Chapter Seventeen Gemma
Chapter Seventeen
Gemma
The clink of the metal spoon as I stir my tea fills the kitchenette.
“Are you ready?” His smoky voice startles me and I drop my spoon, spinning around to see Max standing in the doorway. I press a hand over my thudding heart.
“Bloody hell.” I glare daggers at him. “You nearly gave me a heart attack!”
The prick has the audacity to smirk. “Apologies.”
I fish the teaspoon out of the mug.
“I’ve finished up,” he says, and I notice he’s popped another button on his shirt, exposing a ridiculously defined dent between two painfully obvious pectorals.
Jesus Christ, even with his shirt on, that chest should come with a warning label.
“Obviously,” I retort, finally focusing.
He jerks his chin toward the lift. “My office.”
Bossy. I school my expression into neutrality. “I’ll meet you up there—just have to grab a few things.”
He nods in acknowledgment before leaving, and I take a moment to collect myself.
Snatching my mug from the counter, I rush to my office to collect my documents and then head upstairs.
The office, now eerily quiet, feels different when it’s empty.
I’ve been here after hours plenty of times before, but knowing there’s barely anyone left, save me and Max, it feels quieter. Private.
His door closes with a quiet snick behind me. He’s at his desk, focused on his laptop screen. The muscles in his forearms shift as he clicks the mouse pad, and the sight is almost pornographic.
“Right,” he says, glancing up. “What did you want to discuss?”
I set my mug and documents on his desk, smoothing my skirt as I sit across from him. I push my glasses farther up my nose and arrange my papers.
His office smells more like him than it did this morning—strong and masculine.
“I wanted to discuss the timeline for the hotel photo shoot. I understand this isn’t something I’d usually bring to your attention, but I’ve been going through the logistics, and I think we need to persuade some contractors to bring things forward if we want to get the best photographs to meet the launch date. ”
“Show me.” He lifts his brows expectantly, but when I stand and bend to arrange the right paperwork, I’m acutely aware that my position gives him an excellent view down my cleavage.
From the way his breathing changes, he’s noticed.
When I glance up, I catch him quickly looking from my chest back to my face.
“Actually, it’s probably best if you come around here. It’ll be easier to look at the documents together,” he suggests, his voice rough.
I swallow a lump in my throat. Coming around to his side of the desk means standing close to him. Very close.
I drag a chair around and take a seat beside him, shifting my papers.
Clearing my throat, I point to the timeline.
“Right here. If we can confirm the necessary permits for the rooftop pools by next week instead of two weeks’ time, we can move the entire shoot forward.
That gives us more time to focus on the penthouse suites.
After all, they’re the rooms that will attract the clientele we most want—the guests who think nothing of spending six figures on a holiday. ”
He’s studying the documents, and I feel his eyes flick to me.
“Makes sense. I’ll see if I can sway the planning department to fast-track the permits sooner.
” His brows crease as he continues reading.
“We’ll need to have the designers and stylists confirmed sooner too.
Can you look into their availability for me, please? ”
“Already on it,” I say. Our fingers brush as I flip the page and we both freeze, neither of us moving our hands away.
“I’ve got three backup options if our first choices fall through. One of them worked on the Ritz-Carlton on Piccadilly. I can send their information and portfolios through, if you like?” I’m trying to focus on the words in front of me instead of the warmth of his hand.
I continue pretending to read the timeline.
“Very proactive, and yes, please do.” His voice is lower now, and when I glance at him, I find him watching me instead of looking at the papers. “You keep impressing me.”
“Don’t sound so surprised,” I say, but there’s no real bite to it. Something in his tone and his gaze has me drawing closer to him.
“I’m not surprised at all.” He shifts in his chair and our shoulders brush. “Thank you for running this by me. It’s great. You’re very good at your job, Gemma.”
“Thank you,” I say.
We’re staring at each other now and the space between us pulses. His eyes dart to my mouth and I lick my lips. He makes a low sound at the back of his throat. I should create some distance. But I can’t seem to move.
His pinkie finger brushes mine. That had to be deliberate.
“We should—” I start.
“Should what?” he asks, his eyes darkening.
“Focus,” I breathe.
“Right.” But he’s not looking at my work. He’s looking at me.
When I uncross my legs instinctively, a few strands of hair fall in my face. He reaches up and tucks them behind my ear, his hand lingering against my cheek.
All rational thought scatters like marbles.
“Max,” I say, unsure if it’s a warning or a plea.
“I know,” he rasps. I’m unsure exactly what he knows, but the thoughts that sift through my mind are this is a terrible idea, we should probably move, and kiss me.
“Anna would kill us,” I say.
“For what?” he says, leaning closer.
“You know what.” This time, it is a warning.
“We aren’t doing anything,” he says, the corner of his eyes crinkling as he fights a smirk.
“Max,” I warn again.
“Gemma.” He says my name like a confession.
I’m drowning in the depth of his eyes, his pupils almost totally dilated. I still can’t move away. It’s as if some unseen force tugs me closer to him.
His hand slides to the back of my neck as he leans in, close enough to steal my next breath. My eyes fall shut automatically.
He inhales sharply, and then his lips brush mine, barely. So soft, so tentative, it feels too delicate to be real.
Then, my phone buzzes loudly on the desk and our trance is broken. We spring apart like the moment singed us. I lean over and grab my phone, seeing Anna’s name on the screen.
Anna: Just messaging to let you know that April called. She took too much magnesium and shat her pants again.
And if that’s not a sign, I don’t know what is. What on earth was I thinking, staying late with Max? It was entirely unnecessary—of course, I could have handled this over an email like any normal person. I don’t know why I insisted.
Actually, that’s a lie—I know why. When it comes to Max Browne, my vagina tries to stage a coup and takes over all decision making.
Is there such a thing as female pre-nut clarity? Because I could really use some right now.
Max runs a hand through his hair, looking as shaken as I feel.
“I should go,” I say, standing abruptly and gathering my things. “I’ll work on this and send you an updated timeline tomorrow.”
“Gemma,” he says evenly, but I’m already at the door.
“Gemma,” he repeats more forcefully.
I hesitate and eye him cautiously.
He shakes his head. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
I nod, slipping out of his office and practically running to the lift.
Crap.