakneck speed beneath him, and I wonder if he misses the pace or if he enjoys his unhurried life now.
I wait for him to gather his thoughts. Moments pass. Memories are silently relived, and the emotions from them fleet through his expression.
“Ford is . . . the peacekeeper of our family. The even keel in our sometimes-stormy life. He’s . . . just Ford.”
Just Ford.
Not Fordham Rhys Sharpe, second in his class at Wharton by a very small percentage. Not Fordy, son of Maxton and Carly, who kept the family together after his mother’s death. Not Ford, the man who streamlined some of S.I.N.’s chain-of-command issues to make the company more efficient and more successful. Not my son, the one who called every night to make sure I was okay.
Fucking Just Ford.
And that’s all I could think about tonight as my brothers and their wives, Sutton and Asher, stood before a whole host of people with wide smiles and welcoming hugs.
How do they look at me? Am I invisible to them too? Am I Just Ford, the middle son they often forget—and surprisingly—don’t really know much about?
“It’s the book, isn’t it?” Ledger asks, pulling me from my thoughts. “Reading through it has reminded us of everything we’re missing with him gone. Was it as hard for you to read as it was for me?”
“For that.” I give a measured nod. “And for other reasons.”
The drink I’ve rejected all night long is calling my name right now. But I don’t move toward the refrigerator stocked with beer. I think once I start, I won’t stop. Rather, I hold Callahan’s stare.
“It doesn’t mean anything,” he finally murmurs quietly, almost as if in a warning.
What the fuck?
“What doesn’t?” Ledger asks while I wonder if Callahan’s comment means when he read the book, he noticed it too. Or more to the point, my absence in it.
Surprising if that’s the case. My brother, who used to only think of himself, noticed while the one who typically knows every “T” that needs to be crossed and “I” that needs to be dotted, didn’t.
But why the warning?
“God forbid, Just Ford rocks the boat, right, Cal?” I ask.
“Does someone want to clue me in why the two of you are staring at each other while I’m over here standing in the fucking dark?”
“Just Ford,” I repeat.
“What about it? Did you forget your name? What am I missing?” Ledger asks, but I know the minute it registers because his hand falters bringing his drink to his mouth.
“Like I said, it doesn’t mean anything. Like all books, not everything is included in a final product. Things are edited out. Winword probably had a lot left on the cutting-room floor that he just couldn’t use,” Callahan says, referring to the author.
“Edited out? You mean the boring parts that aren’t interesting, right? Because why would he use anything Dad said about me when he has the bad-boy Callahan and protégé Ledger to talk about?”
Because he didn’t have anything to say about me that was worthy of being in his book.
And there it is.
Most things roll off my back. Little affects me emotionally. Rarely anything. But to think that my dad thought so little of me is upsetting. I’m confused by this pressure in my chest. I’m confounded by this need to prove I’m more than Just Fucking Ford.
“That’s bullshit,” Ledger says.
“Bullshit?” I bellow.
“You’re goddamn right, bullshit,” Ledger says stepping into my space. “I paid prices you don’t have a clue about, so fuck you and your bullshit comments.”
The muscle in his jaw pulses as fury I rarely see from him sparks in his eyes. Well good, because I’m furious too.
“Ford,” Callahan says, trying to break the tension when typically, he incites it. “We’ve grown up with cameras in our faces and false rumors being the norm. We all know how they twist words and sensationalize shit to sell an extra copy. It’s the same with that.” He points to the book.
“But these were Dad’s words,” I shout. “Those weren’t made up.”
“You’re being ridiculous.” Ledger rolls his eyes. “Dad was proud of all of us. Even you—”
“What if the roles were reversed? What if—”
“I wouldn’t fucking care. Neither should you,” Callahan says. “Quit being so goddamn sensitive.”
But I do care.
I care more than I want to admit.
“Fuck this. And fuck the both of you.” I head to the door and ignore their shouts of my name.
There is no point in continuing this dead-end conversation.
None.
I’m so much more than Just Ford. Fuck them if they think otherwise.
I will not settle for being a mention.
For being the disregarded Sharpe.
For being just anything.
CHAPTER FOUR
Ellery
I look around the darkened room. Some stranded customers have selected chairs and curled up in balls to settle in for the long haul. Others have purchased their bottle of alcohol and are finding a place to get comfortable. Some have stupidly opted to leave and try their luck at getting around the roadblocks.
I, on the other hand, am standing with my bottle of cabernet tucked under one arm, the bowl of germ mix in one hand, and my wine glass in the other, scanning the room while completely ignoring the constant buzzing of texts from my phone inside my purse.
There was a reason I took this road trip, and the person most likely texting is it.
I scan the room and find myself rather disappointed that I don’t see Ford.
Did he leave too?
Did he buy his bottle of whiskey and then escape to a room he had reserved but didn’t say anything about?
Why do I even care?
Because I do. Isn’t that me? To care about everyone and everything at the expense of myself?
But it was more than that. It was . . . him.
Without knowing the exact details of whatever happened to him tonight, I know that I can commiserate. A battle with your brothers. Seeing how they perceive you and being knocked back a bit.
And it didn’t hurt that the man hits every check mark on what I find attractive. Jesus, did he. The dark hair with a slight wave to it. The amber eyes with flecks of gold. The strong jaw and straight nose. The broad shoulders and seriously sexy forearms. The hands . . . oh, he has good hands.
The whole unbuttoned shirt and bow tie hanging around his neck only adds to the sex appeal.
But for every part of him that tried to be grumpy, a glimpse of something else came through. He came across as kind when he wanted to be gruff. As welcoming when he wanted to be left alone. As interested even when he tried to be aloof.