Page 56 of The Unfluencer

How hard can that be?

Simple. Foolproof.

A soft knock interrupts my mental victory lap. Greer pokes her head into the conference room. “There’s a phone call for Mr. Easton.”

A wave of impatient glares snap to her wedged into the doorframe.

“Yeah, can you take a message, Greer?”

She flicks an uneasy look from the suits to me. Then her eyes widen. “Mr. Easton, it’s regarding your meeting tomorrow evening…”

Whitney.

My heart beats a million times per minute.

I toss Leon, my attorney, a look that says, Handle this, please, while I step out. He nods, and I straighten, catching strays from every direction as I stand. “I’ll make it quick,” I mutter.

But the second the conference door shuts behind me, Greer is already on my heels, buzzing with nervous energy.

“Is everything set for tomorrow?” she asks, breathlessly keeping pace. “Should I send the car service and restaurant details to Whitney’s assistant now?”

My throat tightens as I reach the lobby. Her phone blinks incessantly, magnifying my sudden nerves.

“Uh… no. Not yet.” I exhale, trying to steady the churning in my stomach. “Did she say why she was calling?”

Greer shakes her head, mirroring my unease.

“Okay,” I say, picking up the receiver. “This is Warner Easton.”

Her voice hits me right between the ribs. Warm, calm, bordering on intimate in a way that slips past my defenses. “Hey, it’s Whitney.”

My throat goes desert dry.

It’s a physical outlet, not an emotional one, Warner.

“Listen, I’m in the middle of a meeting. Can I call you back a little later?”

She sighs softly into the line, and it’s disarming in such a genuine way. “Of course. I just wanted to thank you for the dinner invitation… and tell you how much I’m looking forward to continuing the conversation we started at the, um, gallery.”

That pause makes me lean in, almost like it’s pulling me forward.

“I feel like there’s so much more for us to explore,” she says softly.

Immediately my smile falters.

How does she do that? With only a handful of words, her hooks are in me.

Greer and I exchange a long, loaded look. Her big brown eyes widen. Wordlessly, she’s excavating the subtext, questioning if the rumors are true. Should she read between the lines? Did something really happen between Whitney and me behind that gallery’s restroom door? And underneath that, deeper still, do I want them to be true?

Is that even a question?

For my body, it’s beyond wanting. Every inch of me is reacting, remembering, aching like she’s in the room with me. Just us, tucked in a dimly lit room with only our shallow breaths, her flimsy satin dress fabric, and thickened desire throbbing between us.

My head, though… that’s a whole different battlefield.

The mere fact that she called is both top-tier professional and thoughtful in a way that makes me so curious about the woman behind the words. I want to know her, how she spends her days, what makes her tick. Because this woman who reached out… can’t be the same one from the country club and the gallery.

Where’s the debutante who wields her feminine charms for any introduction to society? The Luxe lady contender who whispers in dark corners with Zeek Harrison? The bold sexual innuendos? Where are the disparaging vlog comments?