Page 43 of The Unfluencer

“See, that’s definitely something a relationship guy in denial would say.”

We both laugh.

“You’d know, wouldn’t you?” I tease. “Can’t hardly wait to be laid up with Alexis, watching movies and sipping fruity wine.”

“Okay, husband material⁠—”

Cord and I both freeze when my phone vibrates loudly in my pocket. When it doesn’t stop, I pull it out and immediately answer the incoming call from the Heartery.

“This is Warner Easton…”

For a full two minutes, the gallery owner lights into me. She’s seen the blogs, social media posts, and today’s newspaper, assuming that because I attended the exhibit opening that I’ve already signed a contract with the Artery to privately exhibit Sherry’s collection. Even though I try to convince her I’m still indeed interested in working with her, that I’ve got a plane scheduled to visit Clover Cay Friday the nineteenth through the twenty-first to see the pieces, she’s made her decision to cancel our upcoming Thursday appointment. She prefers to work with “forthright, cultured” clients.

Cord, having given up on tag to ear-hustle over my shoulder, is all smiles.

“Don’t even say it,” I warn.

But he’s already on his soapbox. “Ladies and gentlemen, in a plot twist no one saw coming, unless he chooses to keep the paintings, Whitney Graves’s gallery is the only local option for this astute businessman. Or, hey, there’s always Zeek’s offer…”

A two-million-dollar, off-market offer, sight unseen.

“Maybe I’ll keep looking.” How about that? “Who knows? I’m not in a rush.”

I nod to myself, forcing my focus back to the real goal here.

This isn’t about me. Or even the art, per se. This is about Sherry’s legacy, right? So, she’ll live on through a charity in her name, funded by the collection’s profits, and when her art sells, the world sees more than a washed-up Luxe Lady and debutante. They’ll see her talent.

“Two days and nights on his exquisite, private island of Clover Cay with the woman starring in his wet dreams… Nah, he’s never beating the husband material allegations.”

“Why are you such an asshole?”

“Why are you already mentally planning your honeymoon with Whitney Easton? Sorry, Graves.”

“You’re not funny.”

“And you’re not not a relationship guy in denial.” He snickers. “You’ve got no poker face. I saw how you looked coming out of that sardine-can bathroom where y’all were probably engaged in some twisted sexual warfare, just breathing all up in each other’s faces⁠—”

I let out a heavy sigh, muffling his deluded rant.

“Well, at least being with that fine-ass woman…” Cord cocks his head. “Tell me your body didn’t react.”

I don’t have to think long or hard. Every inch of me wanted to back her up against the wall, push aside all that satiny blue fabric, and remember how good it felt to feel a woman’s hands in my hair, on my back, tugging me closer as I drive deeper inside her, wet and throbbing for me.

“Nah, it really wasn’t like that,” I lie.

“Okay, then.” Cord’s stupid grin grates on me. “I triple dog dare you to lie and tell me you don’t remember what she smelled like, what cup size would fit comfortably in the palm of your hand?”

Raspberries. C-cup.

My chest tightens, and I stupidly look away.

“That’s what I thought. If you hired her, you wouldn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell resisting falling in love.”

A laugh sputters out of me. “Love?” I scowl. “It’s barely been a year.”

Well, one year, one month, and one week of tormenting “healing celibacy,” to be exact.

Cord’s still watching me, smirking. “You’d look like a one-woman man,” he says, matter of fact. “But hey, if you think you can hit that and resist her feminine charms⁠—”