Chapter 6 #3
“Whitney Graves.” She beams, bright brown eyes just as wide and hopeful as it gets. “Shannon Patton. You might not remember me, but we met at Hailey Donovan’s wedding in September at Madison Manor…”
Still nothing.
“Oh my goodness, yes. How are you?” I say, keeping an eye on Jada and Zeek while wading futilely through all the faces I met that night.
I barely remember what I ate for dinner last week; I don’t know how I’m supposed to place a random, cute little Black girl with a huge bun and a faint beauty mark as her only distinguishing features.
Thankfully, she doesn’t press.
“Really great, actually.” She nods a good dozen times, swallowing. “The influencer thing is working out, and Scene and Heard It All has definitely found its audience, too. Due, in large part, to Ebony.”
Again, she flashes me a too-wide smile, gums on full display.
And then it hits me.
This is the woman who blatantly brags online about crashing upscale events.
She’s obsessed with The Divorcétante Chronicles.
Follows everything Ebony does. She’s basically a professional eavesdropper, always ready to catch a sound bite then blast folks’ business to the messy masses on the interwebs.
See, no.
“Well, it’s great to see you.” I start to walk away, but again, she steps in front of me like she’s lost her ever-loving mind. “Um, excuse me, but—”
“I hear the list is stacked this evening…” Her over-glossed pink lips part expectantly, apparently leaving me room to comment, but now, with Jada and Zeek cornered where I can see them, the petty queen in me accepts the challenge.
I guess we’re both going to be uncomfortable, then.
Oh, baby, you do not want to try me.
“Well, Corinne Tucker has such a distinctive eye for texture and color. It’s such a privilege to bring her work to light,” I say, just cheesing and carrying on.
She nods, unimpressed. Again, she looks around, scanning the crowd, undoubtedly for whatever Luxe scandal Zeek’s brewing. With another glance over her shoulder, she finally takes a deep breath.
“My viewers would love to know your take on Warner Easton,” she says, her tone lilting with impatience. “Many have strong, adverse opinions about him. But the press alert said he’d be here this evening. Do you know another side of him… personally?”
My take? Personally?
Oh, she is reaching.
Part of me is ready to demonstrate the agility and reflexes that yoga and knife throwing have gifted my body, since she wants to try me.
Because where does she get off, not only crashing this exhibit opening but fixing her lips to ask me such an asinine question, as if Warner and I share any friends or relationships?
But the other half of me, the give-the-people-what-they-want-so-they-can-get-on half of me, is still a little salty that this event is winding down, and he’s opted not to show.
Now, who knows? Hopefully he’s healthy and unharmed. But given what I know of his character—public speculation or otherwise—it’s got me questioning if he ever even planned to be here.
Master manipulator.
I stare at the influencer for a beat, debating what level of petty I’m about to take. And who’s catching strays.
“Yes, he was invited,” I say, treading lightly. But then I make a snap judgment, deciding a little extra publicity couldn’t hurt, and go rogue. “The papers, the blogs, they all call him a cold, cultureless cash machine, and I don’t know him, but…”
“But?” She leans closer, the mic affixed to her blazer inches from me as her gaze flickers past my shoulder.
“I’m inclined to agree.” I shrug. “He seems like most wealthy folks—unwilling to show up, to roll up their sleeves and do the hard work to be present. Always jumping at every financial opportunity that—”
“Thank you.” She slips past me, hastily unzipping the sea of people. And at the end of her path, there he is.
Warner Easton.
Like we’ve got history, all over again, my body hums, skin buzzing, belly coiling tight, like it’s trying to reel him in closer. Closer, so we can… what? Pick up where my tipsy scrolling left off?
Ugh, Chanel.
I don’t know this man from Adam.
Truly, I’m confused, irritated with myself for acting like… like a damn… ro-mess!
I mean, yes, he’s in a fitted black-on-black suit, looking quietly authoritative yet somehow still charming. But then I remember: he’s got no character. And less than a minute ago, I opened my big mouth and put my entire foot in it.
“Aw, shit.”
On the blogger’s heels, I rush the crowd, trying to catch her to retract what I said. But she’s already reached him, mic in hand, thrust in his face.
“Warner Easton, my viewers at Scene and Heard It All vlog would love know your take on Whitney Graves,” she says, blocking his path.
This woman…
“You haven’t been spotted out lately, but there have been rumors that you’d be here this evening to support the Artery. Is Whitney Graves someone special to you?”
Oh shit. He is absolutely not about to say yes. That, I know.
Still, the question hangs between them—and I shouldn’t hold my breath. Any woman in her right mind would absolutely not…
So why do I?