Page 74 of The Unfluencer

Laughter tickles the back of my throat.

This movie sounds terrible. Why did it remind her of us? Is the correlation in the room with us?

I drag a hand over my jaw, searching her eyes.

She’s making zero sense.

But on the off chance that there’s some sage advice mixed in with this Whac-A-Mole plot, I’m listening.

“The town they’d been looking for wasn’t some castle full of gold and riches, Mr. Warner. No, it was the queen’s secret place to grieve her husband. And treasure was the love they had there.”

Yeah, still nothing.

I slice my hands through the air, needing to get this straight. “So, in this scenario, I’m the cover model, the romance book writer, the evil billionaire, or the queen?”

Nacheline lets out another deep sigh. She’s completely exasperated by my question, but I’m going to need her to spell this out for me.

“Try to pay attention, Mr. Warner. You’re the romance book writer.” She actually grunts. “How can you write about love and adventure, when you don’t get out there to experience it?”

“Sooooo… Whitney’s the cover model. Got it.”

I do not got it.

She pushes the door until it snicks closed, then whirls around on her heel.

“You’re the writer. She’s your story.” Again, she purses her lips. “You put yourself out there; now it’s all coming to you. The story, love, romance, adventure. Life.”

“Ah, okay.”

I nod a good dozen times.

Mostly because still not getting it after the third time is my limit. But also, I’m a bit concerned that I just poured out my heart, feelings, fears, all of it. I mean, I didn’t say I’m pretty sure I like Whitney, that I felt like an asshole for clearly misjudging her, or that our kiss woke up something inside me I’d thought was long dead. Or how I hate that we haven’t spoken since and both chose lunch alone in our rooms over being anywhere near each other.

And yet somehow, to Nacheline, this all adds up to a messy adventure comedy with a weak plot and a dash of romantic chemistry?

“Interesting.” Make that make sense.

“Okay, now that we’ve got that straight, go and get yourself cleaned up for breakfast.” Her voice lifts with that warm, rolling lilt. “I’m sure you and Ms. Whitney will whip up something in the kitchen, you know?” I’m about to say no, I sure as hell don’t know, when she adds, “After, you’ll show her around the island before the storm⁠—”

“The storm?” I feel my eyebrows dip.

She groans. “Oh, Lord. What am I going to do with you, Mr. Warner? The weather alerts say we’re on storm watch. Maybe even upgraded to a tropical storm soon.”

This just keeps getting better.

Closing my eyes, I pinch the bridge of my nose.

First the landing gear and the kiss, and now I’m just supposed to play restaurant in the kitchen with Whitney while a weather system is picking up?

“You’re kidding, right? Please tell me you’re joking.”

When I open my eyes again, her hand is planted on her generous hip. “No, sir…”

Her expression is no-nonsense as she starts ticking off what she’s been doing to prepare since the moment the warnings escalated while I was airborne. The outdoor furniture and my yacht are already secured. The windows, which I’m only just now noticing, have been shuttered. She’s checked the backup generator, and set up an emergency staging area in the windowless movie theater, ideal for floods or extreme winds. There hasn’t been any official evacuation orders, but she’s loaded up the room with non-perishable food, gallons of water, meds, a radio, a few sealed bags of cash and important documents, extra fuel, as well as all the electronics—charged devices, flashlights, batteries, power banks.

All in all, she’s ready for us to stay indoors, should the weather take a turn for the worse.

Everything’s been done.