Chapter 13 #3
He leans back and tips up his head, folding his arms across his broad chest, studying me thoughtfully, and… Well, fine. Yes, you can bend me over this table, and I’ll say your name as many times as you want.
“Is this weird for you?” He licks his lips. “You mentioned the car, the restaurant, now the chef…”
Yes! “No,” I say too fast.
I’m still turning it over my head, though. Usually, when a person goes to these grand lengths, there’s an agenda that goes along with the gestures. But I’m not getting that with him. None of it feels flashy.
Plus, I’m the only one with something to gain, right? I asked him for the meeting.
“You’re sure?” His gaze lingers, assessing.
Then he drops it.
Soon, over slow-cooked collard greens, handmade gnocchi, and stewed okra, every bit worth the hype, my libido calms its happy self down.
Warner and I fall into easy conversation.
I tell him about my divas, how Ebony’s getting married next year, and how Chanel, Tatiana, and I are praying Priscilla doesn’t relapse with red-flag Trent.
He gives me a full rundown on his friend Cord’s futile attempt at being a fuckboy when he’s already a goner for a woman named Alexis.
Somehow, the conversation veers to tropical islands, then to summer bodies, and he laughs so hard when I tell him about Clive’s B60Z workouts seizing his calf muscles.
The banter is top tier, so seamless and effortless that I don’t even realize it when we finally dive into the logistics of Sherry’s collection—twelve oil pieces of former Luxe Ladies, created while getting some R&R on their private Bahamian island, Clover Cay.
Warner provides no photos, no details, but he wants me to see them, in person, to evaluate their quality, style, and how they’d fit with the Artery’s space and vision.
I agree, eagerly.
A little too eagerly.
The entire time we’re talking, though, I’m so curious about this man who seems anything but cold or soulless. I wonder about their marriage, if there’s any truth to the trouble-in-paradise rumors, and whether he’s even open to love again.
“What are your weekends like?” Warner asks between bites of gnocchi. “Got any openings on your schedule for me?”
My pulse quickens.
Is he flirting with me?
I nod, every inch of me dazzled as I lift my water to my lips. As the cool liquid trails my throat, reality hits me. What day is it? This weekend isn’t ideal… Sunday is Valentine’s Day.
My chest tightens, silence stretching.
Thankfully, he clarifies, calm as ever: “Friday the nineteenth, specifically.”
Relief loosens the hold on my lungs. I take another long sip then set my glass on the table, beaming as he leans in.
“You ready to go on a little field trip, Whitney?” he asks.
And while I’m new to feelings and marathon love, this flirty, seductive dance? It’s not a bouquets-and-candy-hearts promise but know it well. So, of course, I match his sexy little energy.
“Are you ready to go on a trip, Warner?”
He chuckles like it’s completely understood that neither of us are referring to geography.
I’m a woman on a mission to fall in love.
If he wants to ride me off into the proverbial sunset to go view these pieces, and two-birds-one-stone this thing…
I might be forced to abandon the wager and say screw it. Rather, screw him.
Leaning in too, I sink my teeth into my bottom lip, holding his stare.
“Name the time and place,” I purr, absolutely up for this challenge, every bit excited to see how two dates spawn a love story.
He tips up his chin. “Two days. Clover Cay. My plane leaves at eight a.m. sharp.”
I gasp.
Not that I mean to, but… is he really saying what I think he’s saying?
A warm smile stretches Warner’s pillowy lips.
He nods softly, confirming the fantasy reeling through my head.
Us, zipping off to the Bahamas. Sun, sand, turquoise water, seafoam-blue skies.
Jet-setting adventure. There’s hope, nerves, maybe a mix of both.
But underneath the haze, I’m really so pathetic that spending time in paradise with a man without sex is a feat?
Get a grip, Whit.
Warner drags a hand over his mouth, fixing me again with that intense gaze. Challenging me. Taunting me.
Can you resist me? it says. Can you spare my sexy widower heart?
The struggle is so real.
My first thought is, immediately no, followed by a string of whys.
Because why is it always one or the other?
Why can’t I have the collection and Warner, and everything just magically works out with my health, gallery, and ArteryBeat kids?
Why does personal growth always require abstinence, resolutions, and unnecessary, sexy eye contact?
Also, do I really want Couldn’t go ten measly days without sex engraved on my tombstone?
No. I don’t.
But I already took the wager. Ten days. No sex. Excessive vulnerability. Growth. Restraint legacy intact. And I won’t lose because Warner’s got a perfect face and…whatever illegal pheromones he’s emitting.
“Okay, you’re on,” I inhale with dignity, or at least the appearance of it, even though this lust feels strange. “I’ll have my assistant call yours.”