Page 53 of The Unfluencer

“Hypothetically,” I say, clinging to my boobs and feeling completely out of my wheelhouse, “how would a woman looking for, um…love go about things?”

Priscilla beams proudly. “Show interest in him.”

“Not too much, though.” Chanel flicks her a warning look. “Gauge his interests first. Is he watching you? Is he actively listening?”

“Ooh, watch his body language.” Tatiana sits up on her knees. “Gives it away every time.”

“It’s about building a deep, meaningful connection. Trusting each other to be vulnerable,” Ebony says. “And that can’t just be about sex.”

I laugh. “What? How did we jump to sex?”

Chanel dips her chin, building the suspense. “What if you had a little incentive?”

“I’m listening,” I say begrudgingly.

“I’ve got zero doubt you’ll end up exhibiting the collection,” Chanel says. “That’s beside the greater point I’m getting at.”

“Which is…”

“Clive said Warner’s taking you to view the collection Friday the nineteenth, right? So start then.” Her wide-eyed look is back. “If you’re worried about building a relationship on your deathbed after he already lost Sherry, spare him. Wait until you’ve had your follow-up to have sex. Your appointment falls on the first. That’s ten days exactly.”

“Uh…” I’m so confused how fast this is escalating. “You make me sound like some sex fiend. I go without sex all the time. But really, this is your big solution? I could be dying, and you want me to have less sex?” Is reality in the room with us?

“In the meantime”—Chanel steamrolls right over my logical wrench in her plan—“you actively try to build a meaningful connection with him. It’s got to be mutual. And if you do”—she tilts her head, deepening her stare. Uh-oh—“I’ll book us an all-expenses-paid girls’ trip to your tropical island of choice. A paradise adventure, if you will. And if there’s nothing and he’s the coldhearted, cultureless cash machine with no soul that you think he is—and you actually abstain until it feels like something real—I’ll never ask you about your love life again.”

Another collective gasp echoes through the room.

Oh.

It’s unheard of. Chanel never asking again?

“And we’ll all carve out the time for a girls’ trip, Whit.” Priscilla’s smile builds slowly.

An island adventure?

I chew the inside my cheek.

It’s my Achilles heel. It’s what I’ve wanted for years. More than our New Year’s Eve countdowns. More than our quarterly lunches. It’s why I’ve watched The Lost City and Romancing the Stone and freaking Shotgun Wedding countless times.

I want the adventure we used to find in every getaway. Before life and work—and their love lives—shifted us slightly off track. Before we were mentally exhausted, and apparently violently allergic to bold resolutions. Before a mortality missile launched double-whammy abnormal lab results at me, threatening to detonate my entire life.

My heart drums in my ears.

“If you fail, I want dibs on Sherry’s paintings, though,” Chanel adds, dead serious.

And there’s the catch.

I’m laughing as Ebony searches my eyes, smiling softly. “All you have to do is try.” Try to love. To live. Before it’s too late.

“Okay. Hello, voluntary dry spell.”

Chapter Twelve

Warner

Crossfire Currency

Wednesday morning, I’m trapped in a compliance and data security meeting for the RealSpace Engine update. We’ve already completed quality assurances, calculations, map reports, geolocation accuracy, report outputs. All green. The live field tests? Done. Now, the entire senior staff is sandwiched between legal, engineering, and infosec, locked in a stalemate over whether the engine is ready to roll out globally, and I’m sitting here barely able to stifle my smile.