Page 41 of The Unfluencer

“Maybe,” I say, weakly.

He purses his lips. “Maybe we need to let a little air out of your ego.”

“Hear me out,” I say, unwilling to let go of my theory just yet. “She’s ‘inclined’ to agree with the influencers without knowing jack about me? how does that work?”

I move slowly toward him. Of course, he still thinks we’re playing tag. This fool mirrors me, backing away.

“Relax there, punchy.” I turn around, and again, he goes the opposite direction. Childish. “Anyway, I wouldn’t have even known that small-ass restroom existed. Yet her server conveniently points me to it?” I narrow my eyes. “Come on, now.”

He groans, loudly. “Or”—he cuts me a side-eye—“if you read what Whitney said, she specifically admitted she didn’t know you. Which means everything else is pure speculation. Hell, I’d agree with folks too if I didn’t. Ducking and diving, hiding in the shadows like the town’s curmudgeon.”

“That’s some shady stuff, right there.” I chuckle.

“Look, it’s Monday.” Cord lets out a deep exhale. “Are you calling her or not?”

Again, I glance at my watch. Quarter past two.

“I don’t know.” I shrug. “Maybe.”

“Maybe—”

“Don’t start!” We both know my business ethic won’t let me not call. “Just to notify her assistant that I’ve decided to work with the Heartery gallery after all. So, there’s no need to meet.” Or cause me any more undue stress.

I nod, liking the way the plan sounds.

Cord backs away, eyes narrowed to slits. “You definitely don’t want to meet in person…” he mutters, pensively. It’s not a question—it’s a conclusion.

“Before you even start, two minutes in that restroom together, do you know what she said to me?” I ask. “‘Well, you’ve got me here. What do you plan to do with me?’ How does that not scream ring-hunting social climber to you?”

I let out a heavy there’s your proof sigh.

Again, I take to pacing, trying to avoid Cord’s gaze.

Somehow, he’s stared at me long enough to correctly suss out my fear. Seeing Whitney Graves again? With no crowds. No barriers between us. Even with her disrespectful commentary. It’s a problem.

Forty-eight hours later, I still can’t stop thinking about that goddamned blue dress. That slit riding up her smooth thigh. The way the swells of her breasts, nipples pebbled, had pressed against my chest, awakening every nerve ending in my body.

And she smelled like…sun-ripened raspberries.

“Does that, uh, look on your face”—Cord’s lips twitch as he points—“have anything to do with what happened after five minutes in that restroom together? Admit it, you forget what lust, straight up, no chaser, feels like?”

My jaw tightens. I absolutely forgot what that felt like.

“Listen, at the end of the day, meeting up just seems unnecessary.” I crack my neck on either side. “We’ve got no other business dealings.”

“Business!” he hollers. “You can’t really believe that’s what this is about?”

“Yes, I do.” What else have we been talking about but Sherry’s paintings?

“Warn, I caught your tunnel-visioned ass staring at a beautiful, smart, creative woman at the gallery, correctly clocked it, then she flirts with you for five minutes in a bathroom, and now you can’t bear to be in the same room with her.”

“Need I bring up the slander again?”

“So she called you cold and soulless. Big whoop! You’ve been called way worse and didn’t give two red cents about it. Clearly, the only thing that’s different is⁠—”

“Is?” My throat constricts.

We’ve gone from tag to the damn staring game. But I double dog dare him to repeat that same “new wife” nonsense he spewed at the gallery.