Chapter Four Gemma
Chapter Four
Gemma
These guys are the big players. The Grayson Livingstone, from Livingstone Hotels, and his chief development officer, who I’m told is absolutely brilliant.
Henry and I have been burning the candle at both ends to craft the perfect pitch for Gray Hotel.
Luxury hotels are my specialty—my bread and butter—so it was no surprise that Henry’s boss picked us when Grayson Livingstone reached out about collaborating.
Some of my colleagues were absolutely fuming.
Every marketing agency in the UK wanted this campaign.
Louise and Theo, our colleagues, have been shooting daggers at Henry and me ever since we were announced for the pitch.
Louise hates me with a passion. We both started at Prestige together, but my career has progressed much faster than hers, and she’s never forgiven me for it.
I was promoted to creative director while she stayed stuck as marketing strategist, and where Louise goes, her loyal minion Theo follows.
She’s only gotten more bitter with time.
Not that I care—I find her about as appealing as a colonoscopy.
The vindictive cow reached peak evil last year when she nearly cost me an entire account.
She went behind my back and told them I was “difficult to work with” and had a drinking problem, all because she couldn’t stand that I was chosen to be promoted, not her.
I’m lucky HR didn’t performance manage me after her wicked lie.
Now that Henry and I were selected to pitch for this project, she’s dropped the two-faced facade entirely. She openly mutters insults as I walk past—mainly about the way I dress—gives me filthy looks across the office, and has even stooped to petty pen thievery, the little shit.
Having your pens go missing? It’s bloody annoying. I know it’s her because I can feel her eyes follow me from my office (she’s in a cubicle) all the way to the supply closet. Every. Single. Time.
So yeah, Louise can suck on my big, fat, metaphorical balls.
Waving my hand under the sensor tap in the ladies’ bathroom, I attack my trench coat with damp paper towels, attempting to save it.
The coffee stains have set into the cream fabric, and my blood pressure rises with each useless dab.
At this point, I’m just diluting and spreading the stain even further.
Giving in, I toss out the paper towel. The hand dryer roars to life, blasting hot air over my ruined coat to dry the wet patch. I watch in horror as the expensive fabric stiffens under the assault, setting the stain deeper.
Perfect. Just bloody perfect.
My phone chimes and I dig it out of my pocket, swiping across the chipped screen to open Henry’s message.
Henry: Where the hell are you?
The glass snags my thumb and a small bead of blood blooms on my fingertip.
My eyes dart to the time: 9:00 a.m.
Shit. I need to get to this meeting. My blood smears over the screen as I hurriedly type out a response.
Me: On my way! Go ahead and I’ll meet you in there.
I bolt into my office, sweeping my hair out of my face and adjusting my glasses. I snatch my folder, and then, unusually for me, I’m running—as much as one can in heels—toward the boardroom.
Ping.
I flip my phone over, reading the message banner as my legs propel me toward the end of the corridor.
April: Are we still on for drinks tonight?
Anna: Yes! Come to mine, I picked up some cheeses.
My fingers fly across the screen.
Me: I’ll bring wine.
Anna: Fab.
Another message comes in.
Henry: I’m starting without you.
Crap!
I lurch to a stop when I reach the end of the hallway. Taking a deep breath, I steel myself before pushing open the double doors.
Henry stands in front of a large projector, preparing to begin the pitch without me.
Sorry, I mouth. All chatter ceases as his eyes bore into mine, horror etched across his face. His gaze slowly peruses from my head to my toes, and I gulp, dropping my folder onto the table and shedding my coat. As I lower the trench off my shoulders, the worst imaginable thing happens.
My top button gives way, popping off with dramatic flair. It gets some serious air behind it and I watch, helpless, as it arcs across the room in slow motion, only to strike the left eye of one of the most beautiful men I’ve ever seen.
Grayson Livingstone.
“Ah! Fuck!” he yells, clutching at his eye.
Fuck, indeed.
My heart slams against my ribs as I cover my mouth with my hand, totally mortified.
Did that just happen? I glance to Grayson’s left, where his chief development officer must be seated, only to freeze when my gaze latches onto a familiar pair of ocean-blue ones.
A dark eyebrow arches as he leans back, crossing his muscled arms over his chest, a smirk on his face.
You’re shitting me.
“I’m so sorry!” I say.
Henry sidles up to me, his voice strained. “Gemma Clarke, meet Grayson Livingstone and his chief development officer, Max Browne.”
Ah-ha! I knew the handsome bastard looked familiar.
Max Browne. As in my best friend Anna’s older brother, Max Browne. The one I’ve somehow managed to avoid meeting for thirteen years of friendship with Anna.
Not only have I potentially blinded one of the most important men in my professional career with wayward haberdashery, but not ten minutes ago, I told his partner—my best friend’s brother—that I was certain he had a tight arse.
Bloody brilliant.