Page 85 of The Unfluencer

“Okay, so we still don’t know if anyone is out there, but if there is, it’s likely him,” she says. “And whoever tried to break into your house and the gallery.”

“Well, my realtor canceled, so I don’t know about him. And maybe Mya?” I add tentatively. I still can’t believe I’m even humoring this conversation. “She’s not my regular flight attendant. My usual, Tricia, was unwell.”

“Mysteriously?” Whitney giggles.

I narrow my gaze.

“I should’ve known something was off with her, asking all about the exhibit and Sherry’s collection on the plane. Volunteering to cook for you⁠—”

“Oh, you didn’t want her cooking for me?” I ask.

She turns to me, her expression softening—as much as possible with villain-green light on her face—and then erases the space between us. With her entire body magnetizing every inch of mine, in the darkness, she kisses me like it’s the end of the line. Splaying her fingers on my back, arching into me, she rasps, “They say high-stress situations can intensify attraction…”

“Is that right?” My voice hardens, going gruff. “Adrenaline makes the heart grow fonder?”

“Mm hmm.” She moans. “Danger makes my heart race, my body throb with⁠—”

The rattling on the door handle halts.

Oh, come on!

We both recoil, our focus frozen on the entrance, the anticipation alone heightening the urgency of the moment. Honestly, I’m not sure what I expect to happen next.

And then heavy gunfire sprays into the steel door.

“Holy shit.” Her voice is breathy but still controlled somehow as I turn my head, gaze fixed on hers, hands slipping possessively around her waist. I lick my lips, determined to focus on what she says next instead of every distracting inch where our bodies connect like live wires. Her eyes lift to mine, sharp and unyielding. “Warner, we’re in a cutthroat island adventure romance.”

“Why am I not surprised that you’re excited about that?”

She doesn’t even hesitate. “Oh hell yeah.”

Outside, the gunfire stops, having made no headway with the door, and I’m two seconds from doling out a Cord-worthy told you so. Luckily, I wait, though, because ten seconds later, the ramming of a sledgehammer into the raw gray blocks starts. The entire building shakes, the racks sway, and plumes of cement dust fills the air until we’re in a cloud of fear. On my part.

For Whitney, an avid Edge of Adventure survivalist, the bad guys closing in might be her other life’s purpose come to fruition.

“You know this place like the back of your hand, right?” she asks.

Hesitantly, I tell her yes.

And it’s a good thing I do. In five minutes flat, she comes up with the Double-Dub Defense (Whitney and Warner). As sweet as it sounds, smashing our initials together for a badass fight team name, I’m not even remotely prepared for the traps we set. Or the high-octane battle ahead of us as she drags me behind the last rack panel to wait.

As the hammering continues, we hold hands, adrenaline crashing through us, dragging us into an uneasy alliance, and a fiery see you on the other side kiss.

Then the wall is compromised, sending a spray of debris and light piercing through the darkness, and that’s it.

Action.

We move together like a single unit, ducking and dodging, hurling expertly cored apples and broken glass into the cloud of dust. Side by side, we fight as seamless partners, like something straight out of Whitney’s unhinged movie. That adrenaline surges through me, mixing with something hotter, and I feel it in every stolen glance, every tinder-struck brush of our skin sparking something between us I’m hesitant to name, something deep and dangerous as we corner the armed intruder.

I’m falling hard for Whitney Graves.

Even worse, I’m fucking husband material.

“Don’t move, Easton,” the masked guy says. At least, I think it’s a guy. He’s tall and thin, but it’s hard to tell with the voice changer. He raises his gun. “The drive.”

My hands are in the air, and my heart is beating a million miles a minute.

“What are you talking about?” I say.