Page 14 of The Unfluencer

“Are you done advocating for this woman?” I laugh, but I’ll admit, this version of her rubs up against the one I was building in my head.

“Are you sure you don’t want an introduction?” he presses.

I blow out an exhausted breath.

“One hundred percent.” When Chef opens his mouth again, I save him from himself. “Thanks, but like I said, I’m so good. She’s a no for me.”

I smile, stealing one last glance at Whitney, grateful that I’ve perfected my poker face.

Chapter Three

Whitney

Ascension

“I think I found the one.”

The words sort of dribble out of my mouth, low, wonderstruck. Almost revelatory—on my end, to be clear. Except the way my office is set up loft-style, overlooking the airy gallery, drawing the eye upward, exactly the way I designed it… my voice echoes. No, more like ricochets, precision-cut pinballing on the twenty-foot ceiling, before it bounces off the walls to the reception desk below, where it circles the shell of my assistant Clive’s ear, and makes a direct deposit.

That’s how in tune we are.

I sneeze, and he’s already got the tissue, blessing me with an anointed healing hymn and ready to dole out meds.

We’re like that.

Usually.

In my periphery, he slowly swivels his chair—supersonic hearing calibrating on all cylinders as he gawks up at me, clutching his invisible pearls.

“Clive Marshall…”

Our eyes lock.

“Now wait a doggone minute…” He’s all fluttery, dark lashes, beaming with that utterly impressed that’s-my-girl pride. Mouth open. Nodding nonstop. Just doing the absolute most.

And that’s all it takes.

He uses his arms and full core to stand, round the reception desk, and waddle toward the seventeen-step staircase, ignoring my cackling. Then he halts, dark gaze fixed on me. Theatrics on ten, clearing his throat.

“Uh, come again, Whitney Graves? You say you found the one?”

“Sir, I’m giving you five to seven business seconds to get up here and come look with your special eyes.” I laugh. “I’m not even exaggerating. My whole heart.”

“Like that?” he intones.

“Mm-hmm. Exactly like that.” I drag out every syllable, confirming how correct he is if I’m still sitting here and not already halfway to my three o’clock late lunch meeting at Hughes College. But also, I’m giddy because yesss, dear Lord… “Ugh. I wish you’d hurry up!”

“And I wish we had one of those stairlifts to carry me up to your bedazzled throne,” Clive says, carefully lifting his foot like he’s learning muscular coordination for the first time and needs the Holy Ghost to help him onto that bottom step. “This is what I get for not stretching after my workout.”

“So, yesterday was leg day, then.” I chuckle, fully entertained watching him take deep, labored breaths. “Dig deep. You’ve got this!”

Real extra, he pumps himself and his knitted sand-colored polo and rich brown slacks up for the climb.

“See, that’s your problem,” Clive says, wincing and contemplating each step like a decision with terrible, painful consequences. “Patience is a virtue.”

“Just wait until you and your shaky thighs see my screen,” I say with all the conviction, because I know. Once he gets even a glimpse at my computer, it’ll be worth the climb.

If he makes it this year.