Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
Whitney
Jet Set
“Have you spent any real time in the Caribbean?” Warner asks Mya. Not his invited guest.
Of all the scenarios I pictured when Warner invited me to Clover Cay last week, being stuck playing a forty-eight-hour stint of the quiet game while he shamelessly flirts with the gorgeous skyscraper of young flight attendant…
Nope, didn’t even make the cut.
Mya, is it?
How long have you been flying with Gold Wing Charter?
If there’s time, I’d love to show you my yacht… and my plane, and you can tell me if size really matters.
Ugh, really?
I stifle a laugh because… this is what we’re doing? When I was so worried about subjecting his poor heart to deathbed love?
Please.
It’s not like I was delusionally turning this into a sweeping romantic getaway, per se.
But I figured the restaurant was just the beginning with Warner and me.
Today, we’d share takeoff mimosas. Once we’d briefly discussed the logistics of assessing the paintings, because first things first, time would fly while we were making plans for the bevy of—non-naked—recreational activities we’d get up to on the island.
We’d talk movies, music, puzzles, food, connecting on a deeper level, letting each other in.
Then, surely, surely—after he ignored every inch of purposely exposed skin that my backless, thin-strapped emerald-green floral-print dress is serving his hungry eyes—we’d fall back into the same comfortably flirty, heartachingly vulnerable conversation à la the immaculate vibes at Cibo Nero.
At the very least, he’d tell me I’m a distractingly beautiful woman and that he hasn’t stopped thinking about me. I’d blush accordingly and coyly return the compliment, thus accelerating the sexless love timeline.
Yeah, no.
The vibes are off.
Not only isn’t Warner ecstatic, shouting from the rooftops that I’m here, he actually seems like he wishes he wasn’t here.
At least not with me.
Mya is gorgeous and giddy. And tall. As in moonlights as a WNBA player tall, with a wingspan that might rival Warner’s, so she’s basically a bombshell supermodel, just caught somewhere between pure admiration and nerves that’s she’s with the Warner Easton.
She’s so curious about Echelon Technologies’ new engine and Sherry’s paintings, and where he’ll exhibit them.
And well, that… this is completely uncharted territory.
Now, I’m sitting across from flirty Warner, comfortably slouched in his seat, knees hanging wide open, looking like a damn chocolate-dipped orgasm in loose jeans, leather sneakers, and a pristine black tee.
I’m waiting for this damn plane to take off so Mya can sit her happy self down, and I’m trying—and utterly failing—not to stare at his dick.
Good God, it’s huge.
I tear my gaze away, back to the window, where I’ve trained my attention because this whole scenario is rubbing me all wrong.
One thing about Whitney Graves? Up until my body decided to revolt against me and I let my divas talk me into forcing a connection that, clearly, isn’t there… I haven’t allowed men to treat me any old kind of way.
It’s just not how I’m built.
Usually, I meet a decently attractive man who can hold intelligent conversation, share a meal or a drink with him, and let the night take us wherever it might.
Usually, that’s a few hours in my bed, ending with him carrying his clothing out in a ball in the middle of the night. Occasionally, we sleep until sunrise.
But more often than not, it ends there because… men.
Again, sexually confused, dangerous, in a relationship, in need of therapy, or married.
Or, in Warner’s case, unfairly fine billionaire widower whose immature conflict resolution skills lean heavily on the silent treatment and dropping tired pickup lines on flight attendants while they’re at work.
At least sex is off the table.
In my periphery, he shifts in his seat, adjusting himself, his knees opening impossibly wider for Mya.
See, this is why I don’t do second dates. I’m not the jealous type and I damn sure don’t have time to play games. Especially not when I don’t have… time.
But why does his ignoring me make him even hotter?
A huff of a laugh seeps out of me.
Hell, if emotional tantrums are his game, I guess it’s a real possibility I might die alone without ever experiencing love.
Quietly, stubbornly, I fasten my seatbelt, focus centered on my window as I cross my legs, letting the satin slide over my thigh and pool at my ankle.
Two can play this game, sir.
Ebony said all I had to do was try.
Well, I tried.
I called his office and graciously thanked him for the dinner invitation.
I tried at Cibo Nero, opening up, sharing stories, gauging his interest. Flirting tirelessly.
I’m here on this plane bound for freaking paradise with two useless sets of strappy, lacy lingerie in my suitcase when I should’ve just brought my vibrator.
“Mya?” Warner gently catches her arm, looking up at her with this warm, tender smile. “Come find me when you’ve got a minute. I’d love to continue chatting.”
Ugh, why did I kiss his fake fuckboy cheek?
Business it is, then, because I’m all tried out.
Reality spills into my irritation, diluting it until there’s only muddied frustration tracking the outside all through head. Fire flares in my lungs as I try—and fail—to calm my nerves.
Why? Why did I agree to this damn wager? Ten days of this—
“So, you made it…” Warner says to me, finally, all traces of the warm attentiveness sapped from his tone. Just dry, cold. No smile. No I’m glad you made it or Thanks for coming on such short notice.
Just stating the facts.
“Well, it was touch and go there for a sec, but yes. As promised, I’m here, reporting for business.” I toss him a sidelong glance, quirking a cautious smile. “Seems we’ve had a busy morning all around.”
He catches my stare, holding it with an assessing gaze that shouldn’t, but absolutely does, unnerve me to my core.
And it’s so infuriating. I speak nonverbal eye contact.
And if he can undo me without words, with a simple look, imagine how good we could be together.
Physically, yes. But also emotionally, mentally, socially, all the -lys.
Damn shame.
My disappointment must show on my face, because Warner tilts his head slightly, his brow dipping low.
“I’m sure it took no small amount of rearranging at the gallery for you to be here,” he mutters, tightly.
“Yes, my assistant, Clive, is covering the gallery.” I glance back to the window.
“Technically, I’m always on the clock, though, fielding calls from my artists and collectors, selecting art…
” I fan a dismissive hand toward him. “Organizing exhibitions. Of course, there’s the administrative tasks to ensure smooth daily running, which I’m sure you’re well aware of in your business. ”
He nods softly, attentively.
And I kind of hate how much I want to pick up where we left off, talking about everything and nothing over mouthwatering stewed okra and gnocchi. Ooh, that okra was so good.
For a moment, I say nothing.
I read his energy in this setting. The pure opulence and luxury of this private plane.
Him, always impeccably dressed, even casually for travel.
His quiet demeanor, the tight set of his jaw.
I catalog the slow rise and fall of his chest. Every exaggerated sigh.
Every tap of his foot. And I still don’t know what’s bugging him.
Maybe he thinks I’m cockblocking him.
But I do know this: I’m questioning who he really is, because this guy… isn’t it.
It’s not that I figured this trip, being with him, would be easy, I think as I toss him a sidelong glance. I just…
Okay, I did think this weekend would be easy.
But mostly, because aside from the vloggers, tabloids, news outlets, and basically the entire world obsessed with the prospect of a new high-profile, secret romance, it sort of was effortless, involuntary, the way neither of us admitted that control freaks seemed to be able to control this magnetic attraction.
So yeah, I thought there might’ve been something actually sparking between us.
Initially—for a split second—in the gallery restroom.
Later—more intense—at Cibo Nero, while breaking bread, obviously, over a lively conversation about art and dazzling palates.
Over plotting our private Bahamian island getaway.
And now he’s flipped a switch.
This Warner isn’t the same charming, easygoing guy who fixed his full, succulent-looking lips to invite me on a dreamy island vacation, masking it as a four-hour workday. No, this guy is giving me straight deadpan and vacant eyes.
He’s Quiet, Elusive Warner.
And the thing is, of course I’ve Googled this man. I’ve deep-dived, dark-webbed, dug for dirt on him, and the keywords are all the same. Reclusive billionaire. Uptight. Private. Luxe Widower. Tech mogul. Money, money, money. Blah, blah, blah.
And instinctively, I knew all of it.
But last Thursday, I got an up-close-and-personal glimpse of this smooth, down-to-earth guy who I sculpted out of thin air a little over a year ago.
The car door had barely closed before I called an emergency videochat with the Divatantes to recap everything that had happened at the restaurant.
I gushed about what an incredible guy he was.
Swore up and down that I’d misjudged him.
And after we kicked up our heels, giggling and carrying on, I spent the rest of the week daydreaming about Clover Cay, overpacking, and, apparently, according to Clive, humming like a damn Disney princess.
I don’t hum.
Now that I’m on this plane, all that chemistry, what? Just evaporated into the clouds? I dreamed it up? Suddenly, he’s this played-out player?
No. Something’s up, and I’m going to get to the bottom of it, expeditiously.
“Mimosa?”