Chapter 20
Chapter Twenty
Warner
Lost Liaisons
“I’m in,” I tell Whitney from my side of the bed, where we’ve been camped out, piecing together her oceanfront oasis puzzle on top of a Monopoly board by candlelight while The Lost City flickers on her iPad.
She glances from the white-speckled seafoam-green piece between my fingers to my eyes.
“Oh, that’s part of the shore, near the palm tree. See where the surf is coming up here?” she explains, pointing to the tri-folded poster lying on the pillow, misunderstanding me.
Well, I did sort of blurt it out without context.
Dammit, you can do this.
“Yup, you’re right.” I fit it into place just where she pointed and grab another piece, pretending my thoughts aren’t skating around how to play this cool without sounding like some desperate simp.
I’m about to try again to say that this, us, has never been about just fucking—that my feelings are involved—when my phone lights up with a calendar reminder.
ONE WEEK: Founders & Benefactors Legacy Ball – February 27, 5 PM to 8 PM
My heartbeat races as I swipe it away.
Except face ID unlocks my phone, and there’s Cord’s text from earlier, staring back at me.
Cord
How’s island life? Tropical storm, tight quarters. I already know you’re hearing wedding bells. Never beating those husband material allegations.
He’s daring me not to be a cliché.
Damn, how did he see this coming?
I set my phone down on the comforter face down, unwilling to look at my unsent, asinine response, downplaying my feelings. Telling Cord I just genuinely enjoy spending time with Whitney because I’ve really gotten to know her.
Unbidden, my mind transports me back to the kitchen. The warm, buttery scent in the air mixed with Whitney’s raspberry shampoo. All over again, I’m there with her, my arms still firm around her back, unable to let go. The weight of how good we fit finally settling in.
I’m falling in love, just like Cord said I would.
I don’t know how or when it happened. Or even if I truly understand it.
But I’ve never felt anything more meaningful with a woman, and I want this.
Even though it’s only a glimpse, I didn’t know I could have this.
Connection without labels and social constructs.
She doesn’t make me feel small, but instead outrageously seen.
And the funniest part is, nothing’s gone according to plan.
We crash-landed. A masked intruder turned up on my island looking for a drive I’m unsure even exists.
And if Whitney’s instincts are right, it’s all tied to the same person who tried to rob my house and her gallery—and would’ve left us for dead if Whitney weren’t obsessed with action-romance movies and true crime podcasts.
That’s as bad as it gets, right?
But if everything’s gone so wrong, why does being together feel like the only thing right in my life? Like I’ve just been waiting for Whitney?
“Are you stuck with that one?” she asks, still thinking I’m over here stressing about where to place a goddamn puzzle piece.
Man up, Warner.
What happened to it’s better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all? When did that become such an archaic way of thinking? And over some season tickets? Because my guy swears I’m rewriting history, swapping Whitney into Sherry’s place because they have a few things in common?
Half the Black women in Ellswood were Zion & Zara debutantes. Countless folks love art. And the Luxe Lady thing doesn’t even apply. Whitney never even expressed interest. It’s the media creating that narrative.
This is stupid.
Contrary to what Cord—and Dr. Bellamy—think, my hesitation isn’t about guilt, or some unfinished emotional business. Whitney’s not sharing space with Sherry’s memory. I simply just don’t want to fuck this up.
Which, it seems, I’m determined to do.
On a frustrated breath, I force myself to look at Whitney again.
“No, I mean this,” I say, only slightly less vague, hating how my words keep getting tied up in my tongue.
“Yeah, are you having fun?” she says without looking at me, and I just know I’m screwing this up.
It’s been like this since our little adventure in the storage building.
After everything with Mya, when we ended up in the kitchen.
After we had sex the second time—and third.
Since the storm passed, I’ve lost the ability to form coherent sentences around her.
But how do I put into words that I’m still trying, comically, not to fall in love with her while she’s actively sharing pieces of herself?
How can I explain how good it felt being with her? How guilty I feel?
I haven’t earned this feeling. Not in a handful of days. Rather, weeks if I’m counting from the country club run-in. We don’t know each other.
But I want us to.
Fuck.
My heart rams against my ribs, running on repeat.
Do I know how to do this again?
Heat flows through me.
It’s okay to be happy, I tell myself, then try again.
“Whitney, I’m talking about right now. I’m in,” I say with more conviction. Then add, “For the adventure.”
This time, I push pause on the movie and steady my gaze on her. Even with the freeze-framed image of Sandra Bullock kneeling in that pink sequin jumpsuit, facing a full-frontal, leech-free Channing Tatum on the screen, my nerves don’t subside. Haven’t stopped for the past two days.
She nods, touching her tongue to her upper lip.
“Oh, say less…” Whitney stretches back, flattening her hands on the bed.
“I’ve still got another puzzle in my bag if we finish this one too quickly before the generator kicks back on.
And lucky for you, I’ve got a charged-up power bank…
Bam! Ten more high-octane romances on deck.
And tomorrow…” She whistles. “Plus, that coast guard guy gave some more recommendations. The action-romance genre is severely lacking in Black women, like we can’t be badass, high-class assassins and have a love interest. Closest he got was Taraji in Proud Mary and Colombiana with Zoe, neither of which ends happily ever after.
Unless I go old school. Jada in A Low Down Dirty Shame is close.
But there’s easily a huge gap I’d love to see filled—”
“Did you hear me?” I choke out. Frustration cuts my tone. Use your words. “I said, I’m in. This, you and me, Whitney.”
It’s the best I can do.
“Oh.”
She straightens, finally getting a clue that I couldn’t care less about puzzles or action romcoms right now.
I inhale sharply, breaking eye contact. “My apologies for the blunt delivery, but I just don’t have it in me to hold back, you know?
” Closing my eyes, I clear my throat. “And yes, high-stress situations and all that, but it’s been there since before when we boarded that plane.
That day at the Artery, I knew it. And seeing us plastered on the front page, the way I’d looked at you… ”
“Yeah, every blog and news outlet ran something on the Restroom Rendezvous.” She winces. “I’ve never felt more vindicated in my decision not to be on social media…”
“Oh, trust me, I wish I didn’t have news alerts on my name.” I nod. “It was a media circus.”
“So… you’re in,” Whitney says, testing the idea on her tongue. Then she shoots me a nervous smile, twisting a puzzle piece between her fingers. “What does that mean? You sort of…like me?”
I let out a deep sigh.
Something like joy prickles along the back of my neck because she’s getting it. Even if, on my end, it’s way more than like.
“Whitney, I’m saying this is more than a physical connection for me. Cord, my know-it-all best friend, even teases me, calls me a relationship guy because I’ve never been into casual hookups or friends with benefits.”
“Well, are you?” She shivers in mock horror. “A relationship guy?”
A laugh sputters out of me. “I’m not not a relationship guy.
” I squint one eye. “Yeah, apparently I’m a one-woman man and I’ve got no poker face.
And now… I’m realizing he might be right.
” Because I’m definitely looking at Whitney like she’s the next Mrs. Easton.
“And, you know, I’m okay with it. I’ve reached the acceptance phase. It’s about me, consciously moving on.”
With you.
I let out a strangled laugh. “But truly, I don’t want you to feel at all like you’ve got to be on the same page. Not this fast, right?”
“I feel it too.” She winces.
Something behind my ribs shifts, loosens. Suddenly, I’m convinced bragging rights are overrated, and maybe it’s not such a bad look—falling for the first woman I meet.
“You do?”
I lean in, moving on autopilot, cradling her face in my hands and pressing my lips to hers as the last forty-eight incredible hours play on a loop in my head.
It takes me a second to catch my breath.
When I pull away, my head is spinning in the best way possible.
“We’ve got tonight to relax. All day tomorrow we’ll focus on Sherry’s collection, figure out everything for the delivery to the gallery, while my mechanic fixes the landing gear.
” I shoot her a wide-eyed look of terror, teasing her.
“Then Monday morning, we’ll pack up and fly—safely—back to Ellswood.
I just wanted you to know. I’m open.” That happens next is whatever she wants us to be.
“Wow, okay.” Whitney’s eyes sparkle, and I’ll admit, I’m sort of hoping that’s a really good sign of how she’s feeling.
“Yeah, I get that.” A hollow laugh croaks out of me as I glance at her iPad. “All that, and you want to hear something hilarious?”
Whitney tilts her head, looking at me with a curious smile and nodding. She knows but she wants to hear me say it.
“The Lost City… isn’t terrible.”
There, I said it.
“Yeah, you converted me.” I shake my head, disappointed in myself. “I’m down to watch all your action romances. And I agree that Jada’s all I’ve come up with.”
“Interesting.” Whitney tosses me a self-satisfied grin. “Just curious, though, is this your billionaire bachelor tactic, patronizing my little movie to make me like you more?”
“Nah, I don’t think so.” I shrug, biting back a smile.
“Oh, you don’t think so?”