Page 82 of The Unfluencer

We both crack up.

“I could’ve helped you, Warner,” Mya says, her voice dripping suggestively as we all take in the crime scene, his forgotten, deeply offended pancakes and my creamer-with-a-splash-of-coffee now cold.

And somehow, inexplicably, without sex or some crazy, pivotal moment—with pancake mix dusting his apron like a badge of honor—I’ve never felt more connected to this beautifully flawed man than I do now.

Once the smoke dissipates, Gibson retreats to his room. Mya lingers, offering to help Nacheline, and I clock it immediately. She wants to make goo-goo eyes at Warner while whipping up something homemade, no doubt, fueled by that old-school the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach philosophy.

I’m about to volunteer too, because I can absolutely hold my own in the kitchen.

But Nacheline sees straight through Mya. She tsks, hands her the eggs, then turns to us. “We’ve got the kitchen. You two go and check out the art while you still can.” I knew I liked her. She presses an apple into each of our hands like we’ve been released for recess. “These will hold you until we make you a proper meal.”

Mya is big mad.

I grab two paring knives, wrap them in a dish towel, and shove them into my pocket along with my apple. Warner grabs my hand. We dash outside into the howling wind, dodging coconut palm fronds and sea grape trees until a cement-block storage building emerges from the thick brush.

“It’s just here,” he calls over the wind.

The entire time, my nerves are buzzing, circling his answer, the kiss, what it meant. Is he moving on? Am I just a moment? A final wish? And why, as he leads me inside, do I find myself hoping, ridiculously, that I might be the reason he does?

Chapter Eighteen

Warner

Clandestine Affairs

When the door clicks shut behind us in the storage bunker, the sound lands soft like an ellipsis. A silent promise somewhere between my releasing Whitney’s hand and the hum of the fluorescent lights buzzing, filling the space where the rest of the world used to be. Suddenly, there’s nowhere for my feelings to scatter. It’s just Whitney, standing too close, and me, acutely aware of the narrow aisle and the art racks hemming us in.

Her question about the kiss hangs between us, pointed and electric.

“Yes, so this is it…”

I toss her a steady smile, clearer-headed than I’ve felt in years, and stubbornly fighting it.

She takes a shallow breath, warm brown eyes drifting over the cool industrial space, her slender frame swallowed by my oversized sweatshirt and pants, seeming almost weightless. She’s utterly untethered, as if this moment can’t quite hold her.

From the second she opened that guest room door, I think I knew this was never just about the kiss. And maybe that does make me a relationship guy. Maybe I can’t form meaningless connections. Is that the worst thing?

Could I be any luckier than to be with Whitney?

“I, um, didn’t realize there were so many.” Whitney’s laugh scrapes out rough, breath still ragged from running as she blinks up at me briefly, then tosses a glance at the endless, tall, sliding-metal frames mounted on tracks dominating the room. “Are they all hers?”

Hers.

I must look confused, opening my mouth only to close it again.

Logically, I know the entire reason Whitney and I ran out, braving the wind and rain on the cusp of an impending tropical storm, to be in this cold concrete building. The reason we met in the first place, broke bread at Cibo Nero, and boarded that terrifying flight together. She’s here to look at an art collection. To evaluate the pieces, check for water damage, determine the best course toward exhibition.

It’s always been the plan.

But how can she focus on art when we’re finally alone, and the thought of explaining what was going through my head when I kissed her steals my breath?

My jaw tightens. I tip up her chin, searching her sparkling eyes.

“The last six rows are hers,” I say, tucking my hands into my pockets, straightening. As much as I can with only inches between us. “I’ll be here when you get back.”

She drags her gaze over me, slow, intense.

“Okay.”