Page 32 of The Unfluencer

My take? Personally?

Oh, she is reaching.

Part of me is ready to demonstrate the agility and reflexes that yoga and knife throwing have gifted my body, since she wants to try me. Because where does she get off, not only crashing this exhibit opening but fixing her lips to ask me such an asinine question, as if Warner and I share any friends or relationships? But the other half of me, the give-the-people-what-they-want-so-they-can-get-on half of me, is still a little salty that this event is winding down, and he’s opted not to show.

Now, who knows? Hopefully he’s healthy and unharmed. But given what I know of his character—public speculation or otherwise—it’s got me questioning if he ever even planned to be here.

Master manipulator.

I stare at the influencer for a beat, debating what level of petty I’m about to take. And who’s catching strays.

“Yes, he was invited,” I say, treading lightly. But then I make a snap judgment, deciding a little extra publicity couldn’t hurt, and go rogue. “The papers, the blogs, they all call him a cold, cultureless cash machine, and I don’t know him, but…”

“But?” She leans closer, the mic affixed to her blazer inches from me as her gaze flickers past my shoulder.

“I’m inclined to agree.” I shrug. “He seems like most wealthy folks—unwilling to show up, to roll up their sleeves and do the hard work to be present. Always jumping at every financial opportunity that⁠—”

“Thank you.” She slips past me, hastily unzipping the sea of people. And at the end of her path, there he is.

Warner Easton.

Like we’ve got history, all over again, my body hums, skin buzzing, belly coiling tight, like it’s trying to reel him in closer. Closer, so we can… what? Pick up where my tipsy scrolling left off?

Ugh, Chanel.

I don’t know this man from Adam.

Truly, I’m confused, irritated with myself for acting like… like a damn… ro-mess!

I mean, yes, he’s in a fitted black-on-black suit, looking quietly authoritative yet somehow still charming. But then I remember: he’s got no character. And less than a minute ago, I opened my big mouth and put my entire foot in it.

“Aw, shit.”

On the blogger’s heels, I rush the crowd, trying to catch her to retract what I said. But she’s already reached him, mic in hand, thrust in his face.

“Warner Easton, my viewers at Scene and Heard It All vlog would love know your take on Whitney Graves,” she says, blocking his path.

This woman…

“You haven’t been spotted out lately, but there have been rumors that you’d be here this evening to support the Artery. Is Whitney Graves someone special to you?”

Oh shit. He is absolutely not about to say yes. That, I know.

Still, the question hangs between them—and I shouldn’t hold my breath. Any woman in her right mind would absolutely not…

So why do I?

Chapter Seven

Warner

Cornerstone

The vlogger shoves her mic farther into my face.

“Listen, I’m sure Whitney Graves is an incredible woman…” Instinctively, I lean back, both inching to put some space between us and grasping for something diplomatic enough not to end up in tomorrow’s headlines. “Unfortunately, I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting her. Tonight, I’m here to see Corinne Tucker’s Earth Bound exhibit.”

Where in the hell did I pull that from?