Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Warner
Cornerstone
The vlogger shoves her mic farther into my face.
“Listen, I’m sure Whitney Graves is an incredible woman…
” Instinctively, I lean back, both inching to put some space between us and grasping for something diplomatic enough not to end up in tomorrow’s headlines.
“Unfortunately, I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting her.
Tonight, I’m here to see Corinne Tucker’s Earth Bound exhibit. ”
Where in the hell did I pull that from?
“What can you share about Sherry’s art?” she asks, ignoring my answer and stepping into my path again.
Yeah, I’m not doing this. I sidestep her and head for the back of the gallery, moving fast.
Every inch of my body is restless, fidgety.
“This is exactly what I knew would happen,” I say to Cord at my side, taking two hurried strides for every one of mine.
He tosses me a wry look. “What the hell are you talking about? You handled that like a champ.”
Fire prickles along the back of my neck.
This fool is the only reason I agreed to attend this opening.
He insisted on coming in case I needed a “backup” for the Heartery.
Like, what scenario would require me to need one?
He even convinced me that our late arrival meant less press.
And, being na?ve to this shit, I actually bought it.
Hook, line, and sinker, figuring, cool, we’ll be out on the town, get a little tipsy, share some old laughs…
Tugging at my collar, I turn and meet his eyes as his eyebrows squish together.
“Is it hot in here?” Heat laces my tone. “Nah, just me?”
I change direction, weaving through a sea of high-profile whispers and plastic smiles.
I’m scrambling for any excuse to leave, to tell Cord I jumped the gun on public functions.
But deep down, as annoyed as I am with him, this is partly on me.
The second I saw Whitney’s face on the back of that brochure, curiosity got the better of me, even though I should’ve known some PopShot influencer would find a way to ruin the night.
Maybe I should’ve let Tony make the intro at the country club.
“Warner?” Cord whirls around the moment we break free from the crowd, ducking behind a freestanding partition near the restrooms. “Bruh, you are not mad at me.”
Tongue poking my cheek, I lift my eyebrows pinning him with a stare that says, You wanna bet?
He grimaces, astonishingly baffled somehow.
“I’m telling you, these influencer types, they do that shit everywhere you go.
But the way you juked her when she tried blocking you…
” He blows out an impressed whistle—then, in the same breath, gives a full-body once-over to a tall Black woman with full, kinky curls and bold red lips, wearing a second-skin black dress. “Good goddamn, sweetheart…”
I let out a strangled laugh. “Nice.” I can’t even look at him directly. “So, uh… what happened to there’s probably going to be press everywhere, but I got you?”
Cord squares his body to mine. “Didn’t I just have your back?”
“No.”
“No?” He shakes his head, dead serious. “I’m right here, ain’t I?”
I half laugh. “Yeah, thanks.”
“How are you serious with this?” He stares blankly.
“What did you want me to do, yank the mic out her hand and tackle her to the ground? Trust me, the last thing you need is people saying you sicced your handsome, muscular bodyguard on some poor young vlogger. Next thing you know, she’s crowdfunding your company’s cancellation and sitting pretty. On your island.”
An unexpected laugh builds in the back of my throat. “Seems like you really gave that a lot of thought,” I say.
Cord straightens, his expression hardening, and I’ll admit, it’s unnerving when he’s not cracking jokes. Or snacking.
“I don’t know how many times I’ve got to tell you.” His laugh comes out tattered around the edges. “We’re boys. I’ve got you.”
“Got it. Boys.”
“Now, if you’ve got that through your thick skull…” Cord’s attention flickers to a server passing through with a platter of bite-sized quiches and mini crostini topped with roasted vegetables. “Do you want a glass of bubbly and some bougie finger foods, or not?”
There he is.
“Come here, man. You need a hug.” I reach for him, arms open, chuckling. But he steps out of reach, on autopilot chasing down fancy-looking crusted bread and paté, and I can’t stop laughing.
The art, getting me on the town—they were never the draw for him. Not when there’s fun-sized crudités and canapés.
Watching Cord stalk servers, I’m feeling looser, lighter when I turn toward the bust perched on a pedestal to my left.
At first, observing just feels like what I’m supposed to do at a gallery.
But as I look closer, I start to notice the rich, dark-grained wood and white ceramic.
The way they’re fused together so seamlessly, it’s hard to tell where the clay ends and the wood begins.
“Stunning.”
As I continue moving along the wall, looking at more busts and sculptures, I end up in the back corner, where an oil painting is suspended from the ceiling.
And I’m so floored by the vibrant blues in the brushwork and positioning of the gold leaf, I bend down to read the narrative card, reading about the artifacts of love, adventure, and grief.
It shifts something in me. Not just the art, but the way it’s displayed, the lighting, angled just right, so it feels three-dimensional.
“Okay, Cord,” I mutter to myself. “Maybe it wasn’t a mistake, dragging me here tonight.”
As another server passes with a champagne tray, I snag two flutes, about to wave down Cord, tell him to grab those charcuterie salami rolls he promised, when Whitney rounds the partition, phone pressed to her ear.
It catches me off guard.
This is her gallery. Logically, I know she’s supposed to be here.
She’s working. But the sight of her in the flesh?
My eyes work fine. I get that she’s gorgeous.
I saw that from ten feet away at the country club and on that brochure.
But what is it about this woman that commands my attention?
I haven’t really looked at anyone, really noticed a woman in over fifteen years, and somehow, even tucked back here, I’m memorizing the way the lighting contours and casts warmth over her smooth brown skin?
Suddenly, I’m the expert on the slight upturn of her full lips, the russet-red lipstick shade she wears, how her eyes are as rich and bright as sweet tea imbued with the summer sun?
And why do I want to know how she smells?
What is that?
“Wait until Monday morning?” She quirks a smile as a woman passes her. The second she’s gone, though, Whitney’s face contorts as she holds the phone to her ear again and takes a deep breath.
We exhale at the same time.
It’s too weird.
I’m utterly unnerved by the fact that I’m in a very public setting, questioning whether I misjudged her, and just gawking at this woman.
To be fair, though, the first two times I saw her, she looked… different.
Tonight, she’s wearing a deep blue dress. I don’t even know what the thin fabric is called, but it’s silky, clinging to every curve and line. Her long, textured dark curls are up in a high ponytail, falling down the slope of her back, almost grazing the thick, round swells of that ass.
She’s bad as hell.
Whitney comes to a halt two benches away, phone still pressed to her ear. Her expression tightens as she softly blows out a breath like she’s trying to steady her breathing.
What are you doing, Warner? This woman is none of your business, I tell myself, ready to turn away, give her some privacy.
But then Whitney looks up.
Our eyes connect and she holds my gaze.
It’s like the air turns charged and electric, and I don’t know why, but the moment lingers. If everything about her didn’t surprise me, I’d swear it’s déjà vu.
I open my mouth to speak, then immediately close it when she pushes off the wall, still watching me. I think—Lord, I hope—she’s coming over.
Except Zeek Harrison cuts her off and starts talking, and immediately fire flares in my chest.
“Why are you talking to him—”
“Oh, you got the champagne!” Cord bounds straight toward me, grinning, two napkins bunched in his fists like overstuffed food sacks, stealing my attention, and…is he humming Craig David?
“Uh…” I press a fist to my lips. “Cord, are you humming ‘7 Days’?”
“Man, there’s so much good stuff over there,” he deflects, looking guilty as hell. “We got here just in time before they started clearing up.”
He hands me a napkin sack, and I pluck out a grape, popping it into my mouth, determined not to spend what’s left of the night staring at Whitney. “So, you’ve been gone for a minute…” I say to Cord.
He nods, repeatedly, acting like he’s so focused on picking through his handheld feast as he says, “Had to, um, take a quick call.”
But then he looks up guiltily, like I didn’t already notice he’s been giddy since we walked into that bar for the Legends game earlier this week and “accidentally” ran into the woman—an avionics tech, easing back into dating post-divorce—who is absolutely not playing games with her heart.
“Oh, a call?” I scratch my temple, biting my tongue to keep from laughing.
“Mm-hmm,” he says, and I hear him mention Alexis’s name, but I’m only half listening. Try as I might, my focus keeps drifting to Whitney and Zeek in the corner, speaking in hushed tones. Then she laughs and rests her palm on his chest, and every nerve ending in my body seizes up.
Zeek’s not just an arrogant asshole.
It runs so much deeper than that.
He’s what’s known as the exception to the Ellswood rule.
Most folks here were born into the lap of leisure and luxury that this ostentatious city affords them.
Zeek wasn’t. He only aspires to be part of the upper echelon.
He chases prestige to the point of delusion, so desperate to belong to a world that neither acknowledges nor accepts him.
He’s forever polishing his image, hoping the upper crust he worships might finally notice him, measuring his worth entirely by proximity to them.
It’s not a crime. But his willingness to trample boundaries just to get close—that makes him dangerous. And only a certain type of person keeps company with a guy like him. They go by many names: social climber, opportunist, freeloader, leech, clout chaser. Different labels, same thing. A user.
Maybe I didn’t judge Whitney too quickly.
I drag a hand over my mouth, and out of the corner of my eye, I feel Cord staring.
He’s stopped humming his happy love song.
Damn.
“So, Alexis called, huh?” I say.
Cord nods, wordlessly, cheek full of fancy brie and bruschetta, looking semi-annoyed.
“Okay, you’ve got my attention,” I say, stealing another quick glance at Whitney before I turn back to dutifully watch my overgrown child of a best friend play with his adult Lunchable. “I’m listening.”
A guilty grin slowly blooms on his face. “She wants to see me tomorrow.”
He’s so damn smitten.
“Oh, shoot…” I bark out a laugh. “Don’t move too fast, Craig David. First the bar, now chilling on Sunday? Might be making love by Wednesday.”
He stumbles backward, pointing, eyes wide, darting from me to Whitney. “So, you think because I was chopping it up with Alexis for a few minutes”—twenty, but who’s counting?—“that I didn’t catch you staring?”
Ah, fuck.
“Relax.” I fan out a hand. She’s right there, I mouth, hoping to knock some sense into him. All I need is another PopShot blogger, vlogger, whatever she is, to appear out of nowhere with a fuzzy mic, ready to manufacture more “is Whitney Graves special to you?” rumors.
“So, I finally get you out here, in a suit again…” And Cord Duncan has the stage, ladies and gentlemen. “The women are gawking, the whole crowd’s buzzing, we’ve got free spirits and food, and you don’t see any of it. You’ve got tunnel vision, bruh.”
“Come on, man.”
He scrapes a hand over his head, still chewing and cheesing. “My man, you’re looking at her like you just saw your next wife.”
Whoa! “What the hell is wrong with you? Are you crazy?”
“Are you?”
“Listen, Mr. Know-It-All, I have eyes. She’s gorgeous. But—”
“But what? You don’t have to be a tech billionaire to see that she’s fine as hell,” Cord reasons, completely illogically. Then he must notice the way my body locks up, because he dials it back. “So, maybe you’re not trying to wife her up—yet—but you’re still a man. One who hasn’t been laying pipe—”
“Jesus. Really?” I close my eyes, willing myself not to throat-punch him if he says another word.
On a deep breath, I polish off my champagne, bending to set down the glass on the floor near a bench. Then I steady my gaze on my friend.
“I’m not downplaying it. She’s beautiful.” I lower my voice, evening my tone. “That’s as far as it goes. Are we clear?”
Cord dabs the corners of his mouth. “All I’m saying is, you’re a man who sees what he wants and goes after—”
“Not a ring-hunting Luxe socialite in gallerist clothing. I can tell you that much.” I jerk my chin to where Whitney and Zeek are still deep in conversation.
Cord watches for a beat.
“If she’s talking to him,” I continue, “the likelihood that we’ve got anything is common is zero. A prospective Luxe Lady? Owns a high-end gallery—”
“Single.” Cord tips his head to either side. “Maybe…”
“Maybe.”
Exactly, I think. He gets it. We know almost nothing about this woman other than the lackluster company she keeps.
“Or”—Cord tosses me a sidelong glance—“you’re a territorial relationship guy, and either seeing them together is triggering Sherry flashbacks, dealing with that clown, or that’s jealousy creeping in about a woman you’ve been standing here staring at instead of walking over there and rescuing her.”
“It makes sense.” I nod, then shake my head. “The part about triggering me, not the jealousy.”
For a beat, I feel a mile away, wondering how Dr. Bellamy would make this about some healing ritual, then Cord clears his throat. When I glance at him, his expression is laden with concern.
“Relax, I’m not about to cry.” I slap a hand on his back, chuckling. “Finish your snacks and bubbles. I’m going to hit the restroom really quick. Give you some time to collect yourself. Then we can head out.”
Cord salutes me with his glass, still looking at me like I might shatter as I turn away.
The restroom near the back is—of course—occupied, with two other people already waiting.
I’m about to give up and tell Cord I’ll just hold it when a server collecting my empty champagne flute points and whispers that there’s another bathroom under the stairs by the bar—one no one ever uses because they think it’s a supply closet.
“Good looking out. I appreciate you, man,” I say, spinning back, and then I spot Zeek, two paces back, beelining straight for me.
Oh hell nah.
I dodge left toward the tiny, closet-sized restroom just as the door swings open. Whitney is directly in front of me, head down, hand on the knob, completely unaware as I rush straight into her, closing us both inside.