Page 27 of The Unfluencer

“Yes, we’re a ‘we,’” he says, like it goes without saying. “And let’s see, the woman whom you’re gawking at is…the owner…blah, blah, blah. She’s requesting your presence this Saturday night, February sixth, for a very prestigious exhibit opening to experience Corinne Tucker’s dynamic legacy of rich creativity. She fashions ceramic and wood pieces…” He stops droning for moment, scans the rest before he pops his head up again. “Seven p.m. Sounds like the perfect outing for recon on only this gallery—definitely not the fine-ass owner you haven’t stopped ogling yet. And moving on, doctor’s orders.”

“She also gave me permission to say no.”

“Why, when you could say yes?” Cord asks, as if that’s a real question.

I shake my head. “I already said yes to the bar. Don’t press your luck,” I say, firm, resolute, but still mesmerized by Whitney’s stare. “Besides, I’ve already got a meeting set with a fine-art gallery over in Harrington.”

“To what? Minimize the press?” he scoffs, riffling the newspaper on my desk. “Too late. There’s probably going to be press everywhere, but I got you.”

“Yeah, no. I’m good.”

Cord nods a couple times, ignoring me. “Says here you can bring a plus-one…” Like that says everything he needs to know, he stands, heads to the door, and taps his watch, reminding me about the Legends game. He waits until I put away my computer and shove my phone in my pocket to flick off the lights, shrouding us in darkness. “So, I’ll pick you up at six thirty. It’s a date.”

“It’s not a date.”

“Two fancy wine spritzers and a couple pieces of rolled charcuterie salami, and you’ll be singing a different tune.” He rubs my forearm, then takes off sprinting toward the elevator before I can catch him.

I’m already dreading this exhibition.

Chapter Six

Whitney

Gentry

“Oh, now that’s one of my favorites. Stops everyone in their tracks.” I wink at one of my private collectors eyeing a sculpted ceramic-and-mahogany bust of some historical Black figure that, to me, looks ironically like Stefan Urquelle. So, I’m fighting hard not to cackle as I add, “Don’t think too long, now. We’ve had a tremendous response this evening. Three red dots, and it’s what… only eight twenty? Pfft. Watch out now!”

We both laugh.

But also, how is it already eight twenty?

Dammit.

For about the dozenth time in the past half-hour, I catch myself glancing at the gallery entrance, annoyed I told the press that Warner Easton would be in attendance. The moment his RSVP got out, the calls started flooding the Artery. Celebrities, socialites, influencers, even local professors and politicians, all assuming we’d be exhibiting his wife’s art. Naturally, because we’re the best.

The guestlist filled up, the plus-ones poured in, and even weekday traffic picked up. I’m sure all hoping for scoop on Sherry’s art.

And now he’s in the wind.

If he shows, he shows.

“It’s both a gem and a steal,” I say to my sweet, bushy-browed collector, just buttering him up, and internally giving myself a pat on the back.

He blows out an impressed breath, finally taking my bait. “A spectacular piece.”

He leans in, really studying the seamless sculpted edge where the wood grain meets the fused clay minerals, that apparently got dipped in “cool juice.”

“And, uh, you say you think this could be Corinne’s final public showing, huh?”

It’s a textbook tell. I can practically see the prize wheel spinning, that little clicker arrow ticking past his planned budget.

You get a work of art! You get a masterpiece! You get to pay my gallery lease!

Cha-ching!

Musical banger to my ears.

Sealing the deal, I nudge his shoulder with mine, leaning in. “Quiet as kept, there’s already talk of retirement.”