Page 68 of The Unfluencer

This Warner isn’t the same charming, easygoing guy who fixed his full, succulent-looking lips to invite me on a dreamy island vacation, masking it as a four-hour workday. No, this guy is giving me straight deadpan and vacant eyes.

He’s Quiet, Elusive Warner.

And the thing is, of course I’ve Googled this man. I’ve deep-dived, dark-webbed, dug for dirt on him, and the keywords are all the same. Reclusive billionaire. Uptight. Private. Luxe Widower. Tech mogul. Money, money, money. Blah, blah, blah.

And instinctively, I knew all of it.

But last Thursday, I got an up-close-and-personal glimpse of this smooth, down-to-earth guy who I sculpted out of thin air a little over a year ago. The car door had barely closed before I called an emergency videochat with the Divatantes to recap everything that had happened at the restaurant. I gushed about what an incredible guy he was. Swore up and down that I’d misjudged him. And after we kicked up our heels, giggling and carrying on, I spent the rest of the week daydreaming about Clover Cay, overpacking, and, apparently, according to Clive, humming like a damn Disney princess.

I don’t hum.

Now that I’m on this plane, all that chemistry, what? Just evaporated into the clouds? I dreamed it up? Suddenly, he’s this played-out player?

No. Something’s up, and I’m going to get to the bottom of it, expeditiously.

“Mimosa?”

Mya sashays over, smiling with a tray of pre-takeoff mimosas, informing us we’ll be pushing back in about twenty minutes. I take a glass, and as soon as she walks back toward the galley, I decide now’s as good a time as any to get the conversation flowing again. Keep digging until I unearth the truth.

“Right before I boarded the plane”—I catch his gaze, encouraged by his posture shift—“I got a phone call from the head of my foundation.”

No one-sided conversations, Whit.

It’s killing me, but I wait for him to ask me to say more. To ask me to keep going, share my interests.

And then, just like that, he does.

“What sort of foundation?” he asks, and it feels like a victory.

It’s working!

For more than ten minutes straight, I tell him about the ArteryBeat Arts Project. About how fulfilling it is to empower young Black artists who wouldn’t otherwise have access to the resources or network necessary to debut in the industry. He asks thoughtful questions about artist mediums, submissions, and how I work with high schools and colleges to showcase their art though jury exhibitions. I tell him how much I enjoy uplifting and promoting, educating them about business acumen, and engaging with the public because I hate even the idea of wasted talent.

Warner nods, slowly.

The whole time, I’m gauging his interest.

Suddenly, his easy posture and quiet, unimposing charm’s exposed, making me feel lighter, too. Like maybe I can still salvage this. Understand his reservations.

Soon, the engines purr to life, and I toss back the last dregs of my mimosa. And as Mya takes our glasses and the captain says we’ll be taxiing for a few more minutes, I quickly switch gears, skipping the string of rapid-fire questions I planned to ask Warner.

What’s Clover Cay like? I’ll see when we get there.

How often does he visit? Unimportant. He’s never been there with me.

Does he want to share about Echelon Technologies, the RealSpace Engine, and the Mod3D app? Whatever sparked his curiosity for real estate surveying and 3D modeling? He’ll volunteer that information should he see fit.

Right now, I’m not interested in knowing if he loves his fast-paced, high-pressure job or what drives him. Or even if he’s as excited about his company’s nomination for an Ascension Award as I am about mine.

I’m not about to compete for his attention. I don’t for lust, and I won’t start for a meaningful love connection.

Instead, the ball’s in his court.

And it stays there for more than two minutes.

“So, the ArteryBeat…” he says, eventually, like he’s testing the name on his tongue. He smiles sweetly, and all over again, I’m completely enamored with this man, about to chuck the wager and flaunt our mile-high sexcapade in Mya’s cutesy face. Until he asks, “Are you asking for a donation?”

I gasp.