Page 7 of The Unfluencer

“I definitely want to work with someone with real…” He trails off, over-glossed lips pursed to the side. “What’s the word I’m looking for?” He snaps his fingers when it clicks, squinting as he locks eyes with me. “Industry connections. Yes.”

No.

A laugh lodges in my throat.

Am I being pranked? Connections? Is he for real with this “art,” this meeting? In those paint-speckled overalls and that royal-blue beret, like he’s cosplaying a creative?

A familiar fire erupts in my belly as I glance from the glitter sparkles and acrylic paint globs caked over what I’m almost certain is more than one of my artist’s works, shellacked onto that unfinished canvas, back to him.

“Your work is clearly…” A bunch of choice words stall in my throat. I take a sip of my spritzer. “…influential.”

He cracks up, doing the most, tossing glances over his shoulder—I’m guessing in case anyone “connected” enough heard and recognizes him.

“Honey, you are too.”

For a beat, I sit here while he aims and angles, snapping photo after photo, making sure the country-club ambiance shines in every frame. Meanwhile, I’m taking it all in—the atmosphere, the people, him—trying to remember why I agreed to this in the first place. It all feels staged. Premeditated. The piano playing softly. The clink of cutlery against fine china, layered over carefully curated ladies-who-lunch conversations. White-gloved servers in crisp uniforms. That low, silvery murmur of old money and even older class-coded judgment.

These people, this place, aren’t my vibe.

Unearthing new talent, it’s part of my business, yes. But do I want this kind of clout-over-craft business just because he’s got a built-in audience?

“But at the same time, like I said…” Terrell circles back, spearing a forkful of exorbitantly priced beef carpaccio. On my tab. “It’ll be worth the wait. You can see the potential.”

Not the potential.

“Mmm, yeah,” I say, stifling a laugh as he adjusts his beret. Out here wasting my time on potential. Sir. Point me in the right direction, because is it even in the room with us?

I have questions. Too many. None worth asking, though, considering the happy-hour crowd is already loading in, and I’d love to exit before they do.

“Well,” I say, finishing the last dregs of my spritzer and dabbing the corners of my mouth, “this was⁠—”

“Everything,” Terrell gushes, completely misreading the moment. Hand to heart, he sighs. “Listen, you’ve got Corinne Tucker’s exhibition coming up in February. Everyone’s saying it’s going to be amazing…”

I nod, ready to thank him for keeping up with my gallery.

Until his gaze sharpens, flicking between his painting and me.

Oh no.

“It’s basically finished,” he says. “Just a few tweaks⁠—”

I’m already on my feet, rummaging around the bottom of my purse for my wallet. Because this man really sat through this entire, exhaustive meeting, angling for a spot on a private, invite-only exhibition guestlist.

“Terrell. Mr. Artiste,” I say, laughing as I drop a handful of bills onto the table. “Thank you for a lovely afternoon…”

I don’t bother finishing my thought.

But as I weave through tables, making my way to the exit, I hear, “Whitney Anika Graves?”

Why can’t I just sneak out without making a scene?

I whip around, prepared for the worst from the Artiste. Instead, I find Chance Lawson, Priscilla’s brother, Carter’s best friend, broad-chested and beaming at me. He’s still a good twenty yards away, coming in from the golf course.

“Wow.” I blink repeatedly, mouth open as I glance back at the table where Terrell is talking to his propped-up phone, probably live-streaming about me to his gazillion followers. “Really, my whole government name, big head?”

Chance lets out a howl of a laugh. “Had to get your attention somehow.” He takes easy, confident strides like the walkway is his runway. “Looked like you were on the run…”

I nod, wordlessly confirming that yes, I was trying to make my great escape from the wilds of this country club.