CHAPTER SEVEN
Portia believed every woman needed one friend who would tell her the truth and one who would lie until she felt better. Unfortunately, she had decided to be both.
“You don’t look nervous,” she said as we stepped out of the elevator into the gallery.
“I’m not.”
“Good. Because your left hand has been twisting that ring for six floors.”
I looked down. The slim gold ring on my index finger had turned almost completely around.
“I do that all the time.”
“You do it when you’re lying, waiting for test results, or about to cuss somebody out.”
“Maybe I plan to cuss you out.”
“That’s the spirit.”
The opening was for a new contemporary art space in Old City, a converted warehouse with white walls, black steel stairs, and enough polished concrete to make every heel sound important.
Portia’s public-relations firm had handled the launch.
My foundation had helped fund the youth studio on the second floor, which meant my presence was technically work. The black one-shoulder dress was not.
I had bought it three weeks before the party and hidden it in the back of my closet like somebody might issue a citation.
It fit close through my waist and hips, fell below my knees, and showed exactly enough skin to remind me I still had some.
I had not worn it for Warren. I also had not forgotten that Mercer Row’s name was on the renovation plaque beside the entrance.
Both things could be true. Portia took two champagne glasses from a passing tray and handed me one.
“Before you ask, no, I did not invite him.”
“I wasn’t gonna ask.”
“He was already on the guest list.”
“I don’t give a damn.”
“Your ring disagrees.”
I stopped twisting it. The room was full of people who looked comfortable being photographed.
Artists, donors, city officials, developers, women in sculptural dresses, men in sneakers that cost more than my first car.
A live trio played near the back wall while servers moved through the crowd with small plates.
I recognized half the room and wanted to talk to none of them. Then I saw Warren.
He stood near the base of the stairs in a black suit with no tie, talking to the gallery owner and an older man I knew from the city arts commission.
His suit fit without looking new. His watch was simple.
His expression was serious until the gallery owner said something that made him laugh.
I had never seen him laugh. Smile, yes. Laugh, no. It changed him.
Portia followed my line of sight. “Oh.”
“Don’t.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You breathed loud.”
“That man cleans up unfairly.”
A woman joined Warren and slipped her hand through his arm. She was tall, elegant, and young enough to make my first thought embarrassing. My second thought was worse. I took a sip of champagne.
Portia looked at the woman, then at me. “That could be his daughter.”
“It could be his wife.”
“You asked if he was single.”
“He said yes.”
“Then maybe it’s his daughter.”
“Why are we discussing this?”
“Because you are watching them like the gallery is running a live betrayal exhibit.”
I turned away. “I am not.”
The woman had Warren’s eyes. I knew that before she looked in my direction and smiled. Milan lifted one hand.
“Definitely his daughter,” Portia said.
“I knew that.”
“You absolutely did not.”
Milan came toward us, pulling Warren with her.
“Nadine,” she said, hugging me before I could decide whether we knew each other well enough. “You look incredible.”
“Thank you. So do you.”
She wore a cream pantsuit and gold earrings shaped like folded metal. Warren stood beside her, gaze steady on my face for one second too long before moving over the rest of me. Not crude. Not hidden. A grown man looking at a grown woman and accepting the risk of being caught.
“Portia,” he said.
She smiled with all her teeth. “Warren.”
“You look like you’re about to ask me something inappropriate.”
“I have matured.”
“Since the contract meeting?”
“Don’t ruin my testimony.”
Milan laughed. “What did she ask?”
“Nothing,” I said.
“Whether I was single,” Warren said.
I closed my eyes.
Portia lifted her glass. “Due diligence.”
Milan looked delighted. “And?”
“He was very professional,” Portia said.
“That means he didn’t answer,” Milan said.
“He answered later,” I muttered.
Warren’s gaze came back to me. The air between us warmed.
Portia’s eyebrows nearly reached her hairline. “Later?”
“About the project,” I said.
“Of course.”
Milan saved me by taking Portia toward the youth-studio exhibit. “Come meet the artist. She painted the mural upstairs.”
Portia let herself be taken, but not before mouthing later over Milan’s shoulder. Warren and I were left beside the stairs. He looked at my dress again.
“You look nice,” he said.
“Nice?”
His eyes met mine. “I’m at work.”
“So am I.”
“Then you look professionally distracting.”
The answer hit low and warm.
I took another sip of champagne so I would not smile too fast. “That sounded rehearsed.”
“It wasn’t.”
“That makes it worse.”
“I can take it back.”
“No.”
The trio shifted into a slower song. People moved around us, conversations overlapping, camera flashes catching off the white walls. Warren stepped slightly closer so he would not have to raise his voice.
“How’s the beam?” I asked.
“Steel came in early. Inspection Monday.”
“You could’ve led with that.”
“I emailed you.”
“I have not looked at work email since five.”
“Good.”
I glanced at him. “You approve?”
“No. I’m surprised.”
“Very funny.”
He nodded toward the main wall, where a large mixed-media portrait had drawn a crowd. “Did your foundation fund that program?”
“The youth studio. Not the exhibit.”
“You like the work?”
“I like that the artist made everybody uncomfortable without explaining why.”
“What does it make you feel?”
I turned to him. “That is suspiciously close to an art-question cliché.”
“I build walls. Help me.”
I looked at the portrait again. A woman’s face had been painted in layers of newspaper, gold thread, and dark blue pigment. One eye was clear. The other disappeared beneath words about duty, marriage, motherhood, and respectability.
“It makes me tired,” I said.
Warren studied it. “Because of the words?”
“Because she looks like she can see through all of them, but she’s still stuck under them.”
He stayed quiet.
I glanced at him. “What does it make you feel?”
“Like somebody should cut the thread.”
“That sounds violent.”
“It’s thread.”
“You brought tools to an emotional question.”
“That’s all I have.”
I smiled. We walked through the exhibit together.
Nothing about it felt like a date. We did not touch.
We talked about the art, the building, and why the gallery owner had insisted on keeping a damaged brick column in the center of the room.
Warren explained how they reinforced it from inside so the crack could remain visible.
“Why keep the damage?” I asked.
“Because she wanted people to know the building survived something.”
The answer stayed with me. On the second floor, we found Portia and Milan near the youth-studio mural. Portia had already learned where Milan went to school, whether she was dating, and how often Warren cooked.
“You interrogating my child?” Warren asked.
“She’s twenty-five.”
“Still my child.”
Milan looked at me. “He cooks three things.”
“Four,” Warren said.
“Grilled salmon is not a separate thing just because you change the seasoning.”
“It is.”
Portia pointed at him. “That’s grown-man logic. I respect it.”
The band downstairs started a familiar old R&B song, and several people moved toward the open floor near the bar.
Portia took my hand. “Come on.”
“No.”
“You wore that dress to stand by a grant plaque?”
“I wore it because I own it.”
“Then move in it.”
She dragged me downstairs before I could argue.
For one song, I danced with Portia and two women from my office.
I forgot who might be watching. I forgot the video.
I forgot the construction budget and the permit portal and the fact that my ex-husband had somehow turned cabinet color into a constitutional issue.
When the next song slowed, Portia disappeared with the precision of a trained criminal.
Warren stood in front of me. He held out his hand.
I looked at it. “You planned this with her.”
“I don’t plan with Portia.”
“Smart.”
“Dance with me.”
The words were simple. So was the choice.
I put my hand in his. Warren did not pull me against him.
He rested one hand at my waist, left enough space for me to decide, and moved like a man who knew slow dancing did not require a performance.
I placed my hand on his shoulder. He was warm through the suit jacket.
“You dance better than you talk,” I said.
“I talk fine.”
“You talk in invoices.”
“You read them.”
“I correct them.”
His thumb shifted once against the fabric at my waist. The room became too aware.
I looked over his shoulder. “This is not professional.”
“No.”
“You’re still my contractor.”
“Yes.”
“That doesn’t seem to bother you.”
“It bothers me.”
His answer made me look at him. Warren’s face was close enough for me to see the silver at the base of his beard.
“Then why are we dancing?” I asked.
“Because I wanted to.”
The honesty of it held me still.
“What else do you want?” I asked before caution could catch up.
His hand tightened slightly at my waist.
“Dinner.”
“We ate at the diner.”
“That was work.”
“You made me review plans.”
“I won’t bring plans.”
I should have said yes. I wanted to. Instead, I stepped back as the song ended.
“Not while you control the contract,” I said.
Warren’s expression did not change, but his attention sharpened. “That a no?”
“It’s a not yet.”
He nodded. No pressure. No teasing. No attempt to convince me I was overthinking it.
“Okay,” he said.
The ease of his acceptance made me want to take the words back.
I did not.
Portia appeared beside me holding two fresh glasses. “Everything good?”
“Perfect,” I said too quickly.
Warren looked at me, then at her. “Goodnight, Portia.”
“Goodnight, Warren.”
He walked away to speak with the gallery owner.
Portia waited until he was out of earshot. “What happened?”
“He asked me to dinner.”
“And you said?”
“Not while he’s my contractor.”
Her face fell. “Why are you committed to making me suffer?”
“I’m not sleeping with a man who can put a lien on my house.”
“Dinner is not sleeping together.”
“Not the way he asked.”
Portia stared at me for a beat, then slowly smiled. “Oh.”
“Stop.”
“Oh, my God.”
“Portia.”
“You like him.”
“I am attracted to him.”
“You trust him.”
“That is not the same.”
“It’s more dangerous.”
I looked across the room. Warren was speaking to a city official, but his eyes found mine before I could look away. The distance between us felt temporary.
“He respected the answer,” I said.
Portia’s voice softened. “You’re not used to that.”
“No.”
“And?”
I turned the ring on my finger once.
“And I liked it.”
That was the problem. Terrence had taught me that peace came from making myself easy to manage. Warren was showing me what it felt like to say no and remain wanted. I did not know what to do with that yet.