Page 37 of The Unfluencer

It’s a simple question, but he doesn’t answer. Doesn’t even pretend like he’s considering it.

“Who are you trying to avoid?” I pinch my eyebrows together, feigning interest, when all I want to know is her name because…who is she? Who is this woman who’s got him dipping and dodging?

Warner’s gaze meets mine for a beat, then, like he’s tapped into my mind, he lets out a resigned sigh and says, “His name is unimportant.”

Oh.

So, it’s a man.

“Mmm…” I close my mouth firmly, feeling like a complete idiot.

“Let’s just say we’ve got history, but I’d rather not engage with him, you know?” He tucks his hands into his pockets and straightens. As much as he can with only inches between us.

And I’m in here with you because…

A shriek of laughter outside vibrates the door and we both freeze, listening, waiting for a knock that, thankfully, doesn’t come.

Warner throws his head back, his jaw tightening. “And he’s right outside this door, probably waiting for me.”

I shift my gaze to the wooden door, wishing it were a two-way mirror.

Who is this big, bad villain who’s got Warner running for the hills—or, more accurately, to the restroom—to escape him? Truly, my curiosity has me wading through the guestlist. Warner’s supposedly the quiet recluse, always dodging reporters and avoiding public spaces. Why did he agree to come tonight at all if a run-in with this guy was a possibility?

“And sharing his name isn’t an option…” I drag my attention back to him, slowly, throat working as I swallow.

Every last ounce of good sense I’ve got is hollering, Resist. Don’t inhale the spicy cardamom with sensual, woodsy notes. Stop staring at his light chin scruff and that thick neck. By all means, don’t imagine how he’ll groan if I just lean in and trail my tongue down to his throat to his chest⁠—

“No, I can’t share.” His tone cuts through my haze. “But I can say this: the reports of my late wife’s art collection are true.”

“Yes?” I perk up.

At least if this is going to be a PG-13 meeting, let me represent the collection. I deserve that much.

Warner’s expression turns contemplative for a split second before he adds, “Well, since I’ve been considering exhibit options, this person has sent over a sight-unseen, off-market offer for the full collection to my office.”

My heart drops. “I see. So, you’re selling⁠—”

“Not to him,” Warner snaps, clearly bothered by even the idea of this man in possession of Sherry’s work.

“Oh, okay.”

What does that mean?

We stand here like this, his fiery gaze piercing me, his breaths deepening until it feels like he’s vacuumed all the air from the restroom. My mind races, scrambling to make sense of everything Warner’s saying, and why he’s telling me.

“Well, you’ve got me here,” I say quietly.

He shifts on his feet, and the sheer size of him nearly erases the space between us.

Resist, Whitney. For all that is right with this world, do not be that woman who gets weak in the knees over a man just because his dark eyebrows dip low and his thick thighs are rubbing up against yours in a tight little bathroom.

But as he adjusts himself, licking his full, suckable lips, it’s hard not to feel shortchanged. Representing the collection is off the table and I’m supposed to settle for PG-13?

Not with him this close, his body magnetizing every inch of mine, in this dress. The way this fabric is hugging my waist? The slit, falling away, exposing every aching line of freshly shaven, yoga-toned brown thigh? This neckline, the way the Bahamian-blue satin slips with every breath, framing my cleavage? It’s absolutely an invitation that my throbbing libido and I desperately need him to accept right now.

My pulse quickens.

“So…” I breathe him in, inhaling his warm, spicy scent, and my mouth cracks open, letting the rest slide off my tongue. “What do you plan to do with me?”