Page 84 of The Unfluencer

She frowns. “Sir, wind doesn’t slam its fists on doors and shake the handle. Someone’s out there trying to get in.”

I huff out a laugh. “Take it easy there, Lost City. Last I checked, you weren’t a romance writer with books mapping out locations of ancient treasures.”

Whitney doesn’t even chuckle at that one.

I watch as her entire demeanor changes. She goes from the soft, relaxed woman quietly taking up residence in my heart to guarded action heroine. First, she pulls out her apple, palming it like a fruity grenade. Which reminds me, I’ve got one too.

Pulling mine out, I take a loud bite, and she actually shushes me. “Well, why don’t you just tell them we’re in here? How can you eat now?”

Laughter hijacks my gasp.

“Are you for real? Who exactly is them? What do you think is happening?” I ask, stupidly watching as she unwraps a dish towel with two paring knives that might as well be freaking machetes. “Whoa…” I stumble backward, chuckling. “Hello? Wind, rain, storm watch. Any of this ringing a bell? Things are bound to get thrown around outside.”

“You’re not getting it.” She lets out a humorless laugh.

And again, what?

“Listen, this is a precast concrete building hidden a few feet into the brush and secured with a key, a code, and a retina scanner. Even if there were someone out there, and there’s not, no one is getting in here.”

She busies herself, handing me a knife and fishing her phone out her other pocket. “Clearly, you haven’t watched enough action or horror movies.”

“Oh my goodness. You’re acting like this is DEFCON 1 and you’ve been called to duty.” I’m genuinely concerned how this escalated so fast. “No one’s outside⁠—”

The lights go out.

“You were saying?”

As if she’s been training for this, she taps her phone screen and starts wildly swiping.

This bunker has a backup generator. That means, at any second, the power should kick back on, we’ll realize some debris got knocked into the door, we completely overreacted, and everything will return to normal.

But not this woman.

Instead, hidden amongst her survival tools, somehow, she just so happens to have a night-vision app readily available.

Go figure. You know, on the off chance there’s a deranged intruder—no, correction, an eccentric, money-crazed fictional billionaire—who’s stalked us to this remote bunker on a private island.

“Who exactly do you think is out there?” I ask.

Whitney turns to me, her face illuminated only by the faint green glow from her phone. She’s all brusque, frantic… and annoyingly gorgeous, mind you. Not at all rational, which is what I was hoping for. Not thinking about the kiss question that seems intent on evading us, no. But like an armed assassin.

“Follow me,” she says quietly, conspiratorially.

Not that I’ve got much choice, since I left my phone in the main residence and she’s got the only light available. So I follow her, taking careful, but rushed, steps toward the back of the bunker until we’re both crouched down behind the paneled rack—staring at a shadow-streaked portrait of Sherry.

“Warner, you’re not putting the pieces together,” she whispers, focus centered on the door up front. “You had an attempted break-in at your house, right?”

“Yeah.” I’m still confused, but listening.

“Well, the night of Corinne’s art exhibition, we learned that someone had been in my gallery’s back storage area rifling through paintings. Nothing was taken…” She starts coring her apple with long, skilled slices. “Then your flight attendant’s sick. The landing gear fails…”

My heart drops. “Wait, you think someone tampered with the plane?”

Whitney shrugs. “I don’t know, but I can’t write any of it off as a coincidence. Have you seen or heard anything unusual?”

The word pricks at me. Twice today, Nacheline said Jeff had come by. He’s nosy, but he’s never shown up uninvited. What in the hell is going on?

“My neighbor,” I say. “Nacheline said he’s been here today. Supposedly, he’s noticed damage on my yacht and traffic in the area. Claimed he was on ‘high alert.’ Seemed odd.”