Page 71 of The Unfluencer

I’ve watched the estate shrouded in crystal clear-ish turquoise waters drift past my window three times now, teasing, heightening the mindgasms between Whitney and me, while Gibson keeps trying to land on my sliver of a runway. In the rain.

Apparently, this trip’s determined to sweep us into chaos any way it can.

Because—of course—the first time I try for a no-strings connection, it ends in a failed fuckboy attempt with a flight attendant and me stuck on my private plane with a gorgeous, emotionally mature woman I’m deeply attracted to.

Yup, that’s me.

Should I be taking this personally?

Rain streaks across the windows like drunken exclamation points, loud, sharp, slanted strokes slapping their “light winter” frustration straight onto the glass.

“Uh, it’s your captain again…” Gibson’s voice crackles over the PA, shaky and unsure. Then again, that could be the plane, jostling in the turbulent, bruised sky. “I should have you down shortly. We’re just about out of options here…”

Whitney and I snap upright in our seats at the exact same time, our eyes theatrically connecting in midair.

“Out of options?” she croaks out.

Gibson’s attempted the aviation equivalent of turning the pumps on and off, retracting and extending the gears, hoping it locked correctly. Fail. Manually releasing the hydraulic pump? Also failed. Opening the gear door to allow the air pressure and gravity to do its thing? Wishful thinking. Worst yet, he attempted to “jolt” the plane—also known as banking the entire aircraft to shake the gears loose while simultaneously traumatizing the passengers.

Well, one out two was triumphantly successful.

Whitney now looks genuinely afraid for her life, and once again, I’m contemplating abandoning the wager and joining the Mile-High Club while there are still miles between us and Clover Cay’s Bahamian waters.

“Warner?” She shoots me a do something glare like this is an action-adventure movie and I’m the hero with a few thousand flight hours who’s supposed to land this plane.

Unfortunately, no such luck.

Restless, I twist around in my seat, craning my neck toward the cockpit like my tech CEO superpowers will somehow command the janky landing gear to drop, or else.

But the coast is clear.

Too clear.

The cockpit door’s closed. And Mya? The flirty, bubbly, borrowed flight attendant, who was just talking Whitney’s ear off about the Luxe Ladies premiere two weeks out and her gallery, so curious about what pieces or collections she’d be exhibiting next, despite Whitney’s five-hundred-piece puzzle on her tray table and some Sandra Bullock paused on her iPad? The one who should’ve been studying the flight manual to learn a little something about airborne emergency safety measures instead of batting her eyelashes at me? Yeah, she’s in her jump seat, freaking out too.

So it’s just us.

A strong wind gust outside whistles through the vents.

“No, really. What does he mean, Warner?” Whitney’s voice rushes out, streaked with panic. “Like, shouldn’t the face masks be dropping now? Are these leather seats prepared to be flotation devices? Why aren’t the lights directing us to the nearest exit?”

I whip around with steely determination coursing through my limbs just as the PA crackles to life again.

“Well, folks… Looks like we’re in a bit of a pickle. I’m going to have to declare an emergency, so I’ll be dumping fuel to reduce our weight, before we go for a belly landing. But…” Oh, just casually sliding on into home, are we? Again, he deeply sighs. “Flight attendant, prepare for landing.”

And then, it’s just us again.

The Rorschach remnants of my life flash in explosive black-and-blue montages across my mind. My parents and Greer, living in a perpetual state of grief. Dr. Bellamy burning a Peach Paradise candle for me. The Echelon Tech building boarded up. And my best friend? All broken up and regretting urging me into this charade with Whitney.

It’s freaking heartbreaking.

My attention flickers to her eyes, welling with tears as she glances at me. And yet the only thing I can think about is how utterly tragic it’d be to die without ever knowing how it feels to kiss this woman.

“Whitney?”

Her name, breathless on my tongue, stills me to my core.

She’s looking at me with an intense, dire expression, and I’m struck with an incapacitating fear.