Page 34 of The Unfluencer

“Stunning.”

As I continue moving along the wall, looking at more busts and sculptures, I end up in the back corner, where an oil painting is suspended from the ceiling. And I’m so floored by the vibrant blues in the brushwork and positioning of the gold leaf, I bend down to read the narrative card, reading about the artifacts of love, adventure, and grief. It shifts something in me. Not just the art, but the way it’s displayed, the lighting, angled just right, so it feels three-dimensional.

“Okay, Cord,” I mutter to myself. “Maybe it wasn’t a mistake, dragging me here tonight.”

As another server passes with a champagne tray, I snag two flutes, about to wave down Cord, tell him to grab those charcuterie salami rolls he promised, when Whitney rounds the partition, phone pressed to her ear.

It catches me off guard.

This is her gallery. Logically, I know she’s supposed to be here. She’s working. But the sight of her in the flesh? My eyes work fine. I get that she’s gorgeous. I saw that from ten feet away at the country club and on that brochure. But what is it about this woman that commands my attention? I haven’t really looked at anyone, really noticed a woman in over fifteen years, and somehow, even tucked back here, I’m memorizing the way the lighting contours and casts warmth over her smooth brown skin? Suddenly, I’m the expert on the slight upturn of her full lips, the russet-red lipstick shade she wears, how her eyes are as rich and bright as sweet tea imbued with the summer sun? And why do I want to know how she smells?

What is that?

“Wait until Monday morning?” She quirks a smile as a woman passes her. The second she’s gone, though, Whitney’s face contorts as she holds the phone to her ear again and takes a deep breath.

We exhale at the same time.

It’s too weird.

I’m utterly unnerved by the fact that I’m in a very public setting, questioning whether I misjudged her, and just gawking at this woman.

To be fair, though, the first two times I saw her, she looked… different.

Tonight, she’s wearing a deep blue dress. I don’t even know what the thin fabric is called, but it’s silky, clinging to every curve and line. Her long, textured dark curls are up in a high ponytail, falling down the slope of her back, almost grazing the thick, round swells of that ass.

She’s bad as hell.

Whitney comes to a halt two benches away, phone still pressed to her ear. Her expression tightens as she softly blows out a breath like she’s trying to steady her breathing.

What are you doing, Warner? This woman is none of your business, I tell myself, ready to turn away, give her some privacy.

But then Whitney looks up.

Our eyes connect and she holds my gaze.

It’s like the air turns charged and electric, and I don’t know why, but the moment lingers. If everything about her didn’t surprise me, I’d swear it’s déjà vu.

I open my mouth to speak, then immediately close it when she pushes off the wall, still watching me. I think—Lord, I hope—she’s coming over.

Except Zeek Harrison cuts her off and starts talking, and immediately fire flares in my chest.

“Why are you talking to him⁠—”

“Oh, you got the champagne!” Cord bounds straight toward me, grinning, two napkins bunched in his fists like overstuffed food sacks, stealing my attention, and…is he humming Craig David?

“Uh…” I press a fist to my lips. “Cord, are you humming ‘7 Days’?”

“Man, there’s so much good stuff over there,” he deflects, looking guilty as hell. “We got here just in time before they started clearing up.”

He hands me a napkin sack, and I pluck out a grape, popping it into my mouth, determined not to spend what’s left of the night staring at Whitney. “So, you’ve been gone for a minute…” I say to Cord.

He nods, repeatedly, acting like he’s so focused on picking through his handheld feast as he says, “Had to, um, take a quick call.”

But then he looks up guiltily, like I didn’t already notice he’s been giddy since we walked into that bar for the Legends game earlier this week and “accidentally” ran into the woman—an avionics tech, easing back into dating post-divorce—who is absolutely not playing games with her heart.

“Oh, a call?” I scratch my temple, biting my tongue to keep from laughing.

“Mm-hmm,” he says, and I hear him mention Alexis’s name, but I’m only half listening. Try as I might, my focus keeps drifting to Whitney and Zeek in the corner, speaking in hushed tones. Then she laughs and rests her palm on his chest, and every nerve ending in my body seizes up.