Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Whitney
Crème de la Crème
I collide with the wall as the door clicks shut.
“Uh, hello?” I toss Warner a shaky smile, watching him fumble cutely with the knob lock.
The thing is, I was counting on meeting him tonight.
I didn’t tell my divas, but I rehearsed what I’d say about Sherry’s collection on the drive here and all through setting up for the opening.
And then, after I stupidly made that comment to that vlogger, I was waiting for the right moment when that voicemail from my gynecologist came, telling me my pap and mammogram results were in and to call back Monday.
My heart dropped. And then I looked up and there was Warner, all gorgeous and intensely staring at me like he’d waited his whole life to meet me, when I could be dying.
I couldn’t meet him like that.
But I guess meeting me was more urgent than he planned.
“Hi… sorry, I’m Warner.” His voice scrapes out rough and shaky, his broad shoulders settling into the gravity of this precarious situation he’s gotten us into.
“Whitney,” I say, biting the corner of my lip.
“For the record, this isn’t how I wanted to meet you.” He lets out a nervous laugh, and I feel it, skating, grazing over my skin as he cringes adorably. “But uh, I’m just… trying to avoid someone.”
I must blink a good dozen times before I open my mouth, then shut it again. Because what? He didn’t just… Did he?
This opening is to last two and half hours.
It’s going on nine o’clock, and he didn’t pull me aside—correction, shove me—all brusque and annoyingly fine, into this cramped restroom, for a private tête-à-tête.
Or even for the reason he was invited for, to talk about art.
He’s dodging someone else? Probably some woman?
A fresh surge of annoyance creeps up my spine.
“Who?” I ask with a little too much sauce on it. But hey, I’m not the one who trapped us in here looking like he’s a breath away from tearing off every overpriced piece of clothing on his delectable body and taking me from behind until my knees buckle. So…
I tilt my head back impatiently, staring him dead in those depthless brown—apparently, not bedroom—eyes.
In these heels, I’m easily six-one, and he’s still got three or four inches on me.
So, he’s tall, built like a sack full of muscles, and could’ve chosen to corner any other woman in this small space.
Should’ve. They probably would’ve smiled and giggled.
Unfortunately—for him—he picked the wrong woman today.
Or the right one, depending on how he looks at it.
It’s a simple question, but he doesn’t answer. Doesn’t even pretend like he’s considering it.
“Who are you trying to avoid?” I pinch my eyebrows together, feigning interest, when all I want to know is her name because…who is she? Who is this woman who’s got him dipping and dodging?
Warner’s gaze meets mine for a beat, then, like he’s tapped into my mind, he lets out a resigned sigh and says, “His name is unimportant.”
Oh.
So, it’s a man.
“Mmm…” I close my mouth firmly, feeling like a complete idiot.
“Let’s just say we’ve got history, but I’d rather not engage with him, you know?” He tucks his hands into his pockets and straightens. As much as he can with only inches between us.
And I’m in here with you because…
A shriek of laughter outside vibrates the door and we both freeze, listening, waiting for a knock that, thankfully, doesn’t come.
Warner throws his head back, his jaw tightening. “And he’s right outside this door, probably waiting for me.”
I shift my gaze to the wooden door, wishing it were a two-way mirror.
Who is this big, bad villain who’s got Warner running for the hills—or, more accurately, to the restroom—to escape him?
Truly, my curiosity has me wading through the guestlist. Warner’s supposedly the quiet recluse, always dodging reporters and avoiding public spaces.
Why did he agree to come tonight at all if a run-in with this guy was a possibility?
“And sharing his name isn’t an option…” I drag my attention back to him, slowly, throat working as I swallow.
Every last ounce of good sense I’ve got is hollering, Resist. Don’t inhale the spicy cardamom with sensual, woodsy notes. Stop staring at his light chin scruff and that thick neck. By all means, don’t imagine how he’ll groan if I just lean in and trail my tongue down to his throat to his chest—
“No, I can’t share.” His tone cuts through my haze. “But I can say this: the reports of my late wife’s art collection are true.”
“Yes?” I perk up.
At least if this is going to be a PG-13 meeting, let me represent the collection. I deserve that much.
Warner’s expression turns contemplative for a split second before he adds, “Well, since I’ve been considering exhibit options, this person has sent over a sight-unseen, off-market offer for the full collection to my office.”
My heart drops. “I see. So, you’re selling—”
“Not to him,” Warner snaps, clearly bothered by even the idea of this man in possession of Sherry’s work.
“Oh, okay.”
What does that mean?
We stand here like this, his fiery gaze piercing me, his breaths deepening until it feels like he’s vacuumed all the air from the restroom. My mind races, scrambling to make sense of everything Warner’s saying, and why he’s telling me.
“Well, you’ve got me here,” I say quietly.
He shifts on his feet, and the sheer size of him nearly erases the space between us.
Resist, Whitney. For all that is right with this world, do not be that woman who gets weak in the knees over a man just because his dark eyebrows dip low and his thick thighs are rubbing up against yours in a tight little bathroom.
But as he adjusts himself, licking his full, suckable lips, it’s hard not to feel shortchanged. Representing the collection is off the table and I’m supposed to settle for PG-13?
Not with him this close, his body magnetizing every inch of mine, in this dress.
The way this fabric is hugging my waist?
The slit, falling away, exposing every aching line of freshly shaven, yoga-toned brown thigh?
This neckline, the way the Bahamian-blue satin slips with every breath, framing my cleavage?
It’s absolutely an invitation that my throbbing libido and I desperately need him to accept right now.
My pulse quickens.
“So…” I breathe him in, inhaling his warm, spicy scent, and my mouth cracks open, letting the rest slide off my tongue. “What do you plan to do with me?”
Shit.
“Well…” He lets out a shaky laugh, leaning a forearm against the wall, hands flat on the ceiling, contorting his body like he’s trying to keep his distance, but there’s not enough distance. “I, uh, figured we could keep talking for a bit, wait him out. But this isn’t at all what I had in mind.”
He means us, being cramped into this tiny, closet-sized bathroom, but my rated-R mind catches the innuendo, and my knees buckle a little.
I trace my teeth over my lower lip. “No?”
Warner shakes his head, and he almost smiles.
And damn if it’s not a turn-on, watching him struggle in real time.
God, it would be so easy to temporarily forget about the headlines and the fact that money-clip men aren’t my cup of tea, to, just for a few minutes, slide my dress aside and get lost in the heavenly climb of this steep, rugged mountain.
“How did you envision it?” I adjust myself, getting comfortable, letting my breasts scrape his hard chest. Even through his thick blazer between us, like flint, the friction ignites every inch of my skin.
“More”—he swallows hard—“spacious, room for us to get to know each other, exchange our stories and pleasantries, thank you for the invitation.”
“Hello, I’m Whitney Graves, owner of the Artery. I’m glad you came,” I say, voice breathy but still controlled somehow as I lift my head, gaze fixed on his lips parting, hands slipping around his back. “Like that?”
A cough hijacks his laugh. “Yeah, y-yes,” he stammers. “Sorry about this, uh, predicament I put you in.” He chuckles, clearly angling for space and still finding none. “I’m sure he’ll probably be gone in a sec, and I’ll get out of your hair, Mrs. Graves.”
“It’s just miss.” I smile, loving his sneaky little non-ask about my relationship status.
“Yes, of course.” His Adam’s apple bobs appetizingly. “Miss Graves.”
Outside the restroom, chatter and footsteps ebb and flow, heightening the urgency of the moment.
“Well, Mr. Easton, since we’re past introductions and apologies, given your aerial view of my cleavage, and considering someone might need the facilities any minute”—I search his gorgeous, dark eyes—“should I skip the rest of the pleasantries and throw my name in the hat for a chance to exhibit your late wife’s collection… or are you already committed?”
It’s a fair question. Warner’s here, in my gallery.
He came tonight despite his impending meeting with the Harrington gallery.
Whether he just needed to get out, or find a backup if that plan fell through, it doesn’t matter.
It’s supply and demand. I’ve got a damn incredible gallery; he’s got art that needs to be sold.
But the question itself? It’s double-edged.
There’s subtext. His late wife’s collection. Is he committed?
He licks his lips like he’s determined to focus on my words instead of every distracting inch where our bodies are connected like live wires. “Yeah, I think so.”
It’s not a yes. That’s what I focus on as I lift my eyes to his, sharp and unyielding. “You think?”
“Yeah, uh, yes,” he says without zero conviction.
I splay my fingers on his back, inching lower until I reach the cement curb of his ass.
“Well, an astute businessman like you”—I tilt my head, arching into him, the rasp in my voice magnifying the tension—“I’d imagine you like considering all your options before you make any final decisions.”
Say yes.
Please, say yes.
“I’m already meeting with a gallery.” Warner’s voice hardens, going gruff, rough as steel trailing down my spine the way my body comes to attention.
“Not like mine,” I persist. “I just need a chance.”
For a beat, we stand here, our breaths and eyes locked. I know he’s attuned to this level of perseverance because it’s exactly how he excels with Echelon Technologies. No isn’t an option.
“Very well,” he relents, saving us both the hassle of continuing this charade in subtext. “I’ll set up an appointment to meet with you before I select a gallery, then. Do you have an assistant?”
“Yes.”
Heat swarms my skin, and I smile triumphantly. I don’t know if I’m visibly gloating about the collection or if I’m high on pheromones at the prospect of seeing him again.
“Good,” he says, taking shallow breaths. “My assistant’s out of town, but I’ll reach out Monday if that works for you, Miss Graves?”
“Okay.”
With the business handled, he straightens as much as is possible in the tight space. For a fleeting second, the only things in the room are blue satin, warm, spicy cardamom, and the intensifying urge to circle back to pleasantries. Rather, pleasure.
Until a knock sounds at the door.
Without another word, he unlocks the door and dashes away as fast as he showed up.