Page 70 of The Unfluencer

“Yes, I said it,” I say, my tone measured, low. “That was before I actually met you, though. And⁠—”

“And?” His searing gaze flicks to mine.

“I may have been a little upset, thinking you weren’t coming to the opening after I’d sent a personal invitation. I’m sorry,” I say. “But to be fair, you didn’t show up until the last half-hour.”

Warner tosses me a pointed stare.

Slowly, he nods. “Fine. I accept your apology.”

I quirk a small smile. “Fine,” I say.

Except I’m not fine.

I’ll admit, I kind of love that he actually considered everything I just said. He didn’t immediately dismiss my reason as an excuse. He didn’t dissect my life choices. And while it’s beyond annoying that he now knows I watched the door, that I cared whether he came, unknowingly, his quiet acknowledgment seals some timeworn cracks inside me.

Easily, this could’ve gone another way.

He could’ve leaned into making me the calculating, dollar-chasing user. I am trying to put my gallery on the map. I am collecting donations for my art foundation. That’s just the facts. And still, I quickly fell back into my life-learned biases toward the wealthy. Easily. The Maybach, buying out an entire restaurant for a meeting, even if his best friend’s the owner and chef. I saw the diamond-encrusted cuff links, the monogrammed money clip. This private plane. All flashy signs of financial manipulation and wealth signaling.

But as the plane begins taxiing again and the PA system crackles through the cabin, we’re locked in a stalemate.

“This is Captain Gibson; our flight time today will be two hours and twenty-five minutes,” he starts before estimating our arrival time, instructing us to fasten seatbelts and secure all baggage—the usual logistical rundown that I wish he’d wrap up so I could finish overanalyzing why everything with Warner unnerves me so. But then the captain adds, “Seems we’ve got some rain on the horizon, so things may get a little choppy. But it’s a short flight, and, uh… I’ll have you down in no time.”

I feel my heart stop, hear the mortality missile loading.

Is it hurricane season?

“Rain?”

“It’s nothing to worry about,” Warner says, dismissively. But he must notice I’m freaking out, because then, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, he hooks his ankle behind mine, prompting me to look at him. “February in Bahamas is sunny. Usually mid-sixties to seventies. Low humidity. It’s just a light winter rain.” He shrugs. “The last tropical storm during this month was… the early 1950s. It never even made it to hurricane strength. It’s a dry month. It’s been an, uh, dry year…”

I swallow hard, strangely calm—definitely not analyzing the way he softly groaned those last two words.

“Okay.” I fight back a grin.

“Flight attendant, please prepare for takeoff.”

I suck in a lungful of air, releasing it slowly through my nose. “So, nothing to worry about, then?”

Warner shakes his head. Then a genuine smile curves his full lips, and his whole demeanor softens as he says, “I’m sorry that I thought you were pitching me. And no, nothing to worry about.”

Wait? He’s sorry, too?

My heart stills.

“Thank you.”

No, nothing to worry about at all. Just falling because… is this how it happens? Is hearing a grown man acknowledge fault and apologize what I’ve been missing with lust? Is this what a sexless orgasm feels like?

Yeah, things may get a little choppy indeed.

Chapter Sixteen

Warner

High Life

Clover Cay could be a postcard today. If postcards came drenched in gray-blue dye, were shaken like a Polaroid picture, and replayed on a thirty-minute loop.