Page 36 of The Unfluencer

“If she’s talking to him,” I continue, “the likelihood that we’ve got anything is common is zero. A prospective Luxe Lady? Owns a high-end gallery⁠—”

“Single.” Cord tips his head to either side. “Maybe…”

“Maybe.”

Exactly, I think. He gets it. We know almost nothing about this woman other than the lackluster company she keeps.

“Or”—Cord tosses me a sidelong glance—“you’re a territorial relationship guy, and either seeing them together is triggering Sherry flashbacks, dealing with that clown, or that’s jealousy creeping in about a woman you’ve been standing here staring at instead of walking over there and rescuing her.”

“It makes sense.” I nod, then shake my head. “The part about triggering me, not the jealousy.”

For a beat, I feel a mile away, wondering how Dr. Bellamy would make this about some healing ritual, then Cord clears his throat. When I glance at him, his expression is laden with concern.

“Relax, I’m not about to cry.” I slap a hand on his back, chuckling. “Finish your snacks and bubbles. I’m going to hit the restroom really quick. Give you some time to collect yourself. Then we can head out.”

Cord salutes me with his glass, still looking at me like I might shatter as I turn away. The restroom near the back is—of course—occupied, with two other people already waiting. I’m about to give up and tell Cord I’ll just hold it when a server collecting my empty champagne flute points and whispers that there’s another bathroom under the stairs by the bar—one no one ever uses because they think it’s a supply closet.

“Good looking out. I appreciate you, man,” I say, spinning back, and then I spot Zeek, two paces back, beelining straight for me.

Oh hell nah.

I dodge left toward the tiny, closet-sized restroom just as the door swings open. Whitney is directly in front of me, head down, hand on the knob, completely unaware as I rush straight into her, closing us both inside.

Chapter Eight

Whitney

Crème de la Crème

I collide with the wall as the door clicks shut.

“Uh, hello?” I toss Warner a shaky smile, watching him fumble cutely with the knob lock.

The thing is, I was counting on meeting him tonight. I didn’t tell my divas, but I rehearsed what I’d say about Sherry’s collection on the drive here and all through setting up for the opening. And then, after I stupidly made that comment to that vlogger, I was waiting for the right moment when that voicemail from my gynecologist came, telling me my pap and mammogram results were in and to call back Monday. My heart dropped. And then I looked up and there was Warner, all gorgeous and intensely staring at me like he’d waited his whole life to meet me, when I could be dying.

I couldn’t meet him like that.

But I guess meeting me was more urgent than he planned.

“Hi… sorry, I’m Warner.” His voice scrapes out rough and shaky, his broad shoulders settling into the gravity of this precarious situation he’s gotten us into.

“Whitney,” I say, biting the corner of my lip.

“For the record, this isn’t how I wanted to meet you.” He lets out a nervous laugh, and I feel it, skating, grazing over my skin as he cringes adorably. “But uh, I’m just… trying to avoid someone.”

I must blink a good dozen times before I open my mouth, then shut it again. Because what? He didn’t just… Did he?

This opening is to last two and half hours. It’s going on nine o’clock, and he didn’t pull me aside—correction, shove me—all brusque and annoyingly fine, into this cramped restroom, for a private tête-à-tête. Or even for the reason he was invited for, to talk about art. He’s dodging someone else? Probably some woman?

A fresh surge of annoyance creeps up my spine.

“Who?” I ask with a little too much sauce on it. But hey, I’m not the one who trapped us in here looking like he’s a breath away from tearing off every overpriced piece of clothing on his delectable body and taking me from behind until my knees buckle. So…

I tilt my head back impatiently, staring him dead in those depthless brown—apparently, not bedroom—eyes. In these heels, I’m easily six-one, and he’s still got three or four inches on me. So, he’s tall, built like a sack full of muscles, and could’ve chosen to corner any other woman in this small space. Should’ve. They probably would’ve smiled and giggled.

Unfortunately—for him—he picked the wrong woman today.

Or the right one, depending on how he looks at it.