Chapter 9 #2
“Before you even start, two minutes in that restroom together, do you know what she said to me?” I ask. “‘Well, you’ve got me here. What do you plan to do with me?’ How does that not scream ring-hunting social climber to you?”
I let out a heavy there’s your proof sigh.
Again, I take to pacing, trying to avoid Cord’s gaze.
Somehow, he’s stared at me long enough to correctly suss out my fear. Seeing Whitney Graves again? With no crowds. No barriers between us. Even with her disrespectful commentary. It’s a problem.
Forty-eight hours later, I still can’t stop thinking about that goddamned blue dress. That slit riding up her smooth thigh. The way the swells of her breasts, nipples pebbled, had pressed against my chest, awakening every nerve ending in my body.
And she smelled like…sun-ripened raspberries.
“Does that, uh, look on your face”—Cord’s lips twitch as he points—“have anything to do with what happened after five minutes in that restroom together? Admit it, you forget what lust, straight up, no chaser, feels like?”
My jaw tightens. I absolutely forgot what that felt like.
“Listen, at the end of the day, meeting up just seems unnecessary.” I crack my neck on either side. “We’ve got no other business dealings.”
“Business!” he hollers. “You can’t really believe that’s what this is about?”
“Yes, I do.” What else have we been talking about but Sherry’s paintings?
“Warn, I caught your tunnel-visioned ass staring at a beautiful, smart, creative woman at the gallery, correctly clocked it, then she flirts with you for five minutes in a bathroom, and now you can’t bear to be in the same room with her.”
“Need I bring up the slander again?”
“So she called you cold and soulless. Big whoop! You’ve been called way worse and didn’t give two red cents about it. Clearly, the only thing that’s different is—”
“Is?” My throat constricts.
We’ve gone from tag to the damn staring game. But I double dog dare him to repeat that same “new wife” nonsense he spewed at the gallery.
“Can you handle the truth?” Cord throws up his hands like he doesn’t make the rules, and actually fixes his lips to say, “You saw your next wife.”
Two seconds later, we’re lapping the dining table again. Except, this time, I catch him by the hem of his t-shirt. It’s only for a split second, but I get my licks in before he takes off, back to his corner.
“Warner, you think I’m joking, but once you become a husband—”
“Oh, what happens?” A laugh stirs from my gut. “No, I’m dying to hear your expert opinion…”
“Are you, though?”
“Unbelievable.”
Cord lifts his chin, drawing his shoulders back, knowing full well he’s on the thinnest ice right now. And he still continues.
“All I’m saying is that it’s hard to go back to just dating,” he says, matter of fact, speaking from zero experience.
“We can agree on that, right? And I’m sorry this is so blunt when your pain is still raw, but here’s the facts.
The ink was two inches from those divorce papers when Sherry passed, and Warner Easton isn’t a casual, hit-it-and-quit-it type of guy. ”
I scrape both hands through my tight curls, clutching fistfuls. What does it say about me that my oldest friend on this earth is a certified asshole? A correct one, though, so there isn’t a damn thing I can say about it.
Cord huffs out a relieved sigh.
“You know what I mean. Prime example, I’ll bet you never returned those shoes your mom gave you for your birthday. Weren’t they, like, two sizes too small?”
“I’ve still got them.” I shrug, not understanding how one thing has anything to do with the other.
Cord snaps his fingers. “What about that wine, then? The, the, uh, 1970s French burgundy—”
“The 1971 Domaine de la Romanée-Conti La Tache from the Burgundy region.” I won an auction bid on a couple bottles. So what? “It had a faint gamey character to it that didn’t agree with my palate.”
His face contorts. “Okay, never say ‘faint gamey character’ in my presence again.” Cord shudders. “But what’d you do with the unopened bottle?”
“It’s in my wine cellar. And?”
“The price tag on those bottles—that’s my point.” Cord’s attention shifts briefly to a painting on his wall that I’ve just noticed. It’s the oil painting from the gallery, with the vibrant blues and golds.
“Is that new?” I ask, distracted.
“Yeah, bought it Saturday while you were in the middle of a Restroom Rendezvous. I appreciate culture.” He cracks up at his corny dig, and I already know he’s about to run the “cultureless” label into the ground.
“Don’t try to change the subject. Those price tags are some folks’ mortgage balance.
And you’ve got gamey-tasting wine just collecting dust in your cellar. ”
I throw my head back, groaning. “In conclusion…”
“You hold on tight to things. To people,” Cord explains, making a mountain out of a phone call. “Take it from me, dating is as much about the process as it is about who you end up with.”
“Damn, that almost sounded profound,” I say.
“Knowing you, you’ll marry the first woman you meet after losing—”
“Sherry?” I stare, just waiting for him to keep treading down this slippery slope.
Cord sighs. “Listen, I’m sorry, I just… It’s like watching a horror movie, and you’re headed straight for the dark room where the killer’s hiding.”
A laugh roars out of me. “Oh my God. For the last time, I said Whitney Graves is beautiful.” I lean back on my chair.
“I admired her style. And yes, I attended an opening at her gallery out of curiosity. But also because I’m an astute businessman.
I like considering all my options before I make any final decisions.
I figured it wouldn’t hurt to explore another gallery. ”
It’s not a lie.
Whitney’s words, but not a lie.
After the run-in with the vlogger, I didn’t see more than a small corner of the gallery.
But the flow of the space was so thoughtful that I was able to observe the featured busts, the hanging partition with more paintings.
It wasn’t fine art, but I could see Whitney has an eye and a vision.
She knows how to display the art to tell a story.
“I like being prepared, Cord.”
“See, that’s definitely something a relationship guy in denial would say.”
We both laugh.
“You’d know, wouldn’t you?” I tease. “Can’t hardly wait to be laid up with Alexis, watching movies and sipping fruity wine.”
“Okay, husband material—”
Cord and I both freeze when my phone vibrates loudly in my pocket. When it doesn’t stop, I pull it out and immediately answer the incoming call from the Heartery.
“This is Warner Easton…”
For a full two minutes, the gallery owner lights into me.
She’s seen the blogs, social media posts, and today’s newspaper, assuming that because I attended the exhibit opening that I’ve already signed a contract with the Artery to privately exhibit Sherry’s collection.
Even though I try to convince her I’m still indeed interested in working with her, that I’ve got a plane scheduled to visit Clover Cay Friday the nineteenth through the twenty-first to see the pieces, she’s made her decision to cancel our upcoming Thursday appointment.
She prefers to work with “forthright, cultured” clients.