Page 26 of The Unfluencer

Greer walks into my office with Cord on her heels. Sorry, she mouths, swinging a long, dark braid out of her face before setting down my mail with a Post-it on top, reminding me she’s leaving early for a book retreat that she’s been telling me about for months. She won’t be back until Wednesday and wanted to say goodbye before she left.

I hold up a finger, asking her to wait a moment.

“Well, I’m glad to hear you’re headed out with your friend. It’s healthy,” Dr. Bellamy says.

Cord clutches a fist to his chest, nodding. “We boys!”

Ignoring him, I thank Greer, hand her a gift card from her favorite independent bookstore, and tell her to have the best time with her friends.

With a quick smile, she points at the thick white envelope sticking out from the mail stack, mouths, Hand-delivered, then gives me a little wave and frowns at Cord’s blatant ogling on her way out.

Hand-delivered?

I’m half listening to Dr. Bellamy and inspecting the envelope when Cord rounds my desk, glances at the camera, then backs away, giving me the chef’s kiss.

“I want to hear more about this…” I say, frustrated as Cord slinks his tall, lanky frame into one of my chairs facing my desk, cheesing.

“Well, it would appear that our time is up.” Dr. Bellamy lets out a breathy sigh. “But, Warner, I’d like for you to be gentle with yourself. And I know I always say this, but your grief is private, sacred. It makes you human. Like grief, divorce leaves so many unresolved emotions. It’s just another shape. Don’t let it weigh on you too heavily, the conversations not had, forgiveness not given, goodbyes never said. Give yourself permission to say no, okay?” She takes a small breath. “And if it will ease your discomfort, sell the paintings. Move on. Go watch the Legends game at a bar with your friend. Live. Love again.”

A few moments later, I close my laptop and just sit there, letting everything she said sink into my cracks, like a balm to my heart.

And then I realize Cord is here, staring at me.

“You good?” He clamps his lips between his teeth, dying to laugh.

“Yeah, I’m just about ready.” I snap back to reality, reaching for the mail stack Greer dropped off. “As soon as I lock up in here, and, uh…” I pause, still inspecting the envelope, the deep blues and creams, bold block fonts, and outlined monogram logo.

It’s from the local Ellswood gallery, the Artery, that Tony was telling me about at the country club.

Whitney Anika Graves.

“She’s right,” Cord says, prompting me to lift my gaze as he lets out a weighted sigh. “If you’re ready to move on, so am I.”

I bite back a laugh. “Oh, you’re ready, too? For what, exactly?”

“To get my friend back. To see you reclaim your peace, man,” he says, deep emotion comically etched into his worry-ridden face. “And look, I know how hard it hit you, losing Sherry. Trust me. So it’s cool if you want to get back out there. With Bellamy.”

This time, the laugh tumbles out. I can’t even take the dramatics.

“Dr. Bellamy,” I clarify for his dumb butt.

“Oh, she’s a doctor?” Cord gets all excited, and I’m utterly amazed how the synapses in his brain fire at a glacial pace.

“She’s my therapist, asshole.” My face twists up, because did he really think I’ve just been laying myself bare with a random woman because she’s easy on the eyes? I shake my head and go back to slicing open the thick white envelope.

He shrugs. “Hell, how was I supposed to know? She’s beautiful. I figured we were talking about moving on with a romantic interest. Or whoever that is.” He jerks his chin to the brochure I’ve just pulled out of the envelope.

I flip it over, looking at what he’s seeing on the backside.

There’s a picture of Whitney, who is…even more stunning up close.

She’s gorgeous. Rich, dark brown skin, catching the light just right. Those full-glossed red lips, expressive brown eyes, long, natural, dark waves. But it’s more than beauty. Her presence, the way she’s sitting, posture straight, chin lifted, electric smile—she’s got an air of confidence wrapped in warmth. She’s giving magnetic, not man-hunting.

Jesus.

“Yeah, so”—Cord snatches the brochure and a thick piece of cardstock from my hands—“looks like we got ourselves an invitation to a gallery exhibition opening.”

“Ourselves?”