Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Whitney
Ascension
“I think I found the one.”
The words sort of dribble out of my mouth, low, wonderstruck.
Almost revelatory—on my end, to be clear.
Except the way my office is set up loft-style, overlooking the airy gallery, drawing the eye upward, exactly the way I designed it…
my voice echoes. No, more like ricochets, precision-cut pinballing on the twenty-foot ceiling, before it bounces off the walls to the reception desk below, where it circles the shell of my assistant Clive’s ear, and makes a direct deposit.
That’s how in tune we are.
I sneeze, and he’s already got the tissue, blessing me with an anointed healing hymn and ready to dole out meds.
We’re like that.
Usually.
In my periphery, he slowly swivels his chair—supersonic hearing calibrating on all cylinders as he gawks up at me, clutching his invisible pearls.
“Clive Marshall…”
Our eyes lock.
“Now wait a doggone minute…” He’s all fluttery, dark lashes, beaming with that utterly impressed that’s-my-girl pride. Mouth open. Nodding nonstop. Just doing the absolute most.
And that’s all it takes.
He uses his arms and full core to stand, round the reception desk, and waddle toward the seventeen-step staircase, ignoring my cackling. Then he halts, dark gaze fixed on me. Theatrics on ten, clearing his throat.
“Uh, come again, Whitney Graves? You say you found the one?”
“Sir, I’m giving you five to seven business seconds to get up here and come look with your special eyes.” I laugh. “I’m not even exaggerating. My whole heart.”
“Like that?” he intones.
“Mm-hmm. Exactly like that.” I drag out every syllable, confirming how correct he is if I’m still sitting here and not already halfway to my three o’clock late lunch meeting at Hughes College. But also, I’m giddy because yesss, dear Lord… “Ugh. I wish you’d hurry up!”
“And I wish we had one of those stairlifts to carry me up to your bedazzled throne,” Clive says, carefully lifting his foot like he’s learning muscular coordination for the first time and needs the Holy Ghost to help him onto that bottom step.
“This is what I get for not stretching after my workout.”
“So, yesterday was leg day, then.” I chuckle, fully entertained watching him take deep, labored breaths. “Dig deep. You’ve got this!”
Real extra, he pumps himself and his knitted sand-colored polo and rich brown slacks up for the climb.
“See, that’s your problem,” Clive says, wincing and contemplating each step like a decision with terrible, painful consequences. “Patience is a virtue.”
“Just wait until you and your shaky thighs see my screen,” I say with all the conviction, because I know. Once he gets even a glimpse at my computer, it’ll be worth the climb.
If he makes it this year.
“No, really. Are you good? Like, do I need to unplug this computer and bring it to you?” I giggle. “Time is of the essence, sir.”
“Relax, I’m halfway there.” More like a third. “And shouldn’t you already be gone? Ouch!”
“See, instant karma.” I’m cackling, even though I should be breaking the speed limit right now to get to Hughes College for my meeting with my old art professor, Dr. Brown, about her ones-to-watch students, one of which could be my golden unicorn. “Told you about those B60Z workouts—”
“And I heard you,” Clive snaps back. “I’m just trying to flex on that tropical island that’s on your computer wallpaper this summer. ’Bout to be fine as hell out there, basking in the sun.”
“If those legs make it to summer…” I tut.
“Could’ve gone to hot yoga with me and been toned and taut.
Instead, you get to live to regret your choices.
” I zoom in on my screen then slouch back against my chair, still completely awed.
“But seriously, Clive. When I say masterpiece… frieeeend. If He is for me, who can be against me?”
My testimony lifts into the air.
Clive has the nerve to stop mid-step to raise his spirit fingers in praise.
“I know that’s right, sis,” he says, clinging to the railing, shoulders shimmying triumphantly. “Let me put some pep in my step.”
Hand to heart, I’m floored.
And honestly, a little relieved.
Somewhere deep down in my bones, if I had to go another year with the clock ticking, the way life can change in a blink, I swear my tombstone would read, Remember me for something great. Preferably not death outbidding me.”
Luckily, we can hold the epitaph.
“Phew! Okay, I made it.” Clive straightens at the top of the landing, winded but ready. “All I know is”—he eases into measured strides toward my office—“he better be worth it.”
The record scratch pierces me to my yoga-toned core.
He.
“Uh…” I look up at him, then back to the dynamic work of acrylic, oil, and gold leaf on Masonite gracing my monitor.
“All right, amaze me.” Clive straightens, poised and prepared to be wowed by what he thinks is a masterpiece of male specimen on my computer, and decidedly not a groundbreaking art piece that’s, indisputably, “the one” that I’ve been scouring the interwebs for.
Never mind that we’re literally standing in a gallery.
Technically, this is my fault, though.
An hour ago, I was swiping away on Axis, the dating app responsible for his relationship with his fiancé, Vincent.
He’s a believer, looking to convert me, as one does.
So, per his instruction, I was on an emotional-walls-takedown mission, fake-flirting with my concierge-vetted and curated connections, who blew me away and sent me diving into love.
He swore I didn’t have to match, only find a guy worthy of two dates.
I agreed to look.
And there were some okay-looking guys. Mostly body, no face.
Or face, heavy skimping on the body, and nothing upstairs.
But really, the options were scarce. Thus, I went back to slogging through submissions and chatting with Corinne about the arrangement of her pieces to best draw collectors from the door into the flow of the space.
Honestly, I’d forgotten he was up here, checked my “prospects,” said, Absolutely not, keep digging, and left with the very real promise to return and—
Oh, shit.
Clive thinks I kept digging and struck gold.
“He’s that fine?” He perks up, completely misunderstanding my silence. Until his posture goes rigid. “Wait. Ma’am, I know you lying…”
See, I’m five-nine without heels. This man barely meets me eye to eye. But he’s got tall energy, and with the right one—apparently, me today—his tone can strike a hard chord.
“So, what had happened was…” I wince, training my shaky smile into submission.
“Really, Whit?”
“When I said, ‘the one’… Yeah, I did.” I did not. “More or less. But, so like, it occurred to me that you might’ve gotten the impression I meant a sculpted man-piece, when I meant an actual masterpiece,” I explain, weakly angling my screen toward him.
“Now, I know good and well you didn’t drag me up those stairs, fighting for my life, to see—”
“The golden unicorn?” I supply, voice radiating Morgan Freeman-worthy warmth and wisdom. As in, the magical wonder that I’ve dedicated a gazillion woman hours trying, and failing, to curate through artist development, elevated branding, and market positioning. “The one” I never thought I’d find.
He blinks impatiently.
I frame the painting with my hands, helping him see the vision. And, hopefully, forget about the minor detail that it’s not a virile godsend of a man here to rescue me from romantic solitude.
“Look at the use of color,” I reason. “The Masonite. Oil and acrylic. The narrative perspective. Just rich, raw talent. And the artist is a complete unknown.” I gasp. “Chile, I could cry right now.”
Clive looks from me to the painting, his expression about as dire as the dating pool as he pulls in a long breath through his nose, then sighs.
“I’m hard side-eyeing you for not taking your Axis search seriously.”
Yes!
“I did,” I say eagerly, grinning like a fool. “I swiped for a good twenty—” I rethink the lie when he gives me a dare you to keep lying to me look. “Okay, fine. Ten minutes. And there were maybe one or two decent ones.”
Clive purses his lips. “Which ones?”
“Ugh. I starred them for later. Their profiles were more of the same ‘my black card’ this, ‘I’m an entrepreneur’ that. Nothing of real substance. But I’ll go out, enjoy their company—”
“Among other things, hopefully,” he adds.
“Definitely.” I let out an exhausted sigh. “Yes, I’ll have a delightful time. Everyone will leave with happy endings. Now…” I trail off, lifting the monitor.
But the man is stubborn.
“So, after your little run-in at the country club, since you didn’t find Warner Easton in the swipes, you’re ready to give up.” He tuts, veering into left field, and… I can’t.
One New Year’s Eve I said I might be attracted to that man—before I influenced the universe, and he erased all traces of his late wife—and now Clive and my divas won’t let me forget it.
“Yeah, definitely not searching for Warner.”
He hard side-eyes me again.
“They need to let that fine-ass, sexy-ass, gorgeous-ass, tortured, grieving, virile tech billionaire live his life.” He sighs, dreamily, like he’s still seeing visions of Warner Easton slowly winding through his thick head.
“I’m telling Vincent on you,” I tease.
“My baby knows me.” Clive rolls his eyes, playfully. “Anyway, hopefully Daddy Easton will get back out there this year, so he can come rescue your sad, sorry, one-date-wonder love life.”
I’m shaking my head, smiling. “Sir, I don’t want that man, so end of that discussion.
” I lift the monitor again, dramatically.
“But if, by chance, you’d like to discuss my actual resolutions, like the fact that it’s not even February yet, and I’ve already deep-cleaned my house, checked off most of my doctor’s appointments, nabbed an Ascension nod, started working out—”
“Where?” He looks me up and down. “Your living room yoga? Or did you finally take that unhinged Edge of Adventure class?”