Page 12 of The Unfluencer

Tall, warm brown skin, long, textured, dark curls falling down her slender back as she took long, purposeful strides toward the exit. No stopping to hobnob. No performative smiles or polished laughter. Not even a second glance at any of the guestlist crowd.

That alone surprised me.

And I’m rarely surprised by anything or anyone.

It felt noteworthy somehow.

I really haven’t thought about women lately. How could I jump back into the dating trenches when I was still shedding labels, defining who I am without Sherry, what life’s supposed to look like without her? I’ve been working on me, healing. Even if it is through tele-therapy.

So, even though every inch of me tensed at how wrong it felt noticing another woman’s smooth, toned legs, or how the late-afternoon light glinted off her full red pout, I was paying attention. As she weaved through the tables. As she’d barely left one man before another called her by name.

Whitney Anika Graves.

“Mr. Easton, it’s so good to see you.”

I tear my gaze away, still searching the corners of my mind to place her name as I spot Chef Hibbert’s burly frame bounding toward my table, arms open wide.

“There he is.” That hardy laugh of his jostles into the air as he all but lifts me out of my chair, squeezing me so tight that I feel the emotion leaking out of me.

“It’s, uh”—I swallow hard around the lump forming in my throat—“good to see you too, Chef.”

When he finally lets me go, he slaps his large palm over his heart and sighs. His entire body deflates at the sight of the two place settings and softly flickering votives.

“I’m so sorry, son.” His thick eyebrows, a little more salt than pepper, braid together with that familiar somber expression. Lips pressed into a shaky line. Hurt glistening in his stare.

“Thanks, I’m getting by,” I say, fanning my hand to him and the team he stationed to keep me unbothered, to the table they reserved, to the meal Sherry and I last ordered together that Chef Hibbert refuses to charge me for. “Thank you. For all of this. It really means a lot.”

Every part of me hates that my grief is the reason his warm features contort with pity.

He nods, like there’s more he wants to say but can’t find the words.

But then a slow smile blooms on his face just as the “lovely assortment of teas” server appears behind him wearing a shit-eating grin.

“So, I hear you might need an introduction…” All thirty-two of Chef’s teeth are on full display as he tips his head toward the bar. “Miss Graves?”

Miss, not Ms. or Mrs.

Still, not a blip.

God, the way my fingers itch for my phone, desperate to start Googling. The name doesn’t even sound familiar. Although instinctively I’m certain I’d know if our paths have ever crossed.

Even this short distance from her is disarming. Curve-hugging black dress, leopard heels, fire-red lips. Midafternoon, just beaming and bright-eyed in a private conversation like Ellswood’s country club isn’t the city’s biggest stage. Meanwhile, she’s tracking every man’s whereabouts, smiling, wielding her charm like she’s leaving with something. Rather, someone.

When she finally turns to me, slow, almost deliberate, I can’t lie. I’m starting to wonder if she’s seen the headlines.

“I can make this happen…” Chef says, snapping me out of my thoughts. He nods, repeatedly.

I drop my head into my hands, masking my laugh. This is what it’s come to? My business spreading all up and through the country club kitchen?

A huge smile breaks over my face. “Really, Tony?”

He shoots me a wide-eyed, tough-as-nails look of disbelief that says, I’m Chef Hibbert in this restaurant, not your goddamned godfather. Don’t ever disrespect me again, and damn sure not in front of my staff. Don’t have me make that call to Warner Easton Sr.

Yeah, it says all of that.

It’s simple. At work, I’m Mr. Easton and he’s Chef Hibbert, respectfully.

“Sorry, I just can’t believe…” I chuckle, still shaking my head. “This is what y’all do here?” And by y’all, I don’t mean just him and the staff. Chef Tony Hibbert is my godfather, but he’s also been my dad’s best friend since grade school, so I’ve got zero doubt that the server-to-chef grapevine sponsored a quick call to my parents, who are all too happy to aid and abet some midweek matchmaking.