Chapter 5 #3
“I want to hear more about this…” I say, frustrated as Cord slinks his tall, lanky frame into one of my chairs facing my desk, cheesing.
“Well, it would appear that our time is up.” Dr. Bellamy lets out a breathy sigh.
“But, Warner, I’d like for you to be gentle with yourself.
And I know I always say this, but your grief is private, sacred.
It makes you human. Like grief, divorce leaves so many unresolved emotions.
It’s just another shape. Don’t let it weigh on you too heavily, the conversations not had, forgiveness not given, goodbyes never said.
Give yourself permission to say no, okay?
” She takes a small breath. “And if it will ease your discomfort, sell the paintings. Move on. Go watch the Legends game at a bar with your friend. Live. Love again.”
A few moments later, I close my laptop and just sit there, letting everything she said sink into my cracks, like a balm to my heart.
And then I realize Cord is here, staring at me.
“You good?” He clamps his lips between his teeth, dying to laugh.
“Yeah, I’m just about ready.” I snap back to reality, reaching for the mail stack Greer dropped off. “As soon as I lock up in here, and, uh…” I pause, still inspecting the envelope, the deep blues and creams, bold block fonts, and outlined monogram logo.
It’s from the local Ellswood gallery, the Artery, that Tony was telling me about at the country club.
Whitney Anika Graves.
“She’s right,” Cord says, prompting me to lift my gaze as he lets out a weighted sigh. “If you’re ready to move on, so am I.”
I bite back a laugh. “Oh, you’re ready, too? For what, exactly?”
“To get my friend back. To see you reclaim your peace, man,” he says, deep emotion comically etched into his worry-ridden face. “And look, I know how hard it hit you, losing Sherry. Trust me. So it’s cool if you want to get back out there. With Bellamy.”
This time, the laugh tumbles out. I can’t even take the dramatics.
“Dr. Bellamy,” I clarify for his dumb butt.
“Oh, she’s a doctor?” Cord gets all excited, and I’m utterly amazed how the synapses in his brain fire at a glacial pace.
“She’s my therapist, asshole.” My face twists up, because did he really think I’ve just been laying myself bare with a random woman because she’s easy on the eyes? I shake my head and go back to slicing open the thick white envelope.
He shrugs. “Hell, how was I supposed to know? She’s beautiful. I figured we were talking about moving on with a romantic interest. Or whoever that is.” He jerks his chin to the brochure I’ve just pulled out of the envelope.
I flip it over, looking at what he’s seeing on the backside.
There’s a picture of Whitney, who is…even more stunning up close.
She’s gorgeous. Rich, dark brown skin, catching the light just right.
Those full-glossed red lips, expressive brown eyes, long, natural, dark waves.
But it’s more than beauty. Her presence, the way she’s sitting, posture straight, chin lifted, electric smile—she’s got an air of confidence wrapped in warmth. She’s giving magnetic, not man-hunting.
Jesus.
“Yeah, so”—Cord snatches the brochure and a thick piece of cardstock from my hands—“looks like we got ourselves an invitation to a gallery exhibition opening.”
“Ourselves?”
“Yes, we’re a ‘we,’” he says, like it goes without saying.
“And let’s see, the woman whom you’re gawking at is…
the owner…blah, blah, blah. She’s requesting your presence this Saturday night, February sixth, for a very prestigious exhibit opening to experience Corinne Tucker’s dynamic legacy of rich creativity.
She fashions ceramic and wood pieces…” He stops droning for moment, scans the rest before he pops his head up again.
“Seven p.m. Sounds like the perfect outing for recon on only this gallery—definitely not the fine-ass owner you haven’t stopped ogling yet. And moving on, doctor’s orders.”
“She also gave me permission to say no.”
“Why, when you could say yes?” Cord asks, as if that’s a real question.
I shake my head. “I already said yes to the bar. Don’t press your luck,” I say, firm, resolute, but still mesmerized by Whitney’s stare. “Besides, I’ve already got a meeting set with a fine-art gallery over in Harrington.”
“To what? Minimize the press?” he scoffs, riffling the newspaper on my desk. “Too late. There’s probably going to be press everywhere, but I got you.”
“Yeah, no. I’m good.”
Cord nods a couple times, ignoring me. “Says here you can bring a plus-one…” Like that says everything he needs to know, he stands, heads to the door, and taps his watch, reminding me about the Legends game.
He waits until I put away my computer and shove my phone in my pocket to flick off the lights, shrouding us in darkness.
“So, I’ll pick you up at six thirty. It’s a date. ”
“It’s not a date.”
“Two fancy wine spritzers and a couple pieces of rolled charcuterie salami, and you’ll be singing a different tune.” He rubs my forearm, then takes off sprinting toward the elevator before I can catch him.
I’m already dreading this exhibition.