Page 91 of The Unfluencer

ONE WEEK: Founders & Benefactors Legacy Ball – February 27, 5 PM to 8 PM

My heartbeat races as I swipe it away.

Except face ID unlocks my phone, and there’s Cord’s text from earlier, staring back at me.

Cord

How’s island life? Tropical storm, tight quarters. I already know you’re hearing wedding bells. Never beating those husband material allegations.

He’s daring me not to be a cliché.

Damn, how did he see this coming?

I set my phone down on the comforter face down, unwilling to look at my unsent, asinine response, downplaying my feelings. Telling Cord I just genuinely enjoy spending time with Whitney because I’ve really gotten to know her.

Unbidden, my mind transports me back to the kitchen. The warm, buttery scent in the air mixed with Whitney’s raspberry shampoo. All over again, I’m there with her, my arms still firm around her back, unable to let go. The weight of how good we fit finally settling in.

I’m falling in love, just like Cord said I would.

I don’t know how or when it happened. Or even if I truly understand it. But I’ve never felt anything more meaningful with a woman, and I want this. Even though it’s only a glimpse, I didn’t know I could have this. Connection without labels and social constructs. She doesn’t make me feel small, but instead outrageously seen.

And the funniest part is, nothing’s gone according to plan.

We crash-landed. A masked intruder turned up on my island looking for a drive I’m unsure even exists. And if Whitney’s instincts are right, it’s all tied to the same person who tried to rob my house and her gallery—and would’ve left us for dead if Whitney weren’t obsessed with action-romance movies and true crime podcasts.

That’s as bad as it gets, right?

But if everything’s gone so wrong, why does being together feel like the only thing right in my life? Like I’ve just been waiting for Whitney?

“Are you stuck with that one?” she asks, still thinking I’m over here stressing about where to place a goddamn puzzle piece.

Man up, Warner.

What happened to it’s better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all? When did that become such an archaic way of thinking? And over some season tickets? Because my guy swears I’m rewriting history, swapping Whitney into Sherry’s place because they have a few things in common?

Half the Black women in Ellswood were Zion & Zara debutantes. Countless folks love art. And the Luxe Lady thing doesn’t even apply. Whitney never even expressed interest. It’s the media creating that narrative.

This is stupid.

Contrary to what Cord—and Dr. Bellamy—think, my hesitation isn’t about guilt, or some unfinished emotional business. Whitney’s not sharing space with Sherry’s memory. I simply just don’t want to fuck this up.

Which, it seems, I’m determined to do.

On a frustrated breath, I force myself to look at Whitney again.

“No, I mean this,” I say, only slightly less vague, hating how my words keep getting tied up in my tongue.

“Yeah, are you having fun?” she says without looking at me, and I just know I’m screwing this up.

It’s been like this since our little adventure in the storage building. After everything with Mya, when we ended up in the kitchen. After we had sex the second time—and third. Since the storm passed, I’ve lost the ability to form coherent sentences around her. But how do I put into words that I’m still trying, comically, not to fall in love with her while she’s actively sharing pieces of herself? How can I explain how good it felt being with her? How guilty I feel?

I haven’t earned this feeling. Not in a handful of days. Rather, weeks if I’m counting from the country club run-in. We don’t know each other.

But I want us to.

Fuck.

My heart rams against my ribs, running on repeat.