Page 78 of The Unfluencer

I can’t suppress my smile.

“What?” he asks, cutely.

“You’re going to cook for me?”

“Well, Nacheline let my chef go home, so…” he explains, chuckling. “Wait, after everything I just said, that’s all you heard?”

“Yes.”

We’re both bent over with laughter, gasping for air, and it’s the most wholesome, sweet moment. How can we be more intimate and open with each other? Really, my heart can’t take another second.

And then he reaches out of my line of sight, just on the side of the doorframe, and snaps upright holding a small stack of folded clothes, and I just stare at him, confused.

“Listen, I hope this isn’t too presumptuous,” he says as he pinches the collar of a sweatshirt and lets it unravel. “I realized you probably weren’t packed for rainy weather⁠—”

“Are those…?”

Warner flashes me a lopsided smile.

Whitney, do not climb this man like he’s a jungle gym.

“Yeah, I grabbed a few pairs of my sweatpants and shirts for you to feel more comfortable. They’ll be a bit big on you, but they’re drawstring, and I’d love to see you in…” He pauses like the words snagged, and his expression teeters faintly. “Nothing.”

My pulse quickens. “What?”

“Uh, nothing but my clothes,” he backpedals, but that guilty smile? Not for a second do I believe it was a slip of the tongue. My body surely doesn’t.

I’ll be damned. Warner’s down to get busy?

Shit. Warner’s down to get busy.

“That was really, um, thoughtful of you,” I say, quietly taking the clothes from him. It takes every inkling of willpower I’ve got to back away, to not inhale his clean, fresh scent. “Thank you. Give me two minutes?”

Five minutes and ten deep breaths later, I’m warm, cozy, drowning in his black sweats, and trying my damnedest not to be a whole-ass territorial ro-mess over wearing a boy’s sweatshirt like a preteen.

“Looks good on you.”

He smiles, letting his possessive gaze trail down my body.

So, yeah, I’m basically a throbbing-hot mess the entire time we take the scenic route to the kitchen, touring the two-story main residence with its blend of exquisite, old-money wood-and-wicker accents, crisp, modern turquoise palette, and stunning panoramic views. It’s pristine beauty and state-of-the-art technology, sprawling over two acres of private pools, a six-thousand-bottle wine cellar, ten-seat movie theater, laundry, security room, and eight bedrooms and bathrooms. Correction: eight and a half bathrooms.

And that’s just the interior.

We peek out at a private pier, a full-size tennis court, sand volleyball court, barbecue pavilions, and a coconut palm tree grove lined with a wall of sea grape trees.

Clover Cay is undoubtedly one of the most impressive properties in the Bahamas, if not the entire Caribbean.

I’m officially dazzled.

By the time I settle at the kitchen island, watching Warner, in a cute denim apron, dip in and out of the pantry and fridge, awkwardly introducing himself to pots and pans, clearly more accustomed to being served by a private chef, I already know I’m so far beyond lust at this point.

If he says boo, I’ll be horizontal on this floor.

“Sure you don’t need a hand in there?” I scrape my teeth over my bottom lip, downright ogling him.

“Uh, I think I’ve got things handled.” He laughs.

The kitchen smells like butter and coffee, the burnt kind. The kind that would normally have me up off this stool, rushing in to take over and make this a soft morning. Instead, I lean against the counter, watching him at the stove, wooden spoon in hand, flipping aggressively sizzling, watery pancakes that’ll likely be as burnt as the coffee.