Page 95 of The Unfluencer

Her smile lights me up. “Dazzling Palettes. A collection of industry-disrupting art pieces,” she reads aloud, and when she gives me an appreciative kiss, I know this is why I’m having a hard time letting her go.

We exit the car, but before she can get her key into the lock, I pull her into another kiss, already missing her. It’s one of those handsy, aching, what-are-we-doing kisses that lands somewhere between promise and regret. And is probably five indecent minutes too long for a residential neighborhood. So I force myself to step back and act like I’m not a complete lost cause.

“Tonight.” I drag my fingertips over my lips, still tasting traces of her mint gum from the plane.

As I turn, though, Whitney calls after me.

“Hey, I left you a little gift. In your pocket.” She grins. “Forgot to give it to you during the blackout, but we can talk about it tonight. Figured you’d want the first look.”

My chauffeur opens the door. “To the office?”

“Thanks, yes.”

As I slide in, heart still racing, I dip my hand into my pocket and pull out something hard and wrapped in plastic.

“Straight home,” I say, staring down at the flash drive in my palm with a tiny etching. ZH24.

Zeek Harrison 2024.

Fuck. “No stops.”

Chapter Twenty-One

Warner

Hard Cash

A week without seeing Whitney crashes into me all at once as she blushes and gives me a slow spin. Her dress is gold, catching the light every time she moves, draping gracefully over the hips I love, cinching at the waist where my hands fit perfectly, before spilling into an elegant train behind her.

Jesus.

I shove my hands into my tuxedo trousers and take a steady breath, knowing that touching her would undo me.

“Listen, I, uh, owe you an explanation… but all I can think about is how badly I need you in my arms.”

I should apologize a million times, tell her how much I’ve missed her—am still missing her even though she’s here, right in front of me. That I’m physically struggling not to reach for her, because I don’t know if I’ve lost the right to. I should tell her that she’s utterly breathtaking. But everything I planned to say is gone.

“You’re stunning,” is all I can manage.

Whitney chuckles. “You clean up pretty well too.”

I hold out my hand. “May I?” She places her warm hand in mine, and I guide her toward the waiting car. “I owe you an apology. I-I’m so sorry I didn’t call,” I stammer. “And can I…” I pause, searching her eyes. They’re a deep, earthy brown, but the way the streetlights are hitting them tonight, I see a field of golden sunflowers blooming in them. “Please say I can kiss you.”

Her smile answers before her words do.

Our lips meet, and everything else disappears. It’s like that field, warm, slow, impossible not to feel like we’re in a dream. She’s my dream.

As we pull back, her gaze lingers, hazy, sparkling, her swollen lips parted as she tilts her head in a quiet, playful tease.

“Thank you, by the way. I received the paintings, and they’re even more amazing than I remember. I’ve already started planning the exhibition.”

“All of them?” I ask.

Her eyebrows dip slightly. “Just working on a name for the collection, since Sherry didn’t have one. But yes… I have them.”

“All thirteen?”

Curiosity blossoms into realization, brightening her expression.