Page 67 of The Unfluencer

A huff of a laugh seeps out of me.

Hell, if emotional tantrums are his game, I guess it’s a real possibility I might die alone without ever experiencing love.

Quietly, stubbornly, I fasten my seatbelt, focus centered on my window as I cross my legs, letting the satin slide over my thigh and pool at my ankle.

Two can play this game, sir.

Ebony said all I had to do was try.

Well, I tried.

I called his office and graciously thanked him for the dinner invitation. I tried at Cibo Nero, opening up, sharing stories, gauging his interest. Flirting tirelessly. I’m here on this plane bound for freaking paradise with two useless sets of strappy, lacy lingerie in my suitcase when I should’ve just brought my vibrator.

“Mya?” Warner gently catches her arm, looking up at her with this warm, tender smile. “Come find me when you’ve got a minute. I’d love to continue chatting.”

Ugh, why did I kiss his fake fuckboy cheek?

Business it is, then, because I’m all tried out.

Reality spills into my irritation, diluting it until there’s only muddied frustration tracking the outside all through head. Fire flares in my lungs as I try—and fail—to calm my nerves.

Why? Why did I agree to this damn wager? Ten days of this⁠—

“So, you made it…” Warner says to me, finally, all traces of the warm attentiveness sapped from his tone. Just dry, cold. No smile. No I’m glad you made it or Thanks for coming on such short notice.

Just stating the facts.

“Well, it was touch and go there for a sec, but yes. As promised, I’m here, reporting for business.” I toss him a sidelong glance, quirking a cautious smile. “Seems we’ve had a busy morning all around.”

He catches my stare, holding it with an assessing gaze that shouldn’t, but absolutely does, unnerve me to my core. And it’s so infuriating. I speak nonverbal eye contact. And if he can undo me without words, with a simple look, imagine how good we could be together. Physically, yes. But also emotionally, mentally, socially, all the -lys.

Damn shame.

My disappointment must show on my face, because Warner tilts his head slightly, his brow dipping low.

“I’m sure it took no small amount of rearranging at the gallery for you to be here,” he mutters, tightly.

“Yes, my assistant, Clive, is covering the gallery.” I glance back to the window. “Technically, I’m always on the clock, though, fielding calls from my artists and collectors, selecting art…” I fan a dismissive hand toward him. “Organizing exhibitions. Of course, there’s the administrative tasks to ensure smooth daily running, which I’m sure you’re well aware of in your business.”

He nods softly, attentively.

And I kind of hate how much I want to pick up where we left off, talking about everything and nothing over mouthwatering stewed okra and gnocchi. Ooh, that okra was so good.

For a moment, I say nothing.

I read his energy in this setting. The pure opulence and luxury of this private plane. Him, always impeccably dressed, even casually for travel. His quiet demeanor, the tight set of his jaw. I catalog the slow rise and fall of his chest. Every exaggerated sigh. Every tap of his foot. And I still don’t know what’s bugging him.

Maybe he thinks I’m cockblocking him.

But I do know this: I’m questioning who he really is, because this guy… isn’t it.

It’s not that I figured this trip, being with him, would be easy, I think as I toss him a sidelong glance. I just…

Okay, I did think this weekend would be easy.

But mostly, because aside from the vloggers, tabloids, news outlets, and basically the entire world obsessed with the prospect of a new high-profile, secret romance, it sort of was effortless, involuntary, the way neither of us admitted that control freaks seemed to be able to control this magnetic attraction. So yeah, I thought there might’ve been something actually sparking between us. Initially—for a split second—in the gallery restroom. Later—more intense—at Cibo Nero, while breaking bread, obviously, over a lively conversation about art and dazzling palates. Over plotting our private Bahamian island getaway.

And now he’s flipped a switch.