Page 6 of The Unfluencer

“Mm-hmm, that’s what I thought.” I chuckle. “Still don’t understand why I’m not in a rush to find my forever boo?”

Every nerve in my body buzzes with anticipation of their responses. I halfway expect Chanel, or at least Tatiana, to tweak her resolutions to include a lap around Ellswood’s events. Or for her to backpedal the whole ro-mess comment.

It’s the least they could do.

Except Chanel leans forward, squinting at my phone. “That’s him.”

“Who?” I ask.

Priscilla reaches out and stretches her finger and thumb, expanding the image on my screen. “Yup, that’s Warner, all right.”

When I flip it around, my eyes collide with a photo of a man who looks vaguely familiar. But also, that might be because my gorgeous sculpture come to life is staring back at me.

Respectfully, JESUS!

The universe is really testing me.

Every inch of my body hums like a live wire. My skin buzzes, pulse skipping, a current I can’t ground. And suddenly, cloning doesn’t sound that bad. As long as it’s the Warner Easton “not a husband” edition, because I need my own limited-production, dangerously fine man with every last one of his special features.

God help me, I’ll be first in line.

The calm command in his dark brown eyes; the composition of his body. The outline of his full lips. The goatee, athletic build, ramrod-straight posture on a six-foot-infinity frame drenched in rich brown skin and dressed in a black-on-black suit, and muscle mass. Check, check, and divinely checked.

My breaths stutter.

He feels like a challenge and a promise all at the same time. He’s not just attractive. No, he’s intentionally made.

I’ll be damned.

It’s all there. And…

My attention drifts to his title, tucked in the corner of the photo. CEO of Echelon Technologies. The company that makes that Mod3D app Ebony and Linc use to create 3D walkthroughs of properties. They’re relocating the entire hub to Ellswood next month. It’s all anyone’s been talking about.

So, on top of being fine, he’s also—as Chanel dutifully noted—techy smart, definitely a Type A man about his fast-paced business, a strong character, and is living and working in my city.

In other words, he’s Urkel and Urquelle. Perfect. You know, if he weren’t already someone’s husband.

Get a grip, Whit.

I glance up, heart and mind racing a million miles a second. But Chanel’s frozen, her features drawn tight, eyes locked on her phone.

“What happened, did the universe wave its wand and fix that trouble in paradise?” I half laugh. “Now Warner’s magically available?”

Obviously I’m joking, trying to lighten the mood. All this talk of running, slipping, and falling in love with off-limits men is clearly dampening everyone’s spirits.

Except Chanel lifts her teary-eyed gaze and freezes.

“Sherry Easton’s dead.”

Chapter One

Whitney

Polite Society

One year, one month later

Terrell “the Artiste,” as his millions of PopShot followers call him (or so I’m told, since social media isn’t my ministry), leans back in his chair at our white-clothed table, like we’re not just out here, willy-nilly, braving the wild and wealthy of Ellswood’s country club scene.