“Warner Landers.”
The lobby fills with applause, trapping us in the dead center of the room, holding hands, like a couple that we’re not. I look at him, worried about what will happen next. Exposure? Busted? Getting arrested for impersonating his wife? Frozen in panic, my heart still manages to beat louder than the rousing applause.
The announcer comes over the speaker and says, “We are so grateful for museum gold status saints like you. Without your donation, we wouldn’t be able to offer such a robust catalog of exhibits. Another round of applause for Warner Landers.”
Gold status?My eyes find the ribbon pinned to the front of his jacket, the same one that’s pinned to mine. “What does gold status mean?”
A man comes up to him to shake his hand. He turns to me and replies, “Doesn’t matter, Sass.”
“I’m just curious.” An older woman wearing a museum lanyard around her neck slips in after the man to shake his hand. She’s thanking him while I consider pulling out my phone to research. “I’m sure I can find it online.” Why is it such a mystery? I know he’s rich, but how much could it possibly be? A hundred K or even two? I can’t even imagine that kind of money, but that’s his world.
He shoots me a look as he shakes one more man’s hand and laughs, like we’re sharing a secret. Guess we are. We both want to get out of here. Before anyone else cuts in, Warner takes me by the hand and says, “We’re leaving.”
His hand lands on the small of my back as he guides me through the crowd toward the exit. The heels are works of art themselves, the crystals covering them making themshine under the bright lights of The Met’s facade, but for running, not my first choice.
I stop halfway down, needing a quick break from the ache in my feet. He goes four more steps before turning back. He returns, staying a step lower than me. Though to be eye level, he’d need to go down one more, or even two. “My feet hurt.”
“I’d carry you if I could.” He lifts his broken arm.
“It’s okay. I just need a break.” He holds out his hand so I can use him to balance. I rest my hand on his and lift each leg like a flamingo, giving it the rest it needs before switching feet. “Why won’t you tell me how much you donated? As your wife, don’t I have a right to that information?”
A smile splits his cheeks, and he chuckles. “You’re relentless.” I nod just enough to agree. “Why do you want to know?”
“I want to know how the other half lives.” As soon as I say it, I know I’ve given away a part of my act. It’s tempting to hide or try to distract from the mistake, but even three glasses of champagne cause enough trouble for me not to rush to cover it up. That will only make me look guilty, which I am, but he doesn’t need to know that.
Warner doesn’t blink, not showing any doubt of who I am or that I exposed myself. “Five million dollars.” He just says it like it’s a buck fifty. To him, it might be. To me, that would be my family’s portion of the building. And he just gave it away like it was nothing.
I drop my leg back down so both my feet are planted on the concrete. Pulling my hand from his, my chest tightens as my stomach turns. “I wanted to know, but I wish I hadn’t asked.” I start down the steps, looking at what feels like amillion ahead of me. No fast escape is happening in these shoes.
He walks beside me, his elbow out if I want the help. What I want isn’t his damn arm for support. I want my family to have what they love most—their home and restaurant. And they only want those because we are a part of it. The family is what makes both places special and worth fighting for. But it’s only me, standing in front of Mt. Everest without a jacket or oxygen, no survival skills, and nothing to help me climb that mountain. I don’t stand a chance.
“I didn’t want to tell you, but yeah, you can look it up. It’s not a secret, but I . . .”
I stop and look at him. “You what, Warner?”
“I didn’t want it to come between us.” The earnestness of his expression would melt my cold heart if we were at the apartment. It would even add an air of romance if we were still standing together in front of the war painting. But we’re not. We’re in the middle of Manhattan to celebrate him for handing out millions of dollars like candy.
The wind picks up, and a few strands of my hair escape the spray it had diligently held most of the night. I push it back with my hand so I can see his eyes without interruption. “Listen . . .” I take a breath to calm the choppy waters of my heart. Any other time, I wouldn’t think twice about a rich guy donating money to help good causes, and art is a good cause. But this isn’t any other time. This is a time when my family is on the brink of ruin. The thing is, I have no right to be mad at him, to tell him how to spend his money, even if it is money earned at the expense of working-class families. My family suffering doesn’t mean he owes us anything. I just hoped I could convince him to choose us, to choose good, like he did tonight.To choose me.
There is no choice in front of him. In his concussedhead, he already chose me. And he’s not running away. He’s spoiling me with dresses that I could never afford and shoes that I’m sure cost more than my paycheck. Warner held my hand like I belonged at that event, like I belong with him.
Now I feel bad when he’s put in so much effort to make me feel good.
“I’m listening,” he says when my head gets in the way of what was a beautiful night. He takes my hand, holding it like he’s not giving up on me. Why? Why wouldn’t he? I’m a nobody in his world. A pest. A fake. An adversary. “Are you okay?”HisSass.
With the resentment that hurried my getaway dissipating under the truth of what’s happening, my heart pounds for a different reason. I like him. I care about him. I . . . I look away from the warmth of his eyes that make me feel safe, even protected in a city that can be so cold and gray. Inhaling a breath, I hold it only a moment before releasing it along with my feelings.I’m falling for Warner Landers.I’ve fallen for the enemy. Oh God, what am I doing? More importantly, what have I done?
I just hope it’s not too late to turn this back around. I worked much better when I thought he was an asshole and not Prince Charming. Because heaven knows I’m in no position to profess my sins to him.
Apparently, my stomach is, though. It growls, bringing a smile to his face. And that makes me smile because I’m a fool for him. Or maybe this is a mood induced by a lack of food? A girl can only hope. Otherwise, three days in and I’ve lost at my own game.
“The car’s here,” he says, glancing down at the curb that has a million steps between me and relief from these painful shoes. He must sense my hesitation even now as I lowered the temperature of my anger. “The shoes?”
“Yeah. I think I’ll take them off.”
“It’s New York.” His tone turns firm. “You’re not walking on these streets without shoes. I’ll carry you.” Although I shouldn’t find his uptight bossy side so attractive, even that is under the new circumstances of me being mushy-hearted for this man and the whole meatball of emotions that comes with that.
“You can’t. I don’t want you to injure your arm.” Eyeing it, I gently tap the hard cast. “More than it is. I’ll just walk. I’ll be fine. I’m sure you have a first-aid kit packed with anything I could possibly need to bandage the blisters later.”
