Chapter Six Max
Chapter Six
Max
The rich, nutty aroma of coffee wafts through the kitchenette as I press the Nespresso machine button.
After a quick dash to Harrods for a new shirt—and dropping Grayson at the optometrist to have his eye checked, the poor bloke—I can finally settle in with the pitch notes Gemma and Henry provided.
Gemma.
Anna’s best friend.
I knew I’d seen her before.
I pull up Anna’s Instagram, scroll through her following list, and open Gemma’s profile when I find it.
I squint when I click on her most recent post, using my thumb and index finger to zoom in. Gone is the silk shirt and mid-length skirt. Instead, she’s wearing a tiny leather skirt, come-fuck-me boots, and a lace bodysuit.
Now, this look suits her.
There’s poise and certainty in the way she carries herself.
Like she knows exactly what she’s doing—knows the effect she’ll have on any poor bastard who looks.
The way she smirks at the camera—it’s like she’s daring anyone to look away, and that glint in her eye has me making my decision: I don’t want to.
A smile tugs at my lips as I picture the way she’d burst into the boardroom looking delightfully disheveled. Her hair was a mess, I swear there was blood smeared on her cheek—I don’t even want to know whose—and her coat matched my shirt.
Despite all that, she still looked gorgeous. Sexy.
You’d think Grayson would be irritated about taking a button to the eyeball, but I have a feeling Gemma’s impressive cleavage might have softened the blow. And despite the shit show, her and Henry’s pitch was absolutely brilliant.
I sink into a nearby chair, flipping through Gemma’s pitch folder. Page after page demonstrate her passion and enthusiasm for the project. There isn’t a single detail she’s missed. She hasn’t created a marketing plan; she’s crafted an entire experience.
And it’s not just good.
It’s exceptional.
Heels click against tiles, the sound drawing closer. I stash my phone and glance up just as Gemma appears.
She falters, surprised when she sees me.
“Hello, Gemma.”
“Max,” she says, nodding in recognition.
Her soft, velvety voice wraps around me, and all I can focus on are her lips.
She hesitates, her eyes darting to the folder, and she fidgets with her necklace.
I lift the folder. “This is good.”
“I know.”
She’s confident, I have to hand it to her. I like it.
She moves toward the fridge, pulling out the milk as she prepares her coffee. My eyes zero in on the way her hips move, the fabric of her skirt hugging her perfect arse.
“I particularly like the piece you’ve included around the neighborhood guide. It makes Mayfair seem exclusive but accessible.”
She nods, pivoting to face me as the coffee machine hums, filling her mug.
“Guides are one of my favorite things to develop. Mayfair has a reputation for being pompous. It’s all private members’ clubs and old money, but there’s this whole other side to it that I think Gray Hotel can really tap into.
” She tucks her hair behind her ear, casually leaning against the counter as she continues.
“When people think of Mayfair, they think of wealth. But we want them to picture the hottest wine bars, modern fine-dining restaurants, and edgy art galleries. There’s so much more we can get guests excited about.
We want them to feel like they have the best of both worlds—that sense of exclusivity while staying connected to the latest trends and hot spots. ”
Well, well, well. She can carry a normal conversation, after all.
I close the folder, lowering it to my lap. “I’m impressed. You’ve really thought this through.”
She crosses her arms. “Obviously—it’s my job.”
I smirk. Cheeky.
“What? You took one look at me and thought I was nothing but great tits and a perfect arse?” Her green eyes flash behind her glasses. “I worked my way up to this position all on my own.”
My jaw clenches.
“Of course not. Your pitch is evidence of that,” I say, my voice even.
My gaze catches on the safety pin holding her shirt together and I bite back a laugh. I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t noticed her assets—it’s impossible not to—but her presentation speaks volumes about her skill set and talent. I’m annoyed she assumed I was surprised by her intellect.
She rolls her eyes, turning to add a splash of milk to her coffee before taking a sip.
“Are you always this defensive?” I cock my head, studying her.
She spins around. “Are you always a dick?”
This time I laugh. The fire in her eyes, the sharp tongue—it’s all too familiar.
“What’s so funny?” she asks, drumming her fingers against her mug.
“Nothing. Now I understand why you’re close with my sister.” I stand, moving closer, enjoying how she tenses slightly at my proximity. “You’re a little spitfire, aren’t you?”
Her eyes narrow. “And you’re exactly the kind of arrogant arse she warned me about.”
I raise my eyebrows, intrigued. “Oh? She warned you against me, did she?” I lean against the counter.
“Mm-hmm.” She takes another sip.
I fold my arms over my chest. “I see. And why, exactly, did she warn you?”
She sighs, setting her mug gently on the counter. “It doesn’t matter. I’m just trying to do my job, despite your best efforts to be insufferable.”
“Insufferable?” I press a hand to my chest. “Here I thought we were having a pleasant conversation.”
“Pleasant?” She arches an eyebrow. “Is that what you call this?”
“What did she warn you about me?” I press further, curious now.
Her cheeks tinge pink and she looks away. This is the first crack in her armor I’ve seen. She opens her mouth to respond just as Grayson strides in, a white patch covering one eye.
I clench my jaw, annoyed at his timing. She almost dropped her wall, and damn if I’m not dying to know what’s behind it.
I wonder what she was going to say. What did Anna warn her of? And why?
What could my sister possibly be worried about?
Gemma steps toward Grayson cautiously. “Grayson, sir. I am so, so sorry about your eye.”
He waves a hand dismissively. “Please, it’s fine. No harm done. Nothing a few lubricating drops can’t fix.”
Gemma’s face crumples at his words.
“Well, not too much harm, at least,” he adds with a chuckle. “It was an honest mistake.”
Her shoulders visibly drop with relief as she nods. But Grayson’s expression hardens as he turns to me. “Max, I hate to drop this on you, but I just got a call from Cole. I need to handle something urgent in New York.”
“Is everything okay?” I ask.
His eyes dart to Gemma before he ushers me around the corner, out of earshot.
“Dad’s contesting the will,” he says, voice grim.
I freeze. “What? He can’t do that.”
“The old geezer will do anything to get his hands on the company and Granddad’s fortune.” Grayson’s fingers rake through his hair. “This could drag on for months. Dad’s lawyers are ruthless.”
I understand his fury. Grayson and his brothers were always closer to their grandparents than their father.
When their grandfather passed nearly two years ago, he left his entire fortune and three businesses to Grayson, Cole, and Noah.
Their father got nothing and he was livid.
I guess now he’s ready to fight them for it.
“Surely, he’s bluffing. You have all the money and resources,” I remind him, crossing my arms. “You guys have all the power here, not him.”
“Screwing over your own sons—could you imagine?” He pinches the bridge of his nose. “Apparently, he’s sitting on twenty years’ worth of dirt on the company and he’s angry enough to use it.”
My eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “Shit.”
“I’m fucking stressed, Max.” His voice drops to barely above a whisper.
“He’s threatening to go to the press about supposed sketchy business practices in the eighties—whatever the hell that means.
It’s all bullshit, but the scandal alone could tank our stock prices.
” He rubs the back of his neck. “Cole’s already dealing with nervous investors and trying to calm the board.
Emerson’s focused on college. This is the last thing we need. ”
“Jesus,” I mutter, running a hand down my face.
“Exactly. He’ll do everything he can to destroy our success, which is exactly why we can’t let him win.” Grayson’s fists clench at his sides. “Max, I’m going to need you to take over Gray Hotel for me while this is going on. I can’t do both.”
“Of course,” I assure him. “I’ll hold things down here and see the launch through—you take care of things in New York. I can handle this.”
He arches an eyebrow. “Even the crazy woman in the kitchen?”
I laugh. “Even her.”
He straightens the lapels on his jacket. “I was impressed with their presentation. What do you think?”
“I think we go ahead. I’m happy with everything I’ve seen.”
He nods. “I trust your judgment.”
“Thanks. They know what they’re doing.” I nod. “We could create something exceptional here.”
He claps me on the shoulder. “I know I can count on you. Ring me if you need anything, yeah?”
“Of course. Now, piss off,” I say. He laughs, turning to leave, but I catch him. “And look after that eye, will you? You’re going to need it.”
“It feels like someone’s taken sandpaper to it.” Despite his mood, he smiles. “But worth it for that pitch.” He checks his watch. “Shit. I better run before I miss my flight.” He starts toward the elevator before spinning back, pointing at me. “If anything feels off—”
“I’ll call you immediately. Good luck,” I say.
“I’m going to need it.” He steps into the elevator car and calls over his shoulder, “See you back in New York in two months!”
I return to the kitchenette, where the spitfire calmly sips her coffee, tapping away at her shattered phone screen.
Yeah, I have a feeling I’m going to need a little of that luck too.