Page 75 of The Unfluencer

Which explains why I’ve been appointed to head chef. She sent the rest of the staff home this morning, took a call from the realtor postponing our meeting to discuss the island’s listing price, and notified my closest neighbor, Jeff, who’s two miles away, and apparently has already been over to check on her and walk the grounds.

Hmm.

“What’d you say?” I ask, genuinely curious why he’s jumping the gun.

“I kept telling him there was no need, that you’re here, but he insisted,” she says. “Can you believe it? He came twice today, telling me he noticed some damage on the yacht and something about unusual traffic in the area. Says he wants to be on ‘high alert,’ in case I need him. As if we’re so close, when I can’t stand that nosy man. And you know what I tell him? I say, this is my home as much as Mr. Warner’s. So, go!”

She laughs, clearly still irritated with Jeff.

“And you said he walked the grounds?”

“The entire island! Twice! Like, what are you looking for?” Nacheline blows out an exasperated breath as she slips out her phone, probably calculating how much time she’s got to finish her to-do list. “But no worries. I’ve got it all under control. Gibson’s in the blue room upstairs…” Her tone slips into a low purr at the mention of my pilot, whom she’s not-so-subtly flirted with every time he flies me down to Clover Cay. “And the new flight attendant’s in the green room downstairs.”

Her protective instincts kick in as she shoots me a sidelong glare.

Just like Mom and Greer, Nacheline wants me to find love, but not with just anyone looking to get her hooks into me.

“Her name is Mya, and she’s not permanent, if that’s what that look is about.” I chuckle. “Tricia’s unwell, so my buddy at Gold Wing Charter sent her over. That’s all.”

“I sure hope so.”

I avert my gaze, staring aimlessly at the deep mahogany shutters covering the window for a moment before I squint at Nacheline.

“You really think there’ll be a tropical storm?” I ask.

We’ve had rains like this before, and they almost always fizzle out. Especially this time of year. In February? A tropical storm in the Bahamas?

“I hear what you’re saying. Don’t make the least bit of sense.” Her twisted-up hair, more salt than pepper these days, sways gently as she shakes her head. “The last one was back in the fifties. But you know what I always say…”

“Tell God your plan, and watch him laugh?” I guess.

“Exactly.” Her grin widens. “Heavenly Father, Mother Nature. They’re the ones in charge. You just stop hiding and figure out how to use your words. Cook that nice lady a proper meal and write the rest of the story.”

We both laugh.

She doesn’t say the rest, but I hear silent ingredients. Love, romance, adventure. Life.

Nacheline and I are still cackling as she shoos me out the library, clapping her hands, all businesses, while I promise not to let Whitney starve today. And maybe—hopefully—I’ll get a chance to apologize for the kiss and get on with completing the painting evaluations before our next brush with death.

Chapter Seventeen

Whitney

Good Will

“It really wasn’t that bad,” I tell Ebony, who’s been on pins and needles since yesterday morning, now hanging on to my every word for an update.

“Whit, you could’ve died.” She half laughs.

It’s a fact I’m well aware of.

Let’s just say the mortality missiles are firing in all directions. Lab results, the flight attendant flirt-off, faulty landing gear, a storm that could roll in at any minute. They’ve all been trying to kill me. Yet I’ve never felt more alive.

It’s the strangest thing to try to explain.

My head is clear, and I know exactly what to do today.

So, from the comfort of Warner’s haute-cultured, Caribbean-themed guest quarters sprinkled with timeless antiques, crisp linens, and palm frond art, I finally peel back the covers from my clean, rested, pajama-clad body. I’ve been staring at the fluid lines of the ceiling, talking to my girl, and patiently waiting for Warner to do what all men eventually do: the right thing.