Chapter 10 Warren #2
The CHG Foundation gala swirls around me in a blur of designer gowns and tuxedos. Waiters glide between clusters of Palm Beach's wealthiest, balancing trays of champagne that catch the light from crystal chandeliers overhead.
The string quartet plays something classical that I should recognize but can't name. My thoughts are elsewhere.
"Warren! Excellent turnout." Pope materializes at my elbow, clapping my shoulder. "Janie's initiatives already secured three major commitments tonight."
Janie's initiative.
I nod, glass raised in acknowledgment. "Your people know how to throw a party."
"Not my people. Our committee." Pope gestures across the room. "Your co-chair's working magic over there."
My eyes follow his hand, though they don't need direction. I've been tracking her all night.
Janie stands in a circle of donors, an emerald green dress hugging curves I shouldn't remember so vividly. Her hair is swept up, exposing the elegant line of her neck. Her hands move animatedly as she speaks, passion evident even from across the room.
“Excuse me,” Pope says as he moves on to another man at my left. I weave through the crowd, handshakes and pleasantries automatic, my professional smile fixed in place while my attention stays locked on her.
“Our initiative will expand access to preventative care, screenings, and wellness education across the county,” Janie explains to the cluster around her.
Her voice is steady, confident, drawing people in.
“It’s not enough to treat patients who can afford to come through CHG’s doors.
We’re taking steps to reach the ones who can’t. ”
Heat curls low in my chest. Pride. Desire. Guilt. All tangled. She belongs here, commanding attention, fighting for something bigger than herself. Goddamn, she's hot in her element.
“Quite young for a director, isn’t she?” An older board member mutters over his champagne glass, his tone dripping with condescension.
I step in before the words can settle. “Ms. Harrelson designed and launched Northwestern’s community outreach program from the ground up.
She doubled participation rates, streamlined administrative costs by thirty percent, and built a model that Chicago hospitals are still adopting.
Palm Beach is fortunate she chose to bring that expertise here. ”
The man blinks, caught off guard. "Well then. I stand corrected."
Janie meets my eyes briefly, gratitude flashing across her face before she turns back to her circle, poised and unshaken.
That momentary connection shoots electricity through my veins. Whatever I try to tell myself, the spark between us remains stubbornly alive.
I excuse myself, suddenly desperate for air that doesn't smell like her perfume.
The balcony doors offer escape, and I slip through them onto the terrace overlooking the Atlantic.
The ocean stretches black and endless beneath a scatter of stars, waves crashing against the shore in a rhythm steadier than my heartbeat.
The salt-tinged breeze combs through my hair as I loosen my tie, freeing my throat from its chokehold. I down the rest of my scotch in one burning swallow, welcoming the heat that spreads through my chest.
The click of heels against stone announces her before I see her. I don’t need to turn to know it’s her.
My body knows first. Heat spikes low in my gut, tightening everything like I’ve been wired wrong. My shoulders tense, every muscle fighting between wanting to bolt and wanting to lean back into her orbit..
I drag in a breath, but it’s useless. She’s already inside it, inside me, and my pulse hammers against my collar like it’s trying to break free. My fingers curl against the rail because if I don’t anchor myself, I’ll reach for her without thinking.
I keep my gaze on the black sweep of ocean, telling myself to stay still, but every nerve strains toward the sound of her steps.
She’s behind me, close enough that the warmth of her body brushes my back, and the pause before I turn is torture. Desire coils tight, and for a moment, I swear if I move too fast, I’ll give away everything.
Janie steps beside me, the green dress almost black in the moonlight. Her champagne flute catches starlight, sending prisms dancing across the stone balustrade.
For a long moment, we stand in charged silence, the party's muffled music seeping through closed doors behind us.
"Thank you. Back there," she says finally, voice soft but steady. "That was nice what you said."
I shrug, aiming for casual indifference. "Just stating facts."
"Still." Her eyes find mine, luminous in the darkness, pulling at something buried deep. "I appreciate it."
"Guy was being an ass, huh? Men can be such dicks sometimes. Especially the rich ones."
She laughs, a small startled sound. "You always could spot them a mile away."
"When you grow up surrounded by men like that, you learn quickly. My family had more money than God, and less sense of responsibility than most guys with a hundred bucks to their name. Courtrooms just proved what I already knew—power and money don’t make men better, they just make them louder."
We drift into safer topics. We touch on the initiative's metrics, Chicago's brutal winters, and Palm Beach's insufferable humidity. Dancing around what matters, never quite touching it.
She laughs softly, brushing a strand of hair from her face. The sound carries over the surf, light and unguarded, and it lands in my chest like it belongs there.
My grip on the railing eases, shoulders loosening without permission. Conversation drifts, but the space between us tightens, filled with things we’re not saying. She leans into the railing, and my body tilts toward hers like it remembers how to stand next to her.
The night air chills my skin, but she radiates warmth, steady and undeniable. Every light brush of her arm against mine winds me tighter, every glance she casts feels like it unravels something I’ve been holding together too long.
Being near her doesn’t feel like an effort. It feels like gravity.
"Pope's very impressed with your work," I offer, touching my bottom lip for something to do with my hands, a nervous tic.
"He should be. I'm good at what I do." No false modesty. No apology. The confidence in her voice hits me low in the gut.
"Yes, you are." The words escape before I can stop them, too honest.
Janie laughs again, this time unguarded and real, the same sound I remember from firelight and whispered confessions.
“Your tie’s crooked,” she murmurs, reaching up.
Her fingers graze my collar, and I catch her wrist before I can think better of it. Her pulse flutters wildly against my thumb, betraying what her face won’t.
Our eyes lock. The space between us collapses.
I lean down as she rises, meeting halfway. The kiss detonates. Heat floods my veins, her mouth sparking against mine like it’s been waiting all these years.
Five years of restraint go up in flames. My hands clamp her waist, dragging her closer, while hers slide up my chest to my neck, fingertips burning trails into my skin.
I break first, breath ragged against her cheek. “This can’t happen,” I whisper, the lie splintering between us.
She doesn’t answer. Her lips are swollen, her cheeks flushed, and her silence damns us both. We’re not stopping. We’re only pretending we can.
I turn back to the ocean, gripping the railing until my forearms ache, the taste of her still on my tongue. Every breath cuts deeper because wanting her isn’t the problem anymore. Pretending I don’t is.