Chapter 23
Chapter Twenty-Three
Whitney
Unfluential
“This one’s damaged,” Clive says.
It’s not a yell or even a loud whisper. It’s not even directed to me. But he’s in the framing room off the back exit, and I’m in the open gallery, adjusting the light on Sherry’s self-portrait, making sure the gallery’s flow works, so I hear it like an announcement.
“Whitney Graves…” His voice lifts with caution.
Then he gasps dramatically as a hollow rip echoes off the walls.
And that’s it.
Panic streaks through me, and I frantically climb down the ladder. Mentally, I’m bracing myself as I round the standing partition.
“Take a deep breath, Whit.” Clive inhales softly. “I found it.”
He’s standing at the back of the framing room in his pink polo and khaki shorts, not slacks this morning—summer calves on full display—leaned against the wall, holding “it,” as in the sign I’ve been waiting for.
Lucky number thirteen that Warner sent over with a note.
Deep breaths in, deep breaths out.
“Open me, Whit.” Clive’s voice drops five octaves as he tries to imitate Warner. “Please, open me up and come get me.”
My heart hammers against my ribs.
I’m shaking my head, thinking about the timing, what I’d say to Warner, whether he’d even be happy to see me. “It’s already two p.m.”
“And the doors aren’t scheduled to open until six, so…” Clive tugs, and another loud rip tears the air.
It’s just craft paper. Logically, I know this.
I’ve wrapped countless pieces, tied them with tweed in preparation for delivery.
But instinctually, I hate the sound. Usually because it triggers a visceral urge to claw my ears off.
In this case, I’m not sure I’m ready to see—or hear—what’s behind door number thirteen.
Except Clive and I are so in tune, he knows I won’t be able to resist.
We’re like that.
“I can’t believe it…” I say more to myself than to Clive.
My attention slips, dropping to the tiny sliver of warm turquoise peeking from behind the brown craft paper.
“Is everything done? We’ve still got to make sure the wall labels are placed, I’ve been dusting like crazy, caterers will be here in a couple hours…
” I keep listing to give myself something else to focus on.
“Music, AV equipment, the guestbook, security protocols.”
“Mm hmm.” Clive flutters his eyelashes, utterly unimpressed. Then he gives the ripped craft paper edge a tiny tug. “You’re wasting time.”
He’s just standing there cheesing. And waiting.
“You know there’s a million things I should be doing right now,” I huff.
“And you know this is the only one that matters right now,” he snaps back.
My watch pings, telling me it’s time to stand up, and I can’t even look at Clive. There’s zero chance he’ll pass up the opportunity to tack something social media-spirational on the end of that directive.
“Cat got your finger? Like, do I need to help you lift it?” He cackles. “Time is of the essence, ma’am.”
“Relax, I’m halfway there.”
I chew the inside of my cheek, taking the hanging edge between my thumb and forefinger. I pull back, getting my first glimpse of the gorgeous seafoam-blue sky I could pick out of a lineup, and tears start to well in the corners of my eyes.
“Come on now, sis.”
I pull a little more. But he yanks it back, causing the entire sheet to slice down the middle and fall away.
A soft, fluttery laugh tumbles out of me.
Hand to heart, I inch back a few feet, still completely awed. It’s not a painting. It’s an enlarged canvas copy of the photo Warner and I took on his yacht while we were on Clover Cay. In our birthday suits. Nothing but our sun-kissed, full-frontal birthday suits.
Oh, shit.
“Sorry, I’ll just—” I take it from Clive, laughing and hugging it to my chest because… Lord, that man. “Yeah, I’ll just, uh, put this somewhere safe—”
“Wait, there’s something on the back.”
I peer over the top, looking down, and there’s the imprint, the same as the drive embedded behind Sherry’s painting dust cover, with a tiny string hanging from a small slice. Laying the canvas face down, I tug on the string and the drive slips free, wrapped in two layers. Paper, then plastic.
My heart thumps wildly in my chest.
Then I unravel it and read the words I’ve spent the last two months equally dreading and hoping will provide a way for Warner and me to get our do-over.
Whitney,
There’s one new piece I’d personally like you to review. Just one. Let’s just say it’s close to my heart. I hope this memory brings you as much joy as it gives me.
I’ve titled this masterpiece Wish You Were Here. It’s how I’ve felt every second since I left your doorstep.
I love you, Whitney.
Nothing will ever change that.
I know you must be thinking of all the reasons you have to hate me for not showing up.
But please know that when I didn’t show up, I was clearing a path for us—if you’ll have me back.
The drive you found held everything I needed to move forward with purpose and set my demons free.
So far, it’s been the ultimate ritual of remembrance.
Now, I’m not foolish enough to believe that’s reason enough to ask you to wait for me. So I added a sweetener of sorts.
Please look at it in private.
What you’ll find first: the island. Clover Cay. Ours, whether you claim it or not. For me, it’s proof that everything could go wrong. Emergency landings, armed intruders, even a tropical storm. And through it all, we were always what was right.
Second, you’ll find: proof that I’ve been doing more than reminiscing.
Proof of us. Photos. The complete action-romance movie list I’ve been compiling in stolen moments, including the ones you told me I had to watch (which I did, twice each).
I’ve been talking a lot with my tele-therapist, who wants me to embrace the healing rituals.
And… drumroll… my registration for Edge of Adventure (knife throwing!).
I need you to know that this was never about a wager.
Loving you has never been about strategy, leverage, or distraction.
It’s the most honest thing I’ve ever done with my life.
Finally, you’ll find: a selfie of me from last year with my sleeves rolled up, very much not running or hiding from the hard work with the nonprofit that builds and improves affordable housing, Homes Forever. Check the biceps! Enjoy.
One more time, until I see you.
I love you, Whitney.
Still in,
Warner
I look up at Clive, who’s been reading over my shoulder. He’s in tears, too.
“First of all, y’all are some freaks.”
We both laugh, long and hard.
“Cute, but freaky. And I love it and all, but, um…” He checks his watch.
“Both of those wagers were pathetic. What you need to do is talk, like adults. Because truth doesn’t come with conditions, expectations, or demands.
So all that keeping your distance, the I’ll respect your silence if that’s what you want, the this is me letting you know and letting you go? That stuff is for the birds.”
I plant my hands on my hips, then drop them at my sides before I fold them across my chest because I don’t know what to do with myself.
“What do you want me to do, huh?”
He dips his chin. “Sis, go get your Tarzan. But get dressed first, because this thing is starting in three and a half hours, with or without you.”
Forty-five minutes later, the gallery is alive—the velvet ropes perfectly placed, champagne breathing in silver buckets, caterers moving like they’re part of the installation.
Everyone is coming. The divas. Clive, obviously.
Dr. Brown and her colleagues. Ellswood’s finest in full force, joining us tonight to celebrate the incredible opening of “Unfluencer,” featuring the bold, brave work of Sherry Easton.
Resisting and undermining influence to the fullest extent of her law. And I’m dressed, fashionably fast.
Vintage makeup. My hair is laid and slayed in sleek, loose waves, and I’m in a structured black peplum-sleeve blouse and a metallic-fringed skirt with T-strap sandals.
Time is ticking.
“Okay, so I’m thinking an hour, tops,” I tell Clive as I push the backing onto my other gold earring. “Make sure the event staff are assigned to their roles. We need someone greeting, welcoming guests—”
“Lord, woman. Time’s ticking. If you don’t get out of here…” Clive shakes his head like he’s had it up to here with me, so I scan the gallery once more, grab Warner’s flash drive and letter, then move on autopilot toward the door.
“And you’re sure I look all right?” I ask, turning back.
We both know I’m stalling. He crosses his arms, impatiently. “I know you’d better—”
“Fine, I’m going—”
I collide with a familiar wall. Twisting slowly, I must blink a good dozen times before I open my mouth, then immediately shut it again.
“Whitney.” Warner’s lips twitch adorably. “Well, where are you going?”
I take a deep breath, my shoulders relaxing into the levity of the situation.
“I was, uh, just… trying to find someone.” I wave the drive between us. “I’ve got a serious bone to pick with him.”
“Oh yeah?” The corner of his mouth hikes up.
In the back of my mind, this was about to be too cute.
I’d say something coy, movie-sound-bite-worthy, describe our entire seesaw relationship in the third person.
Every high point on our journey, the romantic reckoning at Founders & Benefactors, which all feels sort of irrelevant now.
Zeek’s jail bound, my cervix is thawed out, and now we’re here, putting Sherry’s bravery in the spotlight.
In less than three hours. Why waste time playing cutesy games when we can just skip straight to the good part?
I tug down his chin, all business, staring him dead in those searing, sexy brown eyes.
“Ellswood Times, flash drive, Wish You Were Here…” Eyebrow raised, I lean in. “The letter. Did you mean any of it?”
My heart’s beating like crazy.
He tucks his hands into his pockets, straightening. “I meant every word.”
Yes.
Grabbing his wrist, I climb the stairs two at a time until we reach the landing. Then I drag him into my office and back him into the door. “What took you so long? You’re late.”
A slow smile builds on his handsome face, and he licks his full lips.
My pulse quickens.
And I’m so close. Close enough to lean forward, kiss him, and inhale his spicy scent: cardamom with sensual, woodsy notes.
Close enough to drag my fingertips over his light chin scruff, and his thick neck, remembering the gruff, sexy groan he made as he dragged his tongue down the seam of my inner thigh.
“And I love you.” He drags his gaze over me, swallowing hard. “They say, uh, high-stress situations can intensify attraction…”
For a beat, we stand here, our eyes locked.
“Is that right?” My voice rasps against the air. “Adrenaline makes the heart grow fonder and all that, huh?”
He leans in until our lips graze. “Danger makes my heart race. Just for you. For whatever wild adventure you want to go on. As long as it’s together. Double-Dub Defense for life?”
Downstairs, the gallery hums with chatter and laughter, music crackling into the thick, warm air.
“Damn right,” I say, deepening my stare and softening in the way I do only with him. “I love you. I’m so deeply, ridiculously in love with you, Warner Easton. And I’ve missed you…”
He deflates against the door with a smile plastered on his face, hand clutched to his heart. “One more time. Please.”
I can’t stop smiling.
“Oh, you want to hear it again, huh?” I poke my finger into his chest, and he grabs it, tugging me into him, holding me tight.
“I love you, and I’m ready for anything that comes our way.
” I pepper kisses on his eyes, nose, and cheeks, lingering on his soft lips.
“Oh, and after these past few months, I absolutely need a getaway.”
Warner lifts me into the air, covering my lips with his, and I’ve never felt more grounded. More loved. More of a ro-mess. And I wouldn’t have it any other way.