Page 35 of The Unfluencer

Zeek’s not just an arrogant asshole.

It runs so much deeper than that.

He’s what’s known as the exception to the Ellswood rule. Most folks here were born into the lap of leisure and luxury that this ostentatious city affords them. Zeek wasn’t. He only aspires to be part of the upper echelon. He chases prestige to the point of delusion, so desperate to belong to a world that neither acknowledges nor accepts him. He’s forever polishing his image, hoping the upper crust he worships might finally notice him, measuring his worth entirely by proximity to them.

It’s not a crime. But his willingness to trample boundaries just to get close—that makes him dangerous. And only a certain type of person keeps company with a guy like him. They go by many names: social climber, opportunist, freeloader, leech, clout chaser. Different labels, same thing. A user.

Maybe I didn’t judge Whitney too quickly.

I drag a hand over my mouth, and out of the corner of my eye, I feel Cord staring.

He’s stopped humming his happy love song.

Damn.

“So, Alexis called, huh?” I say.

Cord nods, wordlessly, cheek full of fancy brie and bruschetta, looking semi-annoyed.

“Okay, you’ve got my attention,” I say, stealing another quick glance at Whitney before I turn back to dutifully watch my overgrown child of a best friend play with his adult Lunchable. “I’m listening.”

A guilty grin slowly blooms on his face. “She wants to see me tomorrow.”

He’s so damn smitten.

“Oh, shoot…” I bark out a laugh. “Don’t move too fast, Craig David. First the bar, now chilling on Sunday? Might be making love by Wednesday.”

He stumbles backward, pointing, eyes wide, darting from me to Whitney. “So, you think because I was chopping it up with Alexis for a few minutes”—twenty, but who’s counting?—“that I didn’t catch you staring?”

Ah, fuck.

“Relax.” I fan out a hand. She’s right there, I mouth, hoping to knock some sense into him. All I need is another PopShot blogger, vlogger, whatever she is, to appear out of nowhere with a fuzzy mic, ready to manufacture more “is Whitney Graves special to you?” rumors.

“So, I finally get you out here, in a suit again…” And Cord Duncan has the stage, ladies and gentlemen. “The women are gawking, the whole crowd’s buzzing, we’ve got free spirits and food, and you don’t see any of it. You’ve got tunnel vision, bruh.”

“Come on, man.”

He scrapes a hand over his head, still chewing and cheesing. “My man, you’re looking at her like you just saw your next wife.”

Whoa! “What the hell is wrong with you? Are you crazy?”

“Are you?”

“Listen, Mr. Know-It-All, I have eyes. She’s gorgeous. But⁠—”

“But what? You don’t have to be a tech billionaire to see that she’s fine as hell,” Cord reasons, completely illogically. Then he must notice the way my body locks up, because he dials it back. “So, maybe you’re not trying to wife her up—yet—but you’re still a man. One who hasn’t been laying pipe⁠—”

“Jesus. Really?” I close my eyes, willing myself not to throat-punch him if he says another word.

On a deep breath, I polish off my champagne, bending to set down the glass on the floor near a bench. Then I steady my gaze on my friend.

“I’m not downplaying it. She’s beautiful.” I lower my voice, evening my tone. “That’s as far as it goes. Are we clear?”

Cord dabs the corners of his mouth. “All I’m saying is, you’re a man who sees what he wants and goes after⁠—”

“Not a ring-hunting Luxe socialite in gallerist clothing. I can tell you that much.” I jerk my chin to where Whitney and Zeek are still deep in conversation.

Cord watches for a beat.