Page 60 of The Unfluencer

“Everything is set up for your meeting,” the hostess says. “Right this way, please.”

Breathing easier, I follow behind her, fully taking in the space. It’s everything everyone thinks it is. Warm, polished. Cozy yet upscale, with a sleek Southern edge. And intimate⁠—

The pep in my step fizzles out as the hostess rounds a corner, and there’s Warner Easton.

Only Warner.

Immediately, an alarm trips in my brain, red lights flashing, klaxons blaring. My body malfunctions, screaming, SEX! SEX! SEX!

Shit.

Like some chaotic Pavlovian response, I see this man, and immediately all I want is the one thing I can’t have—shouldn’t shamelessly want to subject this man to. This meeting is supposed to be about business and building a deep and meaningful emotional connection, not an excuse to hook up. But the attraction is undeniable. Hell, it’s palpable.

So naturally, with my stomach all up in knots, our eyes immediately connect across the dining room. As far as connecting goes, it should be great. Ten days is nothing in the grand scheme of things. And while tonight isn’t included, it is the vibe check. What’s the working relationship like? How do our communication styles mesh? Is the chemistry still there?

Um… damn right.

And I’ve yet to even make it to the table.

There was real chemistry between you and Warner.

I’m still replaying Priscilla’s words as I—slightly panicked—notice the rest of the deserted dining room.

“Uh, where are the others?” I ask.

Deep down, I’m hoping—correction, praying—that maybe the others are unavoidably detained at the moment. Or maybe Warner values perspective and breaking stereotypes, and he’s got a female-driven management team, who, as I’m rapidly approaching this man whose awareness has my body standing at attention, are all congregating in the ladies’ room.

It could happen, I tell myself as the few dozen feet between us dwindle.

And then his intense gaze scrapes over my skin, greedily, consuming all of me, taking in my red lips and gold studs, my hair falling in I-didn’t-know-what-to-do-with-my-hair-so-I-curled-the-ends waves. They were, allegedly, just easier.

“Others?” The hostess tosses me an amused smile over her slender shoulder. “Mr. Easton has reserved the restaurant exclusively for you tonight.”

Well, damn.

My body vibrates under his stare as it trails down to my black blazer dress, and I feel the fabric move with every step, easing familiarly into my strut, showcasing my curves, moving with first-date seduction, loving how it cinches my waist and cuts mid-thigh, exposing my legs appetizingly to his hungry eyes.

Thankfully, I catch myself, though.

This is about exploring love, not lust, Whit.

Love is patient. And while undeniable chemistry is important, love is a flaming-hot merry-go-round ro-mess like Priscilla. It’s a worthy long game like Ebony and Linc. It’s more than two dates. It’s an aspirational, emotional heart-bait marathon, not a sprint.

You can do this.

So, as we come to a stop in front of the cozy two-seater table tucked along the far-back left side of the restaurant, I quickly thank the hostess, settle in the seat opposite Warner, and toss him a genuine smile.

“Thank you for meeting me tonight,” I say, straightening, making sure the girls stay inside my blazer. I want him to respect me. “The car, this place… After the week we’ve had”—I let out a small chuckle—“it’s a welcome change.”

The light catches his warm smile. “Yes, privacy is a luxury I don’t take for granted,” he says, and there’s something about his easy laugh coupled with the casual, self-assured way he’s reclined slightly in his chair that kicks against the tabloid profile I’ve built up in my head.

I figured between the sexual tension, the nerves, and the rumors, we’d immediately be rendered silent until our meals came, after which we’d dive into the general logistics of the collection, nail down the type of art, the size of the collection, goals and dates for the exhibition, before I reviewed whatever images and descriptions he’s prepared for the catalog of Sherry’s works.

Simple.

But when our server arrives to take our orders, after Warner thoughtfully checks first with me about food allergies and gains my permission, he smoothly requests that the world-renowned chef, who just so happens to also be his best friend, “dazzle our palates,” and I don’t know why, but it’s so not anything I ever expected to come out of his mouth.

I burst out laughing.