Chapter 15 #2
Mya sashays over, smiling with a tray of pre-takeoff mimosas, informing us we’ll be pushing back in about twenty minutes.
I take a glass, and as soon as she walks back toward the galley, I decide now’s as good a time as any to get the conversation flowing again. Keep digging until I unearth the truth.
“Right before I boarded the plane”—I catch his gaze, encouraged by his posture shift—“I got a phone call from the head of my foundation.”
No one-sided conversations, Whit.
It’s killing me, but I wait for him to ask me to say more. To ask me to keep going, share my interests.
And then, just like that, he does.
“What sort of foundation?” he asks, and it feels like a victory.
It’s working!
For more than ten minutes straight, I tell him about the ArteryBeat Arts Project.
About how fulfilling it is to empower young Black artists who wouldn’t otherwise have access to the resources or network necessary to debut in the industry.
He asks thoughtful questions about artist mediums, submissions, and how I work with high schools and colleges to showcase their art though jury exhibitions.
I tell him how much I enjoy uplifting and promoting, educating them about business acumen, and engaging with the public because I hate even the idea of wasted talent.
Warner nods, slowly.
The whole time, I’m gauging his interest.
Suddenly, his easy posture and quiet, unimposing charm’s exposed, making me feel lighter, too. Like maybe I can still salvage this. Understand his reservations.
Soon, the engines purr to life, and I toss back the last dregs of my mimosa. And as Mya takes our glasses and the captain says we’ll be taxiing for a few more minutes, I quickly switch gears, skipping the string of rapid-fire questions I planned to ask Warner.
What’s Clover Cay like? I’ll see when we get there.
How often does he visit? Unimportant. He’s never been there with me.
Does he want to share about Echelon Technologies, the RealSpace Engine, and the Mod3D app? Whatever sparked his curiosity for real estate surveying and 3D modeling? He’ll volunteer that information should he see fit.
Right now, I’m not interested in knowing if he loves his fast-paced, high-pressure job or what drives him. Or even if he’s as excited about his company’s nomination for an Ascension Award as I am about mine.
I’m not about to compete for his attention. I don’t for lust, and I won’t start for a meaningful love connection.
Instead, the ball’s in his court.
And it stays there for more than two minutes.
“So, the ArteryBeat…” he says, eventually, like he’s testing the name on his tongue. He smiles sweetly, and all over again, I’m completely enamored with this man, about to chuck the wager and flaunt our mile-high sexcapade in Mya’s cutesy face. Until he asks, “Are you asking for a donation?”
I gasp.
All the air in my lungs ignites, catching fire.
I’m so furious I can’t breathe because that’s what he thinks this conversation’s been about? Pitching him for donations?
Cocking my head back, I press my lips in a tight smile. I’m speechless and, frankly, more than a little pissed off.
My heart drums in my ears as I clamp my eyes shut.
“Are you serious?” I ask.
“I heard you on the phone before you boarded,” he says dryly. Then the inflection in his voice lifts, comically high. “‘Think bigger,’ “more buzz,’ ‘more donations and international attention.’ That’s what you’re after, right?”
A hollow laugh claws out of me.
“Oh my God, you can kiss my ass.”
He grins. “Gladly.”
Do not think about how sexy that is. Do not fall for it.
I narrow my eyes at him.
“Not that I owe you an explanation, but since you discerned so much from a one-sided call, yes,” I scoff, losing all pretense.
“The ArteryBeat needs all of that. To be clear, the program, not me. I don’t give a flying fuck about your wallet or your donation, like some folks…
” I glare accusingly at Mya. “I’ve got bigger worries than what you do with your money, Warner Easton. ”
“Oh, you don’t care about my donation?” He snickers.
“No. Ew, you’re so smug.” I feel my upper lip curl just looking at him.
“Sir, I own and operate a top-tier gallery. I care about art and artists. So you can keep your little monogrammed checkbook tucked into your fancy satchel with your shiny monogrammed money clip…” I drag in a deep breath, collecting myself.
“But you know what? I guess that’s what you would think. ”
Warner chews the inside of his cheek.
And just when I think I’ve gotten through to his thick-headed skull, he doubles down.
“Why is that?” He cocks his head, searching my eyes. “Because I’m ‘coldhearted’? ‘Soulless’? Oh, wait, let me not forget ‘cash machine.’ How could anyone ever forget that gem?”
You just brought up donations.
Annoyance flares in my gut.
“Ugh, you’re so infuriating!” It burns me up because he’s so damn fixated on stupid headlines. “But let me set the record straight, in case your hearing is as stellar as your reading comprehension. I didn’t come up with those labels.”
Warner laughs a deep, rich laugh, nodding to himself.
“Oh, right.” He pokes his tongue into his cheek. “You’re just ‘inclined to agree.’”
My attention snaps to him as my comments rush to the surface of my mind.
Shit.
“Oh, you thought I missed that riveting vlog post?” He gives a slight shake of his head.
“Let’s see. What was it? I’m like most wealthy folks.
Unwilling to show up, to roll up my sleeves and do the hard work to be present.
Always jumping at every financial opportunity.
” His expression smooths with unmistakable disdain.
“You’ve got to admit, that’s good stuff there. ”
My breaths quicken, heart thumping wildly against my ribs.
He read my comments to that messy vlogger.
Of course he’s acting different toward me, trying to make me jealous with a flight attendant he just met. If the tables were turned, I’d have more than a few choice words for him.
The silence between us thickens.
He’s got me.
“Yes, I said it,” I say, my tone measured, low. “That was before I actually met you, though. And—”
“And?” His searing gaze flicks to mine.
“I may have been a little upset, thinking you weren’t coming to the opening after I’d sent a personal invitation. I’m sorry,” I say. “But to be fair, you didn’t show up until the last half-hour.”
Warner tosses me a pointed stare.
Slowly, he nods. “Fine. I accept your apology.”
I quirk a small smile. “Fine,” I say.
Except I’m not fine.
I’ll admit, I kind of love that he actually considered everything I just said.
He didn’t immediately dismiss my reason as an excuse.
He didn’t dissect my life choices. And while it’s beyond annoying that he now knows I watched the door, that I cared whether he came, unknowingly, his quiet acknowledgment seals some timeworn cracks inside me.
Easily, this could’ve gone another way.
He could’ve leaned into making me the calculating, dollar-chasing user.
I am trying to put my gallery on the map.
I am collecting donations for my art foundation.
That’s just the facts. And still, I quickly fell back into my life-learned biases toward the wealthy.
Easily. The Maybach, buying out an entire restaurant for a meeting, even if his best friend’s the owner and chef.
I saw the diamond-encrusted cuff links, the monogrammed money clip.
This private plane. All flashy signs of financial manipulation and wealth signaling.
But as the plane begins taxiing again and the PA system crackles through the cabin, we’re locked in a stalemate.
“This is Captain Gibson; our flight time today will be two hours and twenty-five minutes,” he starts before estimating our arrival time, instructing us to fasten seatbelts and secure all baggage—the usual logistical rundown that I wish he’d wrap up so I could finish overanalyzing why everything with Warner unnerves me so.
But then the captain adds, “Seems we’ve got some rain on the horizon, so things may get a little choppy.
But it’s a short flight, and, uh… I’ll have you down in no time. ”
I feel my heart stop, hear the mortality missile loading.
Is it hurricane season?
“Rain?”
“It’s nothing to worry about,” Warner says, dismissively.
But he must notice I’m freaking out, because then, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, he hooks his ankle behind mine, prompting me to look at him.
“February in Bahamas is sunny. Usually mid-sixties to seventies. Low humidity. It’s just a light winter rain.
” He shrugs. “The last tropical storm during this month was… the early 1950s. It never even made it to hurricane strength. It’s a dry month. It’s been an, uh, dry year…”
I swallow hard, strangely calm—definitely not analyzing the way he softly groaned those last two words.
“Okay.” I fight back a grin.
“Flight attendant, please prepare for takeoff.”
I suck in a lungful of air, releasing it slowly through my nose. “So, nothing to worry about, then?”
Warner shakes his head. Then a genuine smile curves his full lips, and his whole demeanor softens as he says, “I’m sorry that I thought you were pitching me. And no, nothing to worry about.”
Wait? He’s sorry, too?
My heart stills.
“Thank you.”
No, nothing to worry about at all. Just falling because… is this how it happens? Is hearing a grown man acknowledge fault and apologize what I’ve been missing with lust? Is this what a sexless orgasm feels like?
Yeah, things may get a little choppy indeed.