Chapter 18
Delaney
Shoulders back.
Chin up.
Hands clasped on my clutch in front of me and not on her son. And just when things were getting good, too . . . his mother arrives to complicate our lives. As if they weren’t already. I almost giggle, but I hold it in.
He kisses her cheek and returns to stand next to me. “How are you, Mother?”
“Why do you have a black eye, Warner?” No hello. No how are you back. Not even the cliché answer of fine.
“Bar fight.”
“What?”
“I’m kidding, Mother. Long story. I’ll tell you about it later. It’s been a while.”
As if nothing prior matters, she says, “Kaley Wrennick has made a disaster of the Upper East Side Social this year, but who am I to complain? The committee put us out to pasture after last year’s event when they handed the reins to the ‘next generation,’ as they called it.
All of us were shocked and insulted, to say the least. Darly Scoffield and I started that event. A little respect would have been nice.”
I stare at his mother in shock as she takes only one breath during that entire diatribe.
Similar blue eyes, a bit darker than his, and her platinum blond hair, though not natural, look nice against her golden skin tone.
She’s very pretty, but that doesn’t surprise me since anyone with eyes and ovaries would be attracted to the man next to me.
He’s gorgeous and had to get those genes from somewhere.
I suspect his father played a role, but I’ve not seen him to know.
I bet she has a standing reservation at the club to meet the girls for a round of tennis and then drink the next round while picking at overpriced Cobb salads after flirting with the tennis instructor.
Whoa! That was a lot. I’m sounding like her now.
I shake myself out of that because I’m not sure Mother Landers is the woman I want to emulate.
Warner sips his drink and then grins. It’s not the smile I get, but it’s not condescending.
Cordial? A smile he probably wears to exchange pleasantries.
So unlike the man I’ve gotten to know. He says, “Well, I’m sure when it fails, the committee will be begging you to run it again. Otherwise, you’re doing well?”
Why does he ask questions like they’re casual acquaintances?
“I’m good.” The moment I’ve been dreading arrives. Her gaze lands on me like a ten-ton truck as she looks me over.
Two issues.
One, I’m not her daughter-in-law.
Two, we’ve never met.
So this is how the plan falls apart. This is where we come to the end of our fake relationship before it has a chance to get to the prize at the finish line.
When Warner shows no intentions of introducing us, I go for it.
Wrapping my arms around her like we’re best friends from the Upper East Side Social club or committee, charity, whatever it is called that she’s upset about.
Dammit. I’ve read her name in Page Six, but it escapes me when I need it most. Her body is stiff and manages to become solid as a rock as fear rounds her eyes when I lean back with my hands still holding her by the arms. “It’s so good to see you again, Mother.”
I don’t need the chuckle from the peanut gallery behind me, so I shoot Warner a look that I hope he receives loud and clear as zip it, mister.
His mom asks, “Do we know—”
Warner steps into the fray, detaching my hands from his mom, and says, “Mother, you don’t have a drink.”
“I—” That’s all she manages as her eyes stay glued to mine. “Who is that wo—”
“I need to refill my drink, too,” he adds, swooping in by wrapping his arm around hers and pulling her toward the bar. “Let’s get drinks.” He glances over his shoulder at me. “Feel free to look at the art. That’s why we’re here tonight.”
His mother knocks on his cast. “Did you break your arm?”
“A car hit me. I’ll tell you all about it at the bar.
” That’s the last I can hear before they blend into the crowd that’s formed near the bar.
I don’t blame the people. I’d need booze too if I was always stuck going to these stuffy events.
I was excited to get dressed up, but when I look around, no one seems to be having any fun.
I take my glass of champagne and meander through the statues.
I don’t stop. Marble and bronze statues aren’t typically the art I’m drawn to.
I wander through different exhibits, finding one of their grandest in the Egyptian wing.
Continuing, I spend time looking at ancient weapons and jewelry, and paintings from France from the 1800s.
I finish another glass of champagne before entering a wing and find another server happy to replace my empty glass with a brand-new one.
More time has passed than I thought I’d be spending with Warner.
I don’t mind, but I sort of miss the jerk.
I finally reach the American wing of the museum.
I’ve seen the painting online and on TV a million times and could describe it by heart.
But he talked about it so much that I feel compelled to see it in person.
I enter through two open double doors and stop.
As I stare ahead, I was expecting a large painting.
I wasn’t expecting this. It’s huge, covering most of the wall space at the far end of the room.
Awe overcomes me as I walk toward it, leaving me speechless.
“It’s impressive, no?”
I glance over at Warner. He’s standing next to me, his gaze on the painting in front of us.
“I didn’t expect it to be that big. Or .
. .” I start, words still eluding me as the art takes precedence over thought.
We stand in silence, both staring at the famous painting.
“I’ve been here so many times over the years.
I can’t believe I’ve never seen it before. ”
“It’s a big museum.” He says, “It’s not the original. But it’s an incredible replica. The first was destroyed in a war.”
“It’s not like I haven’t seen this on TV, online, or even in the movies. It’s a general in a boat for goodness’ sakes. I shouldn’t be this emotional.”
“There comes a sense of astonishment from the hours it must have taken. We feel like we know it because it’s familiar, but it hits different seeing it in real life.”
I nod, nothing of value to add to his observation. He nailed it. I face him, looking around the room to see if I spot his mom. “Where’s your mother?”
“Drinking champagne with the lead curator for the glass art that’s being introduced tonight. She made a donation to close the gap to make the exhibit possible.”
“Quite the philanthropist family.”
He sips his drink and leans over. “You’re part of that family, remember?”
“I don’t think I could forget even if I tried.”
Chuckling, he turns to me. “I almost kissed you when I found you in here. You really do have a graceful neck.”
Disappointment shouldn’t enter my mind, much less my chest, but there it is, weighing me down with the possibility of what could have been. “Why didn’t you?”
“Because the last time, I got sucker punched by your bony elbow.”
That makes me laugh, easing the heaviness that was creeping in. “You made a wise decision, I suppose. This time.”
He looks at the painting once more before looking around as if he’s searching for the nearest exit. “As romantic as this painting is,” he says with a smirk on his face. “How about we get out of here?”
“The room or the museum?”
“Both.” When a server passes with a tray of empty glasses, Warner finishes his drink and adds his glass to the others. “Ready?”
I add my glass to the tray and take Warner’s offered hand. “Ready.”
Judging by how he weaves us through the halls and straight toward the main lobby entrance, I think he’s been here a few times. “Where are we going?”
“Where do you want to go? We’re all dressed up and can—”
“Warner Landers.”
The lobby fills with applause, trapping us in the dead center of the room, holding hands, like a couple that we’re not.
I look at him, worried about what will happen next.
Exposure? Busted? Getting arrested for impersonating his wife?
Frozen in panic, my heart still manages to beat louder than the rousing applause.
The announcer comes over the speaker and says, “We are so grateful for museum gold status saints like you. Without your donation, we wouldn’t be able to offer such a robust catalog of exhibits. Another round of applause for Warner Landers.”
Gold status? My eyes find the ribbon pinned to the front of his jacket, the same one that’s pinned to mine. “What does gold status mean?”
A man comes up to him to shake his hand. He turns to me and replies, “Doesn’t matter, Sass.”
“I’m just curious.” An older woman wearing a museum lanyard around her neck slips in after the man to shake his hand.
She’s thanking him while I consider pulling out my phone to research.
“I’m sure I can find it online.” Why is it such a mystery?
I know he’s rich, but how much could it possibly be?
A hundred K or even two? I can’t even imagine that kind of money, but that’s his world.
He shoots me a look as he shakes one more man’s hand and laughs, like we’re sharing a secret. Guess we are. We both want to get out of here. Before anyone else cuts in, Warner takes me by the hand and says, “We’re leaving.”
His hand lands on the small of my back as he guides me through the crowd toward the exit. The heels are works of art themselves, the crystals covering them making them shine under the bright lights of The Met’s facade, but for running, not my first choice.
I stop halfway down, needing a quick break from the ache in my feet. He goes four more steps before turning back. He returns, staying a step lower than me. Though to be eye level, he’d need to go down one more, or even two. “My feet hurt.”
“I’d carry you if I could.” He lifts his broken arm.