Page 38 of The Unfluencer

Shit.

“Well…” He lets out a shaky laugh, leaning a forearm against the wall, hands flat on the ceiling, contorting his body like he’s trying to keep his distance, but there’s not enough distance. “I, uh, figured we could keep talking for a bit, wait him out. But this isn’t at all what I had in mind.”

He means us, being cramped into this tiny, closet-sized bathroom, but my rated-R mind catches the innuendo, and my knees buckle a little.

I trace my teeth over my lower lip. “No?”

Warner shakes his head, and he almost smiles. And damn if it’s not a turn-on, watching him struggle in real time. God, it would be so easy to temporarily forget about the headlines and the fact that money-clip men aren’t my cup of tea, to, just for a few minutes, slide my dress aside and get lost in the heavenly climb of this steep, rugged mountain.

“How did you envision it?” I adjust myself, getting comfortable, letting my breasts scrape his hard chest. Even through his thick blazer between us, like flint, the friction ignites every inch of my skin.

“More”—he swallows hard—“spacious, room for us to get to know each other, exchange our stories and pleasantries, thank you for the invitation.”

“Hello, I’m Whitney Graves, owner of the Artery. I’m glad you came,” I say, voice breathy but still controlled somehow as I lift my head, gaze fixed on his lips parting, hands slipping around his back. “Like that?”

A cough hijacks his laugh. “Yeah, y-yes,” he stammers. “Sorry about this, uh, predicament I put you in.” He chuckles, clearly angling for space and still finding none. “I’m sure he’ll probably be gone in a sec, and I’ll get out of your hair, Mrs. Graves.”

“It’s just miss.” I smile, loving his sneaky little non-ask about my relationship status.

“Yes, of course.” His Adam’s apple bobs appetizingly. “Miss Graves.”

Outside the restroom, chatter and footsteps ebb and flow, heightening the urgency of the moment.

“Well, Mr. Easton, since we’re past introductions and apologies, given your aerial view of my cleavage, and considering someone might need the facilities any minute”—I search his gorgeous, dark eyes—“should I skip the rest of the pleasantries and throw my name in the hat for a chance to exhibit your late wife’s collection… or are you already committed?”

It’s a fair question. Warner’s here, in my gallery. He came tonight despite his impending meeting with the Harrington gallery. Whether he just needed to get out, or find a backup if that plan fell through, it doesn’t matter. It’s supply and demand. I’ve got a damn incredible gallery; he’s got art that needs to be sold. But the question itself? It’s double-edged. There’s subtext. His late wife’s collection. Is he committed?

He licks his lips like he’s determined to focus on my words instead of every distracting inch where our bodies are connected like live wires. “Yeah, I think so.”

It’s not a yes. That’s what I focus on as I lift my eyes to his, sharp and unyielding. “You think?”

“Yeah, uh, yes,” he says without zero conviction.

I splay my fingers on his back, inching lower until I reach the cement curb of his ass.

“Well, an astute businessman like you”—I tilt my head, arching into him, the rasp in my voice magnifying the tension—“I’d imagine you like considering all your options before you make any final decisions.”

Say yes.

Please, say yes.

“I’m already meeting with a gallery.” Warner’s voice hardens, going gruff, rough as steel trailing down my spine the way my body comes to attention.

“Not like mine,” I persist. “I just need a chance.”

For a beat, we stand here, our breaths and eyes locked. I know he’s attuned to this level of perseverance because it’s exactly how he excels with Echelon Technologies. No isn’t an option.

“Very well,” he relents, saving us both the hassle of continuing this charade in subtext. “I’ll set up an appointment to meet with you before I select a gallery, then. Do you have an assistant?”

“Yes.”

Heat swarms my skin, and I smile triumphantly. I don’t know if I’m visibly gloating about the collection or if I’m high on pheromones at the prospect of seeing him again.

“Good,” he says, taking shallow breaths. “My assistant’s out of town, but I’ll reach out Monday if that works for you, Miss Graves?”

“Okay.”

With the business handled, he straightens as much as is possible in the tight space. For a fleeting second, the only things in the room are blue satin, warm, spicy cardamom, and the intensifying urge to circle back to pleasantries. Rather, pleasure.