Chapter 18 #2
“It’s okay. I just need a break.” He holds out his hand so I can use him to balance. I rest my hand on his and lift each leg like a flamingo, giving it the rest it needs before switching feet. “Why won’t you tell me how much you donated? As your wife, don’t I have a right to that information?”
A smile splits his cheeks, and he chuckles. “You’re relentless.” I nod just enough to agree. “Why do you want to know?”
“I want to know how the other half lives.” As soon as I say it, I know I’ve given away a part of my act.
It’s tempting to hide or try to distract from the mistake, but even three glasses of champagne cause enough trouble for me not to rush to cover it up.
That will only make me look guilty, which I am, but he doesn’t need to know that.
Warner doesn’t blink, not showing any doubt of who I am or that I exposed myself. “Five million dollars.” He just says it like it’s a buck fifty. To him, it might be. To me, that would be my family’s portion of the building. And he just gave it away like it was nothing.
I drop my leg back down so both my feet are planted on the concrete. Pulling my hand from his, my chest tightens as my stomach turns. “I wanted to know, but I wish I hadn’t asked.” I start down the steps, looking at what feels like a million ahead of me. No fast escape is happening in these shoes.
He walks beside me, his elbow out if I want the help.
What I want isn’t his damn arm for support.
I want my family to have what they love most—their home and restaurant.
And they only want those because we are a part of it.
The family is what makes both places special and worth fighting for.
But it’s only me, standing in front of Mt.
Everest without a jacket or oxygen, no survival skills, and nothing to help me climb that mountain. I don’t stand a chance.
“I didn’t want to tell you, but yeah, you can look it up. It’s not a secret, but I . . .”
I stop and look at him. “You what, Warner?”
“I didn’t want it to come between us.” The earnestness of his expression would melt my cold heart if we were at the apartment.
It would even add an air of romance if we were still standing together in front of the war painting.
But we’re not. We’re in the middle of Manhattan to celebrate him for handing out millions of dollars like candy.
The wind picks up, and a few strands of my hair escape the spray it had diligently held most of the night.
I push it back with my hand so I can see his eyes without interruption.
“Listen . . .” I take a breath to calm the choppy waters of my heart.
Any other time, I wouldn’t think twice about a rich guy donating money to help good causes, and art is a good cause.
But this isn’t any other time. This is a time when my family is on the brink of ruin.
The thing is, I have no right to be mad at him, to tell him how to spend his money, even if it is money earned at the expense of working-class families.
My family suffering doesn’t mean he owes us anything.
I just hoped I could convince him to choose us, to choose good, like he did tonight. To choose me.
There is no choice in front of him. In his concussed head, he already chose me. And he’s not running away. He’s spoiling me with dresses that I could never afford and shoes that I’m sure cost more than my paycheck. Warner held my hand like I belonged at that event, like I belong with him.
Now I feel bad when he’s put in so much effort to make me feel good.
“I’m listening,” he says when my head gets in the way of what was a beautiful night. He takes my hand, holding it like he’s not giving up on me. Why? Why wouldn’t he? I’m a nobody in his world. A pest. A fake. An adversary. “Are you okay?” His Sass.
With the resentment that hurried my getaway dissipating under the truth of what’s happening, my heart pounds for a different reason.
I like him. I care about him. I . . . I look away from the warmth of his eyes that make me feel safe, even protected in a city that can be so cold and gray.
Inhaling a breath, I hold it only a moment before releasing it along with my feelings.
I’m falling for Warner Landers. I’ve fallen for the enemy.
Oh God, what am I doing? More importantly, what have I done?
I just hope it’s not too late to turn this back around. I worked much better when I thought he was an asshole and not Prince Charming. Because heaven knows I’m in no position to profess my sins to him.
Apparently, my stomach is, though. It growls, bringing a smile to his face. And that makes me smile because I’m a fool for him. Or maybe this is a mood induced by a lack of food? A girl can only hope. Otherwise, three days in and I’ve lost at my own game.
“The car’s here,” he says, glancing down at the curb that has a million steps between me and relief from these painful shoes. He must sense my hesitation even now as I lowered the temperature of my anger. “The shoes?”
“Yeah. I think I’ll take them off.”
“It’s New York.” His tone turns firm. “You’re not walking on these streets without shoes.
I’ll carry you.” Although I shouldn’t find his uptight bossy side so attractive, even that is under the new circumstances of me being mushy-hearted for this man and the whole meatball of emotions that comes with that.
“You can’t. I don’t want you to injure your arm.” Eyeing it, I gently tap the hard cast. “More than it is. I’ll just walk. I’ll be fine. I’m sure you have a first-aid kit packed with anything I could possibly need to bandage the blisters later.”
Standing two steps down from me, he bends before me. “No blisters.” Looking up at me, he says, “Come on. It’s only a few steps.”
“Come on, as in get on your shoul—” I’m swooped over his shoulder before I can finish the question.
I laugh from the playful gesture as I dangle over this giant of a man using one hand to make sure my ass isn’t exposed to all of Manhattan.
This might be the only time I’ve been grateful to be a smaller package of a person.
But do I love being Warner-handled like this?
Yes. Will I not give him a hard time anyway?
No. I’m definitely giving him a hard time.
I slap his ass with my clutch and laugh.
“You’re the worst, you know that, Hotshot? ”
Chuckling, he says, “I know that, Sass.”
Warner covers the remaining ten thousand steps with ease and even dashes a bit to show off at the end.
Setting me down on the sidewalk beside the waiting black Town Car, he reaches to hold my face, staring into my eyes and stroking my cheek with the pad of his thumb like I’m the most precious thing he’s ever seen.
He has my head swimming in the feels, and my heart, being the traitor it is, beats just for him.
On the positive, if he has five million to donate to The Met, he has a lot more to splash around the city. So getting him to toss a few mil—five, to be precise—my way might not be such an impossibility. All I need to do is convince him of that.
The negative, I’m head over heels for this man. I’m so screwed. Who knew I’d be the type to fall for the villain of my story? Not me. I’m just as surprised as if I were the reader.
He holds the door open as I slip inside. Seems he’s already given directions to the driver, and although I love being independent, it’s nice to have little things taken care of sometimes. With him, they are. When he gets in and closes the door, he angles toward me. “Hungry?”
“Starving.”
Fifteen minutes later, we’re leaning against the car and tapping our hot dogs together.
“Cheers,” I say, and then take a bite. The hot dog never stood a chance against him.
He finishes half in one bite. I take another bite, enjoying the clear skies, the bustle of people around us, and the company of one formerly intolerable bachelor.
Though bachelor is subjective when it comes to us.
I bump up against him, grinning like a girl in love because yeah, it’s nice to feel free to be who I am around him.
Finally. I ask, “How’d you know I liked hot dogs? ”
“We live in the city. I took a wild guess.”
“It was a good guess.”
He finishes his food and then wraps his arm around my shoulders. “So what do you want to do next?”
“Considering I’m wearing these shoes, curling up on the couch with my big guy, gelato, and a movie sounds like a great way to spend the rest of the night.”
“Big guy.” He chuckles. “What movie did you have in mind?”
“I haven’t seen Ocean’s 11 in years.”
“I’m sensing a pattern.”
I take another too big of a bite to chew properly because I’m not ready to address that pattern.
I don’t know what the plan is at this point, much less a pattern.
I do know that when I look at Warner, he’s not as bad as I thought he was, as I wished he was when I met him.
Things just got a whole lot more complicated.