Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
Warner
Waged
“I’m out.”
I push my chair away from Cord’s wooden dining table where I’ve been working for the day. Where, even with the sound off, I know my phone is still pinging. Hasn’t stopped for the past two days.
He tosses me a sidelong glance.
“All right, man…” Cord stretches back on the hind legs of his chair.
“I’ve still got to work on a few changes for the new menu.
As soon as I announced that stewed okra dish…
Boom! A months-deep waitlist. And tomorrow…
” He whistles. “I’m working on slow-cooked collard greens and handmade gnocchi.
It’s just like the crème de la crème of soul food meets Italian cuisine, man.
Phenomenal. Easily the best Ellswood County has ever—”
“Did you hear me?” I choke out, whirling around to face him. Frustration cuts my tone. “I said, I’m out. I’m not meeting Whitney about the collection.”
“Oh.” Cord lowers his chair to the floor, finally getting a clue that I couldn’t care less about food right now.
I inhale sharply, breaking eye contact. “At the end of the day, I just don’t have it in me to add anything else to my plate, you know?
” Closing my eyes, I clear my throat. “Privacy’s been an ongoing issue, but it’s gone too far now.
Zeek Harrison blowing up my phone about Sherry’s collection.
Then showing up at the Artery, like there weren’t enough cameras on me… ”
“Yeah, every blog and news outlet is running something on the Restroom Rendezvous.” Cord winces. “And don’t even think about logging onto social media. Shiiiiit…”
“Oh, trust me, I wouldn’t.” I nod, repeatedly.
Damn. It was stupid to think I could go out at all without it turning into a fucking media circus.
“But yeah… already told you, it’s cool if you want to set up here for a few days. I’ve got the room.” Cord shoots me a nervous smile, drumming his restless fingers over the wooden tabletop. “It’s too warm in here, don’t you think? Should I open a window?”
I let out a heavy sigh.
Frustration prickles along the back of my neck because he’s just not getting it. A sleepover at my buddy’s house isn’t going to solve my problems.
“Bro, it’s Monday, and they’re camping out on every corner near my office building.
Crowding the gates at my house. Now, one of them almost got inside.
” My voice reverberates, hard and cold, off Cord’s vaulted ceilings.
“And, you know, my security team is there now. They’re turning it into fucking Fort Knox.
” I let out a strangled laugh. “Can you imagine what could’ve happened if I’d left an hour later?
If neighborhood security hadn’t been patrolling? ”
“Damn, that’s scary as hell.”
“You think?” Irritation creeps up my spine.
I stand, moving on autopilot, pacing the length of his cozy, book-lined dining room as the last forty-eight infuriating hours play on a loop in my head.
“Mom’s doing hourly check-ins. I’m working at my best friend’s kitchen table like I’m doing math homework when I should be preparing to roll out a multimillion-dollar update for the RealSpace Engine on the Mod3D app. And I’m…exhausted.” And horny as fuck.
“Man, that’s a lot,” Cord says.
“Yeah, it is.” A hollow laugh croaks out of me as I think how much worse things could be if I’d actually hooked up with Whitney in that closet bathroom. “All that, and you want to know what’s really fucking grinding my gears the most?”
Cord tilts his chair back again and folds his arms across his chest, looking at me with that annoying smirk.
I let out a humorless laugh. “Whitney Graves is exactly who I thought she was.”
“Oh yeah?” He perks up, getting it all… well, not all wrong.
The way she looked at me in that restroom, I was losing my shit, trying to keep it together out of respect for her. The woman I met between those four fun-sized walls deserved more than a supply closet hookup.
At least, that’s what I believed until I heard her comments on that Scene and Heard It All vlog. She’s inclined to agree with all the baseless hot takes about me in the headlines? Then, in the same breath, proceeds to admit she doesn’t know me? How in the hell does that work?
And yet she claims I’m just like most wealthy folks, unwilling to roll up my sleeves and do the damn hard work. Just a lazy Scrooge, tossing money around to solve the world’s problems.
What the fuck?
“I should’ve trusted my gut about her. I knew something wasn’t right.” I shake my head, fuming as I flip my wrist to check the time on my watch. Two o’clock already. “Yeah, there’s no way I’m meeting her after what she said about me. It was just a conversation, anyway. Nothing concrete.”
Cord snorts. “You’re not going to call the gallery?”
“I don’t think so.” I shrug.
“Oh, you don’t think so?”
I cup the back of my neck, kneading the tension. “No.”
His thick, dark eyebrows shoot up. “No?”
“Seriously, why are you repeating everything I’m saying? Listen, I said I’d call her assistant. I’m a man of my word.”
“So, forget the business? You’re going to make it personal and skip the call?” He snickers. “Did she hurt your wittle feelwings?”
I curse underneath my breath.
Here we go.
“It’s not about my feelings, thank you. But I’m not going out of my way.” On principle. “I said nice things about her to that vlogger. I said I’m sure she’s an incredible woman. That I hadn’t yet had the pleasure of meeting her. And somehow I’m the cold, greedy cash machine?”
Cord’s lips twitch. “You forgot cultureless.”
My patience lasts five seconds before I take off, sprinting after him.
He slips off the chair, juking and dodging like we’re back on the gridiron in college.
We lap the dining table a half-dozen times, zipping through the living room and hallways before we both stall on opposite sides of the kitchen island, winded and cackling like overgrown children in forty-something bodies.
“All that hiding out… you’re losing your instincts.” Cord cackles.
Anyone would think he’s in tiptop shape with all that lip service. His hands are planted on his bony hips and he’s shifting his feet side to side, out of breath. But he’s ready to keep playing.
“I almost had you, though.” I laugh, still trying to catch my breath.
Cord screws his mouth to the side. “Yeah, right.”
“Anyway…” I see what he’s trying to do, and it’s not working. “My point is, I walked right into her trap.”
His face twists. “Trap?”
“Tell me I’m wrong.” It takes less than five minutes to bring him up to speed, from the timing of Whitney’s comments Saturday night until Greer sent me the Restroom Rendezvous article yesterday.
I tell him how I spent the rest of the day at Mom’s, doing some recreational reading, learning about Whitney Graves—mainly deep-diving into social media comments, Luxe Ladies casting predictions, hot takes, PR-stunt conspiracies about her interest in Sherry’s collection.
And then I stumbled across details about her friend circle, the Divatantes—Priscilla Hamilton, Ebony King, Tatiana Allen, Chanel Townsend, and Hillary Winston, who apparently lost her club membership.
Suddenly, everything was clicking.
Whitney’s close to Ebony, a former Livingston.
And she’s not just any smile-and-beguile skinfluencer.
She’s the viral Divorcétante. Priscilla’s a jewelry heiress for Delphine & Co.
And the other two? An author and a travel photographer, respectively.
The entire crew is upper-crust socialite royalty.
Obviously, Whitney’s planting herself at the center of the art world’s glitz and gilded excess.
“Of course she wants the limelight, too.” I’m smiling, dragging a hand over my beard. “Hey, while she’s at it, why not nab a Luxe Ladies spot, rep an OG’s art collection, and land herself a billionaire bachelor to really sell the whole package? Damn, how didn’t I see her coming?”
Cord nods, wordlessly.
Bitterness fills my mouth. “My inbox is clogged up, phone’s ringing off the hook. Pssh… The second I saw her talking to that snake, Zeek, the social climber theory should’ve stuck.”
“So, let me get this straight.” Cord folds his arms across his chest with an audible harumph.
“Whitney, the curator and gallery owner, waited to exit the restroom, on the off chance you’d dip inside to dodge Zeek, just to—checks notes—trap you in a scandalous media storm to boost her local stardom? ”
My shoulders drop.
Well, when you put it that way…
“Maybe,” I say, weakly.
He purses his lips. “Maybe we need to let a little air out of your ego.”
“Hear me out,” I say, unwilling to let go of my theory just yet. “She’s ‘inclined’ to agree with the influencers without knowing jack about me? how does that work?”
I move slowly toward him. Of course, he still thinks we’re playing tag. This fool mirrors me, backing away.
“Relax there, punchy.” I turn around, and again, he goes the opposite direction. Childish. “Anyway, I wouldn’t have even known that small-ass restroom existed. Yet her server conveniently points me to it?” I narrow my eyes. “Come on, now.”
He groans, loudly. “Or”—he cuts me a side-eye—“if you read what Whitney said, she specifically admitted she didn’t know you. Which means everything else is pure speculation. Hell, I’d agree with folks too if I didn’t. Ducking and diving, hiding in the shadows like the town’s curmudgeon.”
“That’s some shady stuff, right there.” I chuckle.
“Look, it’s Monday.” Cord lets out a deep exhale. “Are you calling her or not?”
Again, I glance at my watch. Quarter past two.
“I don’t know.” I shrug. “Maybe.”
“Maybe—”
“Don’t start!” We both know my business ethic won’t let me not call. “Just to notify her assistant that I’ve decided to work with the Heartery gallery after all. So, there’s no need to meet.” Or cause me any more undue stress.
I nod, liking the way the plan sounds.
Cord backs away, eyes narrowed to slits. “You definitely don’t want to meet in person…” he mutters, pensively. It’s not a question—it’s a conclusion.