Chapter 17 #2
“Yeah, I grabbed a few pairs of my sweatpants and shirts for you to feel more comfortable. They’ll be a bit big on you, but they’re drawstring, and I’d love to see you in…” He pauses like the words snagged, and his expression teeters faintly. “Nothing.”
My pulse quickens. “What?”
“Uh, nothing but my clothes,” he backpedals, but that guilty smile? Not for a second do I believe it was a slip of the tongue. My body surely doesn’t.
I’ll be damned. Warner’s down to get busy?
Shit. Warner’s down to get busy.
“That was really, um, thoughtful of you,” I say, quietly taking the clothes from him. It takes every inkling of willpower I’ve got to back away, to not inhale his clean, fresh scent. “Thank you. Give me two minutes?”
Five minutes and ten deep breaths later, I’m warm, cozy, drowning in his black sweats, and trying my damnedest not to be a whole-ass territorial ro-mess over wearing a boy’s sweatshirt like a preteen.
“Looks good on you.”
He smiles, letting his possessive gaze trail down my body.
So, yeah, I’m basically a throbbing-hot mess the entire time we take the scenic route to the kitchen, touring the two-story main residence with its blend of exquisite, old-money wood-and-wicker accents, crisp, modern turquoise palette, and stunning panoramic views.
It’s pristine beauty and state-of-the-art technology, sprawling over two acres of private pools, a six-thousand-bottle wine cellar, ten-seat movie theater, laundry, security room, and eight bedrooms and bathrooms. Correction: eight and a half bathrooms.
And that’s just the interior.
We peek out at a private pier, a full-size tennis court, sand volleyball court, barbecue pavilions, and a coconut palm tree grove lined with a wall of sea grape trees.
Clover Cay is undoubtedly one of the most impressive properties in the Bahamas, if not the entire Caribbean.
I’m officially dazzled.
By the time I settle at the kitchen island, watching Warner, in a cute denim apron, dip in and out of the pantry and fridge, awkwardly introducing himself to pots and pans, clearly more accustomed to being served by a private chef, I already know I’m so far beyond lust at this point.
If he says boo, I’ll be horizontal on this floor.
“Sure you don’t need a hand in there?” I scrape my teeth over my bottom lip, downright ogling him.
“Uh, I think I’ve got things handled.” He laughs.
The kitchen smells like butter and coffee, the burnt kind.
The kind that would normally have me up off this stool, rushing in to take over and make this a soft morning.
Instead, I lean against the counter, watching him at the stove, wooden spoon in hand, flipping aggressively sizzling, watery pancakes that’ll likely be as burnt as the coffee.
“Okay,” I say, pouring myself a cup and adding a generous serving of creamer before I lift the mug to my lips. “I’m just following your lead, but I seem to recall that part of your promise was some great conversation for us to get to know one another…”
Warner glances over his shoulder with a lopsided grin, like he knows I’ve been sitting here enjoying the view of his thick thighs and cute butt. “I did say that.”
“You did.” I smile. “How about twenty questions. Ten each. No fluff.”
He chuckles, flipping a charred flour cake, sending buttery smoke billowing into the air. “Straight to the deep, dark secrets, huh?”
“Literally.” I laugh as I search the cabinets and drawers for plates and silverware. “I’ll go first.”
“Is this a trap?”
“Maybe.”
He swipes the back of his hand across his forehead, leaving a white, dusty trail. “Okay. Ask me anything you want.”
Anything?
“Okay, one. I’ve been racking my brain trying to figure this out. You’re supposedly the quiet recluse, always dodging reporters and avoiding public spaces. Yet you agreed to come to the exhibit opening, right?” I take another sip from my mug, wincing at the bitterness.
“Sugar?”
“Yes, sweetheart?”
Warner chuckles, handing me a small porcelain container. “Go on.”
“So, who’s the big, bad guy who had you running for the hills to escape him? Rather, hiding in the restroom at the gallery?” I ask.
“Zeek Harrison.” He doesn’t hesitate, simply blurts out the name. “I saw you talking in the corner. Question two. Are you joining the Luxe Ladies cast?”
“Wait, wait, wait. Don’t even try it. You can’t just glaze over your answer.” A full-body laugh rocks me. “So, you said y’all had history. Not the kind worth repeating, if I’m remembering correctly.”
He nods. “Yes. Is that question three?”
“Oh, I see what you’re doing.” I can’t stop smiling as I set out the plates with napkins and silverware. “So Zeek was right outside the restroom, and you rushed in with a perfect stranger to avoid him because he sent over an off-market offer for the full collection.”
“Yes, that’s your—”
“No, no, that wasn’t a question, it was a recap.
” I flit a glance to the stack of blackened pancakes, stifling a laugh.
“And to answer your question, Zeek has asked—more than once, including that night at the gallery, during which he actually tried to get me to sign an NDA about being invited to join the cast—but rest assured, I have no plans to ever join Luxe Ladies. Not my scene.”
“Because…” he presses, eyeing me.
“Please save all questions until your turn.” I mark an imaginary tally in the air.
He barks out a laugh.
We’re like this for the next two turns, toeing dangerously close to double-edged fluff with him piggybacking off my questions.
I ask his favorite lazy-day pastime, and Warner answers kayaking for the quiet time to think, then, completely unoriginal, turns the same questions on me.
Puzzles and my Edge of Adventure survival classes for the same “nurturing my peace of mind” reasoning.
But he doesn’t even bother downplaying making fun of puzzles as an old-time hobby, nor unnecessary doomsday classes that I’ll never use.
“Don’t knock it until you try it,” I say, but I’ll admit, my competitive side immediately gets activated.
And then it’s a rapid-fire volley.
“Five. Favorite restaurant?” I lob the ball back into his court.
“Cibo Nero. Six. Favorite music?” He wastes no time, turning off the burners.
“Probably a good idea, considering how those turned out…” I tip my chin to the charred pancakes, loving this playful competition, and really, the fact that he can hang. “Good choice on Cibo Nero. Same. And smooth R&B. Seven. Are you on social media?”
“I’m better with pasta, which is why I’ve got a chef for the hard stuff, but since he’s gone…” Warner grins and tips his head to the side. “But no, not too big on social media. I’m only on Resumé for professional networking. Eight. Same question.”
“Checks out,” I say cheekily. “Only for the Artery. I don’t need all of Ellswood in my personal business. And before you try to turn my question on me, my favorite movie is The Lost City. It’s about this romance writer kidnapped by this evil billionaire—”
“Oh, please tell me you’re not serious.”
I shoot him an unflinching deadpan look.
“Sir, I don’t play about my movie,” I say.
“Sandra Bullock is my girl, and the way she handled herself with that non-reading, greedy narcissist who read one of her books and assumed she must know where some ancient town is located… Demanding she unearth all these worldly treasures.”
Warner is bent over with laughter.
“I’m not seeing the humor.” I’m fighting for my life not to laugh. “All these opinions. Have you even watched it?”
“I haven’t,” he admits, fully amused. “But Nacheline told me about it, and… it just sounds like a watered-down Indiana Jones with a weak plot and weird romantic choices. They’re barely escaping with their lives, danger all through the jungle, and suddenly, they can’t keep their hands off each other? Come on, now.” He snickers.
I actually gasp. “First off, I’m deeply insulted.
And second, where is your sense of adventure?
Love in high-stress situations?” I shoot him a learn something look.
“Everyone knows evading death together leads to falling faster. But fine… It’s not my fault you can’t appreciate brilliant comedic timing and adventurous romance. ” I sigh dramatically. “Nine. Yours?”
“Easy. Hands down, Indiana Jones.”
“Shocker.” I roll my eyes, then laugh at how unserious this conversation is.
Warner shrugs, adorably pleased with himself, then pauses, realizing it’s his turn again. “Let’s see…”
We’re both clearly skirting the heavy hitters, scraping the bottom of the favorites barrel. I still have a few in reserve—food, sounds, scents, city versus beach—but I’m low-key concerned we’ll never break past the surface as he slides his charred pancakes in front of me with a grimace.
“Ten. Favorite cereal?” he asks, sheepish.
It’s an unfair question, considering he’s fresh out of Cap’n Crunch and left with only extra-dry muesli and plain oatmeal.
I make myself a bowl of dry muesli anyway, deciding to keep going to twenty, as the conversation zigzags. From tabloid labels Warner’s collected over the years (Luxe Husband, widower, tech mogul, billionaire, homeless), to the attempted break-in at his house, and finally to my raspberry shampoo.
That’s when I decide I need to gently change the trajectory.
“I see your shampoo,” I say, “and I raise you lucky number thirteen. Why an app for real estate surveying?”
Warner studies me for a second, looking almost relieved we’re going deeper.
“It’s my purpose,” he says. “When I was eight, we lost our home to a fire. Electrical stress, poorly sealed joints in fire-rated walls, material degradation, mostly. We lived in our car for months. I never could forget that house.” He shrugs, a faraway look in his eyes.
“I saved every picture. Learned everything I could about why it happened. When I started thinking about careers, all I wanted was to make sure it didn’t happen again—to anyone.
That’s been my mission behind the Mod3D app. Safe structures to live and work in.”