Page 81 of The Unfluencer

Warner leans against the island, studying me with that intense focus that always unravels me a little. Then he nods, slow and sure.

We’re speaking the same nonverbal language.

I’ve got you. That’s the subliminal message.

“You’re amazing,” he says.

My heart swells.

He gets it. The labels, the expectations, the compounding pressure to become something preapproved. Just like me, he’s spent years shedding paths, labels that were never meant for him.

“Listen, technically, it’s your turn, but I’m too curious,” he says with a little chuckle. “I think you know you’re beautiful, clearly talented, a fierce businesswoman⁠—”

“Yes to all of the above.” I bite my lower lip, on the verge of bubbling over with feelings. “It just so happens that you’re absolutely correct.”

A soft smile breaks across his face.

“So… was it that you didn’t want marriage, kids, the whole nine?” He tilts his head, choosing his words carefully. “Because I can’t imagine you’re single unless it’s by choice. I mean, I saw you at the country club. Good-looking guy, head-to-toe white, fresh off the golf course. He scooped you up in a pretty familiar hug. Was that the future Mr. Whitney?”

He’s so damn cute.

Dear, sweet Lord. Somehow I want to both strangle and kiss him. How does he manage to compliment me and casually link me to Chance Lawson, who’s basically my brother, in the same breath?

“Okay, first, thank you for the compliments.” I flick my gaze skyward, amused. “And yes, I’m single by choice. Love…” I shrug. “It just hasn’t been a priority until recently.” I pause, careful not to give myself away. “But Chance is just a friend. More like a brother. Honestly, I think he’s holding out for Priscilla, but time will tell.”

“Ah,” he says, nodding. “Gotcha.”

“But since we’re going out of turn, I’ve got a couple for you, Mr. Easton.”

He pushes up his sweatshirt sleeves and folds his arms across his broad chest, bracing for my inquisition. “I’m all ears, Ms. Graves,” he says smoothly.

“Same day at the country club. At your table, there were two place settings and an army of servers. Is that how you usually roll?”

I expect him to laugh it off, say something about some extreme craving. Instead, he floors me with how forthcoming his answer is.

“It would’ve been our fourteenth anniversary,” he says, quietly collecting my heartstrings. “My tele-therapist, a worldly plant lady I sort of love despite her tendency to stare at me blankly, listens first.” He chuckles. “She lets me heal out loud, preserve myself through small rituals of remembrance.”

“Oh, wow. She sounds amazing.”

He cracks a smile. “Again, not the most talkative. But she says it’s okay to be angry, and surround myself with a small, trusted circle of loved ones, even though they’ll inevitably just ask me how I’m doing a zillion times and look at me like I might break.”

“Are you? Doing okay?” I ask, keeping my voice gentle.

“I am.” He nods a good dozen times. “That’s the other thing she said that’s stuck with me. ‘It’s not grief, it’s guilt.’ I’d been helping the public punish me, feeling guilty about not grieving how they see fit, you know? For wanting to move on because I’d already made my peace with it. And her words landed so hard because before Sherry passed, we’d been quietly, mutually working through divorce.”

I press a hand to my chest, surprised at how candid he’s being with me. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”

“It was private for us.” He swallows. “But I still care about how she’s remembered. It’s why I’m exhibiting her art to let the world know she was more than a Luxe Lady and a fighter. She was a wife and an artist. I want her legacy to live on through a charity in her name, funded from her art’s profits.”

“That’s a beautiful tribute to her, Warner.”

“That’s my plan, anyway.” He lowers his head like he’s still sitting with the truth of it all as I ask my last question.

“Is that what the kiss on the plane was about? Moving on?”

He doesn’t get a chance to answer because the smoke detector starts blaring. Next thing we know, Nacheline’s rushing into the kitchen with Mya and Gibson on her heels. They swipe towels from the pantry and start waving them wildly in the air, looking at us like we’re space cadets for not noticing.

“Lord, you trying to burn down the house?” Nacheline glances around the room that I’m only now realizing is filled with a smoky haze. Then her attention darts to my cereal. “Oh, and you’re trying to starve poor Ms. Whitney. Damn shame.”