Page 57 of The Unfluencer

What changed?

So even though I feel like I’m supposed to say something smooth, something swaggy and utterly unhusband-like—“Yeah, sounds like we’re overdue for some hands-on research” or “We’d better get started exploring because I don’t like leaving good territory undiscovered”—I don’t.

I can’t summon the words to be that crude.

“Yeah, I think so too,” I tell Whitney, forcing the words out. “I’ll, uh, see you tomorrow, right?”

As soon as the line clicks off, I turn to Greer, my pulse spiking, head spinning.

“Let’s hold off on sending the details for tomorrow,” I say, feeling every crack in my not-so-solid plan. Because now it feels like I’m walking straight into my own trap. “I, uh, might need to make a few adjustments.”

Greer arches a curious brow.

Suddenly, this weekend isn’t a test—it’s a recon mission. A marathon. And my know-it-all best friend called it. I’m not trained for this.

Chapter Thirteen

Whitney

Dazed and Dazzled

“With all due respect, Gertrude…” I flip the light switch at the top of my staircase landing, tickled just thinking about my tightly wound grandmother subjecting her fragile sensibilities to gossip headlines. “I really don’t understand why you’re concerning yourself with what they’re saying about me. That was, what, Saturday? And now it’s already Thursday night? Believe me, it’ll all blow over soon. This weekend, they’ll be onto the next so-called messy scandal.”

“Whitney Anika Graves.”

Her tone cuts sharp. This is the comedy I need when my nerves are all over the place.

“You seem upset…” I bait her, biting back a laugh as I make my way down the stairs. Partly because I’m texting Clive for the address he forgot to add to my calendar for tonight’s meeting with Warner in less than thirty minutes, and partly because every time she clears her throat, it’s obvious she’s two seconds from dropping her highfalutin, holier-than-thou act.

“Well, it’s quite unfortunate that you don’t seem to recognize the error in your thinking.”

She clears her throat, and I have to fake choking to mask my laugh because it’s so exhausting. And hilarious.

Whitney

What’s the address for the meeting? There’s no location.

Everywhere in Ellswood is less than a twenty-minute drive, but the meeting’s set for seven and it’s already six thirty-five.

“Come on, Clive,” I mutter to myself.

Thankfully, a second later, his three tiny ellipses appear on my screen. Cool relief floods my chest that, on top of vying for Sherry’s collection and vowing to my divas I’d try to build a genuine emotional—and sexless—connection, maybe eventually fall in love with this man, I don’t have to add being late to our first meeting to my already-frayed nerves.

But then the ellipses disappear.

Shit.

I let out a heavy sigh, irritated with myself for waiting until the absolute last minute to review the appointment.

“Listen, I’m on my way out,” I say as I reach the foot of the stairs, hoping she’ll take the hint and wrap up this conversation. But I’m also fully aware that, being the last-word woman she is, she won’t cut to the chase.

Sure as anything, she clears her throat again.

“A restroom rendezvous, Whitney?” The distaste slithers on her tongue, unearthing the bits of the Southern drawl she tries so hard to hide. “I know good and well I done raised you better than that. Better than to put your ass in precarious situations your sass can’t get you out of.” She inhales sharply. “It’s a shame because you’re such a brilliant young lady. All you need is to apply yourself⁠—”

“To an approved desk?” I cut her off, moving the life-choice berating along. “Wait, wait, wait. No, a finance desk that reflects well on the highly esteemed Graves name. Did I get it right? Is that what you were about to say?”

She smacks her lips.