Chapter 13 #2
And for a beat, it’s really awkward. He’s just standing silently next to me, with my bare legs exposed to the chilly elements, as if I’m not on the verge of my demise and supposed to know the first thing about what’s happening.
Say something.
But he doesn’t, and I sure as hell don’t either.
So I just stare at the exterior of the building, studying the unassuming, nondescript door tucked between Wax Poetic and Farrah’s Vintage Clothing shop for two solid minutes before it suddenly swings open and a beautiful, copper-skinned waif of a woman in a black suit greets me.
“Good evening, Ms. Graves!” She beams. “Welcome to Cibo Nero. We’ve been expecting you. May I take your coat?”
They’re expecting me?
“Uh, sure.” I manage a shaky smile, slipping my arms free as I steal a glance past her shoulder into the warm, rustic dining room.
Every white-clothed table sits empty, tiny tealights flickering at their centers.
Amber light casts a soft glow over wooden chairs and bright, earthy art.
And somewhere in the background, soulful Italian opera—J’Nai Bridges, I think—drifts through the warm air, blending with the faint hum of conversation.
Instant relief washes over me.
Of course. It’s just a private event. Warner’s probably brought his attorneys and his assistant, keeping things low-key and confidential. Discreet.
“Everything is set up for your meeting,” the hostess says. “Right this way, please.”
Breathing easier, I follow behind her, fully taking in the space. It’s everything everyone thinks it is. Warm, polished. Cozy yet upscale, with a sleek Southern edge. And intimate—
The pep in my step fizzles out as the hostess rounds a corner, and there’s Warner Easton.
Only Warner.
Immediately, an alarm trips in my brain, red lights flashing, klaxons blaring. My body malfunctions, screaming, SEX! SEX! SEX!
Shit.
Like some chaotic Pavlovian response, I see this man, and immediately all I want is the one thing I can’t have—shouldn’t shamelessly want to subject this man to.
This meeting is supposed to be about business and building a deep and meaningful emotional connection, not an excuse to hook up.
But the attraction is undeniable. Hell, it’s palpable.
So naturally, with my stomach all up in knots, our eyes immediately connect across the dining room.
As far as connecting goes, it should be great.
Ten days is nothing in the grand scheme of things.
And while tonight isn’t included, it is the vibe check.
What’s the working relationship like? How do our communication styles mesh? Is the chemistry still there?
Um… damn right.
And I’ve yet to even make it to the table.
There was real chemistry between you and Warner.
I’m still replaying Priscilla’s words as I—slightly panicked—notice the rest of the deserted dining room.
“Uh, where are the others?” I ask.
Deep down, I’m hoping—correction, praying—that maybe the others are unavoidably detained at the moment.
Or maybe Warner values perspective and breaking stereotypes, and he’s got a female-driven management team, who, as I’m rapidly approaching this man whose awareness has my body standing at attention, are all congregating in the ladies’ room.
It could happen, I tell myself as the few dozen feet between us dwindle.
And then his intense gaze scrapes over my skin, greedily, consuming all of me, taking in my red lips and gold studs, my hair falling in I-didn’t-know-what-to-do-with-my-hair-so-I-curled-the-ends waves. They were, allegedly, just easier.
“Others?” The hostess tosses me an amused smile over her slender shoulder. “Mr. Easton has reserved the restaurant exclusively for you tonight.”
Well, damn.
My body vibrates under his stare as it trails down to my black blazer dress, and I feel the fabric move with every step, easing familiarly into my strut, showcasing my curves, moving with first-date seduction, loving how it cinches my waist and cuts mid-thigh, exposing my legs appetizingly to his hungry eyes.
Thankfully, I catch myself, though.
This is about exploring love, not lust, Whit.
Love is patient. And while undeniable chemistry is important, love is a flaming-hot merry-go-round ro-mess like Priscilla. It’s a worthy long game like Ebony and Linc. It’s more than two dates. It’s an aspirational, emotional heart-bait marathon, not a sprint.
You can do this.
So, as we come to a stop in front of the cozy two-seater table tucked along the far-back left side of the restaurant, I quickly thank the hostess, settle in the seat opposite Warner, and toss him a genuine smile.
“Thank you for meeting me tonight,” I say, straightening, making sure the girls stay inside my blazer. I want him to respect me. “The car, this place… After the week we’ve had”—I let out a small chuckle—“it’s a welcome change.”
The light catches his warm smile. “Yes, privacy is a luxury I don’t take for granted,” he says, and there’s something about his easy laugh coupled with the casual, self-assured way he’s reclined slightly in his chair that kicks against the tabloid profile I’ve built up in my head.
I figured between the sexual tension, the nerves, and the rumors, we’d immediately be rendered silent until our meals came, after which we’d dive into the general logistics of the collection, nail down the type of art, the size of the collection, goals and dates for the exhibition, before I reviewed whatever images and descriptions he’s prepared for the catalog of Sherry’s works.
Simple.
But when our server arrives to take our orders, after Warner thoughtfully checks first with me about food allergies and gains my permission, he smoothly requests that the world-renowned chef, who just so happens to also be his best friend, “dazzle our palates,” and I don’t know why, but it’s so not anything I ever expected to come out of his mouth.
I burst out laughing.
“What?” His full lips twitch, which is just adorably sexy.
Breathless, I cover my mouth with my napkin. “Dazzle?”
He lowers his head, chuckling. “Ah, I see you’ve got jokes.”
“No jokes,” I assure him, shaking my head, still tickled as hell. And ridiculously turned on. Dammit. “Just pleasantly surprised, is all.”
Warner nods, his smile wide and wonderous. “It’s an inside joke with—”
“Your best friend? Chef Cord Duncan?” I flash him a pointed stare, way too familiar with this veritable stranger.
“This restaurant, which people are dying to set foot inside just to sample the cuisine and bask in its ambiance, is closed on Thursday night because you needed a private space to discuss exhibiting an art collection?”