Page 62 of The Unfluencer

Leaning in too, I sink my teeth into my bottom lip, holding his stare.

“Name the time and place,” I purr, absolutely up for this challenge, every bit excited to see how two dates spawn a love story.

He tips up his chin. “Two days. Clover Cay. My plane leaves at eight a.m. sharp.”

I gasp.

Not that I mean to, but… is he really saying what I think he’s saying?

A warm smile stretches Warner’s pillowy lips. He nods softly, confirming the fantasy reeling through my head. Us, zipping off to the Bahamas. Sun, sand, turquoise water, seafoam-blue skies. Jet-setting adventure. There’s hope, nerves, maybe a mix of both. But underneath the haze, I’m really so pathetic that spending time in paradise with a man without sex is a feat?

Get a grip, Whit.

Warner drags a hand over his mouth, fixing me again with that intense gaze. Challenging me. Taunting me.

Can you resist me? it says. Can you spare my sexy widower heart?

The struggle is so real.

My first thought is, immediately no, followed by a string of whys. Because why is it always one or the other? Why can’t I have the collection and Warner, and everything just magically works out with my health, gallery, and ArteryBeat kids? Why does personal growth always require abstinence, resolutions, and unnecessary, sexy eye contact?

Also, do I really want Couldn’t go ten measly days without sex engraved on my tombstone?

No. I don’t.

But I already took the wager. Ten days. No sex. Excessive vulnerability. Growth. Restraint legacy intact. And I won’t lose because Warner’s got a perfect face and…whatever illegal pheromones he’s emitting.

“Okay, you’re on,” I inhale with dignity, or at least the appearance of it, even though this lust feels strange. “I’ll have my assistant call yours.”

Chapter Fourteen

Warner

Indubitably

“And for the record”—Greer’s slow exhale echoes in my ear—“wagers are childish. And making one with Cord is just asking for trouble.”

“Yeah.”

I’m only half listening when my phone vibrates on the wood-grained console beneath the cabin window, flashing a breaking news headline.

THE NEXT ACT: GENTRY NETWORK SIGNALS EXECUTIVE PRODUCER EXPANSION FOR ZEEK HARRISON ACROSS LUXE LADIES FRANCHISE

Yup, that tracks.

I swipe away the notification, rolling the tension from my neck.

“You’re probably right.” I chuckle, angling toward the window to look out at the tarmac for the third time in as many minutes.

“Pfft! You don’t have to tell me I’m right…” Greer snorts, busy tracking Whitney’s ETA on her phone. “Ask your mother, who’s called twice today looking for you. I didn’t have to tell her about that silly wager; she saw the social media posts of you two at that gallery and said you’d no doubt block that blessing.”

“Greer!”

I feign shock, but I can’t stop laughing. Of all the outcomes I imagined when I invited Whitney to dinner last week, having an incredible time didn’t even make the list. Honestly, I thought I was getting the jump on the wager. Luxury car, Cibo Nero’s dining room booked out on one of its busiest nights. Surely she’d be impressed, right? Or at least slip up and expose the marriage-minded country-club socialite so I could walk away, fully vindicated.

But no.

Not only was she unmoved by lavish gestures, but she laughed at me. Then made me laugh.