Page 12 of Final Proposal

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.

And maybe that last part hit me a little harder than it should have. Especially when it’s been forever since I noticed someone looking at me with that kind of heat in their eyes.

Or maybe it’s just the first time as of late that I’ve cared to notice. Or wanted someone to notice.

Is it ridiculous that my breath catches in my throat when Ford walks back into the lounge area? That I’m excited by the prospect of getting to know him better? That I’m relieved he didn’t leave?

And by how his white dress shirt is soaked and clinging to his chest, one could assume he went out to his car for something.

But I’m not thinking about why he went to his car or the wine in my hand or anything else for that matter, because I’m too busy being captivated by him. How he walks over to a settee on the far side of the room where I now see his bottle of whiskey and glass on the table beside him. How he unceremoniously and nonchalantly unbuttons said wet dress shirt that’s clinging to him, strips his arms out one by one so that every damn muscle contracting is on display.

His defined abs.

His broad chest with a slight smattering of dark hair.

The bronzed tone of his skin that reflects hours spent outdoors and shirtless.

For the love of all things holy . . .

I’m certain the thud I hear is my jaw dropping to the ground.

He bends over and messes with something in the bag he brought in, giving me an equally appealing look at the definition of his shoulders before pulling out a sweatshirt.

It’s faded and looks worn when he pulls it over his head to end the Magic Mike portion of the program, but I do a double take when I see the Wharton Business logo emblazoned across its front. Small world. A man doesn’t wear a sweatshirt that well-loved if he didn’t attend the school.

It seems Ford is well-educated too.

But it’s when I look up from the letters now sprawled across his chest, that I meet those amber eyes again. Whew. Funny things happen to my insides that aren’t supposed to happen when our eyes lock. His smile is lopsided, and the lift of his whiskey glass in my direction is a welcome invitation to take the empty seat beside his.

Against my better judgment, my feet move toward him.

What are you doing, Elle?

The angel on one shoulder pretends it doesn’t hear the devil on the other. Good thing the text alert knocks both off as I approach him.

“Contemplation over?” I ask as I set the bowl of germ mix down on the table and smile at him.

He looks at me above the rim of his glass, drops of water shaking loose as he nods. “I’ve always been a sucker for a good whiskey, and surprisingly, this place has some.”

“I’ve never been a fan of the hard stuff myself.” I make a sour face and wince as his smile widens. It’s then that I realize the innuendo of my statement and shrug unapologetically.

“It’s an acquired taste. With time, I’m certain I could get you to like it,” he murmurs as his eyes dart to my lips and then back up.

I guess when he shed that dress shirt, he left the grumpiness behind with it.

“What is it that you have against pretzels?” he asks with a lift of his chin to the bowl and the two pretzels I just picked out.

“I’m salty enough when I want to be. I don’t need to add to it.”

He bursts out laughing. “Seriously?”

“No. Maybe.” I lean over and pick another one out of the bowl. “Perhaps I just like being quirky.”

He gives me a disbelieving look, our eyes holding for longer than they should, before he breaks the stare and shakes his head. “I like that you are too.”

Hot and gives heartfelt compliments.