CHAPTER NINE
Warren asked me to meet him at the townhouse Wednesday evening after the crew left.
He did not call it dinner. He did not mention the gallery.
He sent a calendar invitation titled PROJECT OVERSIGHT AMENDMENT, which was the most Warren Mercer way possible to create sexual tension.
Portia laughed for a full minute when I told her.
“That man sent paperwork before he sent flowers.”
“He hasn’t sent flowers.”
“Exactly. He sent ethics.”
“Please never say that sentence again.”
“Are you wearing a dress?”
“It’s a contract meeting.”
“So was the first one. Look where that got you.”
“An unfinished kitchen and twenty-two thousand dollars in structural repairs?”
“And a contractor who looks at you like he wants to violate several building codes.”
I hung up on her. At six thirty, I entered through the new smart lock and found Warren in the kitchen with two folders on the temporary island.
The beam wall had been closed enough for inspection but not finished.
The green cabinet doors had arrived in protective wrapping and were stacked along the dining-room wall.
A single pendant hung temporarily over the island so we could see without construction lights.
Warren wore dark trousers and a gray sweater.
I had worn a dress. Not for him. The lie was getting tired.
“You’re on time,” he said.
“You sent a calendar reminder.”
“It was optional.”
“There were three alerts.”
“That’s your phone setting.”
“You created the meeting.”
He pulled out a chair for me. I sat. The folders were labeled PROJECT ADMINISTRATION and PERSONAL DISCLOSURE.
I looked at him. “Personal disclosure?”
“Yes.”
“This feels like human resources.”
“It’s cleaner than pretending.”
The word cleaner made sense in his mouth. Warren liked straight lines, documented decisions, and doors that locked when they were supposed to.
He sat across from me.
“The first amendment transfers daily project supervision to Cedric,” he said. “Milan remains design lead. All change orders over five thousand go through our controller and require your written approval. I’ll have no sole authority to change your budget, schedule, or scope.”
“You own the company.”
“Yes.”
“So you still have authority.”
“Corporate authority. Not direct control over your project.”
I opened the folder. The amendment was six pages. Of course it was.
“You drafted this because I said not while you control the contract.”
“Yes.”
“You could’ve waited until the renovation was finished.”
“I could have.”
“Why didn’t you?”
His eyes stayed on mine. “I don’t want to.”
Heat moved through me. I looked back at the document before he could see too much.
The amendment included an independent dispute process, confirmation that my warranty remained intact, and a paragraph stating any personal relationship between me and Warren would not affect pricing, schedule, workmanship, access, or legal rights.
“You had an attorney write this?”
“I had an attorney review it.”
“What did you write?”
“The first draft.”
“Of course.”
He slid the second folder toward me. “The disclosure confirms I’ve asked to see you socially. You are free to decline. Declining won’t affect the project.”
I stared at him.
“What?” he asked.
“This is the least romantic thing anybody has ever done for me.”
“That’s not true.”
“It is tonight.”
“You haven’t read the last page.”
I turned to it.
A handwritten line appeared beneath the signature block.
Friday. Seven thirty. Dinner. No plans, samples, invoices, or men named Terrence.
I laughed so suddenly I covered my mouth.
Warren leaned back, watching me.
“You wrote that?”
“Yes.”
“You made it part of a legal document?”
“It’s not part of the legal language.”
“It is physically on the paper.”
“I needed you to see it.”
“You could’ve texted.”
“You might’ve said not yet again.”
“I still can.”
His expression settled. The room became serious without turning heavy.
“Yes,” he said. “You can.”
I closed the folder. For years, Terrence had treated my hesitation as a problem to solve.
If I said I needed time, he explained why I did not.
If I said no, he waited until I became tired enough to say maybe.
Warren had moved an entire chain of authority so my answer could be mine.
That did not mean I owed him yes. It meant yes did not feel stolen. I picked up the pen.
“Before I sign, I have questions.”
“Ask.”
“What happens if we go to dinner and I decide I don’t like you?”
“You already like me.”
“Dangerous answer.”
“You asked what happens.”
“I asked what happens to the project.”
“Nothing.”
“What if you decide you don’t like me?”
“Nothing.”
“What if we sleep together?”
His face changed. Not much. Enough to make the air warmer.
“The project stays with Cedric and Milan,” he said.
“What if it ends badly?”
“Same answer.”
“You’re very sure you can separate things.”
“No.”
That stopped me.
Warren rested his forearms on the island. “I’m sure the company can. I’m sure the contract can. People are harder.”
Finally, something not perfectly arranged.
I looked at him. “Why me?”
He did not answer immediately. Good. I did not want a speech.
“I like how your mind works,” he said. “You read everything. You push when something doesn’t make sense. You’re funny when you’re not trying to be. You care about people without letting them off easy.”
My throat tightened.
He continued, “And I’m attracted to you.”
“That part seemed obvious.”
“It should be.”
I looked down at the pen.
“What do you like about me?” he asked.
I laughed once. “This is becoming an interview.”
“You asked first.”
“You’re steady.”
He waited. I hated that he could do that. Leave silence open until I either filled it honestly or let it stay empty.
“You don’t rush to rescue me,” I said. “You help, but you don’t act like I’m helpless. You do what you say. You listen even when you disagree. And when I tell you no, you don’t punish me for it.”
Something moved in his face. The answer had touched him somewhere I had not aimed. I signed the amendment. Then I signed the disclosure. Warren added his signature beneath mine.
“That’s it?” I asked.
“That’s it.”
“So now you’re not my contractor?”
“I’m still the owner of the company renovating your house.”
“That sounds like my contractor.”
“Cedric is your direct project manager.”
“You’re splitting hairs.”
“I’m defining roles.”
“Convenient.”
His mouth curved. I looked at the handwritten invitation.
“Friday,” he said.
“What restaurant?”
“I’m not telling you.”
“I need to know how to dress.”
“You know how to dress.”
“That sounded like a compliment and an accusation.”
“It was a fact.”
“Do I need heels?”
“Wear what you want.”
“That answer is not helpful.”
“It’s the only one you’re getting.”
I folded the page and put it in my bag. Warren gathered the folders but did not move away.
Neither did I. The pendant above us cast a warm circle over the temporary island.
Outside, a car passed on the wet street.
Inside, the house held the smell of wood, plaster, and the faint metallic scent of new hardware.
“This is where you ask if you can kiss me,” I said.
His eyes lowered to my mouth.
“No.”
My pulse jumped. “No?”
“I’m not asking because you told me what happens when men keep turning no into a negotiation.”
“That was a different no.”
“I heard the difference.”
“You said you’d stop saying that.”
“Different day.”
I should have been annoyed. Instead, I stood. Warren rose too. He was close enough now that I could see the small scar beside his jaw and the deeper brown at the center of his eyes.
“I’m telling you this one is yes,” I said.
He looked at me for a long moment.
“Say it clean,” he said.
The words sent heat down my spine.
“Yes, Warren. You can kiss me.”
He put one hand at my waist and the other along the side of my neck.
Then he kissed me. There was nothing tentative about it.
Careful, yes. Not tentative. His mouth moved over mine slowly at first, giving me room to change my mind.
I gripped the front of his sweater and stepped closer.
The hand at my waist tightened, drawing me against him.
I had not kissed a new man in more than twenty-three years.
The thought should have made me nervous. Instead, it made me greedy.
I opened my mouth beneath his, and Warren made a low sound that broke through every clean line he had drawn between us. He backed me one step against the edge of the temporary island, then stopped. His forehead rested against mine.
“Why’d you stop?” I whispered.
“Because this is still a job site.”
I laughed, breathless. “That is the reason?”
“There are cameras.”
I pulled back. “You have got to be kidding me.”
“Exterior and entry only.”
“You picked an awful time to clarify.”
“I’m being transparent.”
“You are being irritating.”
He kissed me again before I could finish. Shorter this time. Hard enough to leave my lips warm when he stepped back.
“Friday,” he said.
I looked at him. “You think you can kiss me like that and send me home?”
“Yes.”
“Arrogant.”
“Disciplined.”
“Same family.”
He handed me my coat. I took it because I needed something to do with my hands.
At the door, I turned back. Warren stood beneath the temporary pendant, calm again except for the way he watched me.
The green cabinet fronts waited against the wall behind him.
The beam was secure. The order was protected.
The project had a new chain of command. Nothing about my life was magically fixed.
Asha still worried about her father. Terrence was still testing limits.
My house was still weeks from finished, and I had no idea what dating looked like after two decades of marriage.
But for the first time, wanting a man did not feel like surrendering a decision. I opened the door.
“Nadine.”
I looked over my shoulder.
“Seven thirty,” Warren said.
“I accepted the calendar invite.”
“I didn’t send one.”
“Good.”
He smiled. I stepped into the cold evening and locked the door behind me. Halfway to my car, my phone buzzed.
Portia: WELL???
I typed back one sentence.
He brought paperwork.
Her reply came immediately.
I AM SO PROUD.
I laughed alone on the sidewalk.
Then another message appeared.
Asha: Dad told me he’s thinking about moving out of state.
The laughter left.
I stared at the screen.
The divorce had ended my marriage.
It had not finished rearranging the family.