Page 66 of The Unfluencer

Of all the scenarios I pictured when Warner invited me to Clover Cay last week, being stuck playing a forty-eight-hour stint of the quiet game while he shamelessly flirts with the gorgeous skyscraper of young flight attendant…

Nope, didn’t even make the cut.

Mya, is it?

How long have you been flying with Gold Wing Charter?

If there’s time, I’d love to show you my yacht… and my plane, and you can tell me if size really matters.

Ugh, really?

I stifle a laugh because… this is what we’re doing? When I was so worried about subjecting his poor heart to deathbed love?

Please.

It’s not like I was delusionally turning this into a sweeping romantic getaway, per se. But I figured the restaurant was just the beginning with Warner and me. Today, we’d share takeoff mimosas. Once we’d briefly discussed the logistics of assessing the paintings, because first things first, time would fly while we were making plans for the bevy of—non-naked—recreational activities we’d get up to on the island. We’d talk movies, music, puzzles, food, connecting on a deeper level, letting each other in.

Then, surely, surely—after he ignored every inch of purposely exposed skin that my backless, thin-strapped emerald-green floral-print dress is serving his hungry eyes—we’d fall back into the same comfortably flirty, heartachingly vulnerable conversation à la the immaculate vibes at Cibo Nero.

At the very least, he’d tell me I’m a distractingly beautiful woman and that he hasn’t stopped thinking about me. I’d blush accordingly and coyly return the compliment, thus accelerating the sexless love timeline.

Yeah, no.

The vibes are off.

Not only isn’t Warner ecstatic, shouting from the rooftops that I’m here, he actually seems like he wishes he wasn’t here.

At least not with me.

Mya is gorgeous and giddy. And tall. As in moonlights as a WNBA player tall, with a wingspan that might rival Warner’s, so she’s basically a bombshell supermodel, just caught somewhere between pure admiration and nerves that’s she’s with the Warner Easton. She’s so curious about Echelon Technologies’ new engine and Sherry’s paintings, and where he’ll exhibit them.

And well, that… this is completely uncharted territory.

Now, I’m sitting across from flirty Warner, comfortably slouched in his seat, knees hanging wide open, looking like a damn chocolate-dipped orgasm in loose jeans, leather sneakers, and a pristine black tee. I’m waiting for this damn plane to take off so Mya can sit her happy self down, and I’m trying—and utterly failing—not to stare at his dick.

Good God, it’s huge.

I tear my gaze away, back to the window, where I’ve trained my attention because this whole scenario is rubbing me all wrong.

One thing about Whitney Graves? Up until my body decided to revolt against me and I let my divas talk me into forcing a connection that, clearly, isn’t there… I haven’t allowed men to treat me any old kind of way.

It’s just not how I’m built.

Usually, I meet a decently attractive man who can hold intelligent conversation, share a meal or a drink with him, and let the night take us wherever it might. Usually, that’s a few hours in my bed, ending with him carrying his clothing out in a ball in the middle of the night. Occasionally, we sleep until sunrise.

But more often than not, it ends there because… men.

Again, sexually confused, dangerous, in a relationship, in need of therapy, or married.

Or, in Warner’s case, unfairly fine billionaire widower whose immature conflict resolution skills lean heavily on the silent treatment and dropping tired pickup lines on flight attendants while they’re at work.

At least sex is off the table.

In my periphery, he shifts in his seat, adjusting himself, his knees opening impossibly wider for Mya.

See, this is why I don’t do second dates. I’m not the jealous type and I damn sure don’t have time to play games. Especially not when I don’t have… time.

But why does his ignoring me make him even hotter?