Chapter 9 #3
Cord, having given up on tag to ear-hustle over my shoulder, is all smiles.
“Don’t even say it,” I warn.
But he’s already on his soapbox. “Ladies and gentlemen, in a plot twist no one saw coming, unless he chooses to keep the paintings, Whitney Graves’s gallery is the only local option for this astute businessman. Or, hey, there’s always Zeek’s offer…”
A two-million-dollar, off-market offer, sight unseen.
“Maybe I’ll keep looking.” How about that? “Who knows? I’m not in a rush.”
I nod to myself, forcing my focus back to the real goal here.
This isn’t about me. Or even the art, per se. This is about Sherry’s legacy, right? So, she’ll live on through a charity in her name, funded by the collection’s profits, and when her art sells, the world sees more than a washed-up Luxe Lady and debutante. They’ll see her talent.
“Two days and nights on his exquisite, private island of Clover Cay with the woman starring in his wet dreams… Nah, he’s never beating the husband material allegations.”
“Why are you such an asshole?”
“Why are you already mentally planning your honeymoon with Whitney Easton? Sorry, Graves.”
“You’re not funny.”
“And you’re not not a relationship guy in denial.” He snickers. “You’ve got no poker face. I saw how you looked coming out of that sardine-can bathroom where y’all were probably engaged in some twisted sexual warfare, just breathing all up in each other’s faces—”
I let out a heavy sigh, muffling his deluded rant.
“Well, at least being with that fine-ass woman…” Cord cocks his head. “Tell me your body didn’t react.”
I don’t have to think long or hard. Every inch of me wanted to back her up against the wall, push aside all that satiny blue fabric, and remember how good it felt to feel a woman’s hands in my hair, on my back, tugging me closer as I drive deeper inside her, wet and throbbing for me.
“Nah, it really wasn’t like that,” I lie.
“Okay, then.” Cord’s stupid grin grates on me. “I triple dog dare you to lie and tell me you don’t remember what she smelled like, what cup size would fit comfortably in the palm of your hand?”
Raspberries. C-cup.
My chest tightens, and I stupidly look away.
“That’s what I thought. If you hired her, you wouldn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell resisting falling in love.”
A laugh sputters out of me. “Love?” I scowl. “It’s barely been a year.”
Well, one year, one month, and one week of tormenting “healing celibacy,” to be exact.
Cord’s still watching me, smirking. “You’d look like a one-woman man,” he says, matter of fact. “But hey, if you think you can hit that and resist her feminine charms—”
“Put your money where your mouth is, Mr. Know-It-All.” I shift restlessly on my feet. “You willing to pony up those Legends tickets?”
“Call Whitney,” he says smugly.
“I will.”
“So do it now, then.” Cord doesn’t hesitate to call my bluff. “Ask to meet in person Thursday—”
“Where?” I frown, thinking about the vultures circling my house and my office. “Should I bring her here?” Did you think of that, Sherlock?
“Seriously? Why are you acting like you can’t afford privacy?
” He taps a finger to his temple. “Spare me the dramatics. Meet her this Thursday. Same time you were set to meet at the Heartery. And when she eagerly agrees—as I suspect she will, after seeing her face when you left that restroom—I want you to invite her to Clover Cay.”
“What?”
Cord nods slowly. “Two days to assess Sherry’s collection.”
I flick my gaze skyward. “Two days?”
“Better yet, make it ten. Starting that Friday, you leave for the island, and… have meaningless sex.”
How did we get here?
“Have you lost your mind?” I ask.
“No, but you deserve to.” Cord laughs. “You get to be the fuckboy the media thinks you are. Sex, no feelings—”
“And when I prove she’s a social climber out for money and a ring, I get your Legends season tickets. Plus, courtside playoff tickets if they win…”
Cord tosses me a self-satisfied grin. “If you can spend that much time with her, without your heart getting involved, husband material…” He licks his lips, then shrugs like it’s no big deal. “Well, then I’ll pay up and back off.”
“Oh, really?” I say, eyebrows lifted, ears perked up, utterly amazed that his silence can be bought.
“I’ll stop pressing you about going out, and you can collect dust in your McMansion. But”—of course there’s a catch—“if you fall—and trust me, I’ll know if you’re lying—then I want the same. Season tickets and courtside playoff tickets when they make it.”
Oh, this asshole’s confident.
Too confident.
On some level, I sense this isn’t even really about my proactively moving or even my chemistry with Whitney. It’s about Cord being a damn know-it-all.
He scratches his jaw. “These bragging rights are about to be priceless.”
As we shake on it, sealing the wager, though, an uneasy laugh tumbles out of me. It’s just ten days. I can work with an unnervingly sexy single woman and not fall in love.
So why am I worried?
“Okay, I’ll call.” I unlock my phone to Google the Artery’s phone number. “But not yet. Since I can afford privacy, I need a favor first.”