Chapter Eighteen Max
Chapter Eighteen
Max
I’ve finished another grueling workout after a long day, and I’m sitting with a glass of Macallan and my book, The Art of War by Sun Tzu.
I have a great deal of respect for Sun Tzu’s approach to strategy—the idea that every business negotiation is a battlefield where the smartest player wins. Seemed rather fitting.
Aside from the almost-kiss with Gemma yesterday, the rest of my week has gone smoothly. I kept my distance today, deciding to work from my apartment as much as possible going forward. I’ll only venture into Prestige’s office when necessary.
Gemma and I have been corresponding via email all day, and everything she’s sent regarding the timeline shift has been outstanding.
She even sent through a new idea for Gray Hotel to collaborate with London’s newest Gallery of Contemporary Art, and I gave her the green light to investigate it further.
I also spoke to the planning department this morning, dropping Grayson’s name—you have to use all your resources in this industry—and they fast-tracked our application.
I should have approval in my inbox by Monday.
Thankfully, it seems we’ve both managed to move on from last night.
My phone buzzes with a text from Noah, asking where the hell I am.
It’s Thursday night and I’m meeting my uni mate at our old haunt in SoHo, which happens to be right near Prestige’s building.
I haven’t seen Noah since leaving for New York.
I’ve kept in touch with old friends, but everyone has their own lives now.
Things aren’t the same as when we were in our twenties and early thirties.
Some friendships changed after Casey and I split; others dissolved naturally due to distance and different pathways.
Most of the lads have moved on—wives, kids, some even with teenagers now.
Christ.
That makes me feel old.
Priorities change. They have lives that revolve around playdates, barbecues, and football practice, and I’d never hold that against them—it’s what they wanted. It’s just not what I wanted.
There’s a strange disconnect sometimes—they talk about private schooling and mortgages, while I talk about the latest art museums I’ve visited, books I’ve read, and weekend trips to the Hamptons.
Different worlds, but I stay connected with those who reciprocate the friendship.
I shrug on my coat, comb my fingers through my hair, and roll my shoulders. Maybe a night with Noah is just what I need to get my head straight and stop thinking about Gemma Clarke’s plush lips and that lacy, flimsy bra.
I hop into an Uber—I don’t do the Tube. Not after my first day at Prestige Partners.
I walk into the bar, which is teeming with people, as per usual on a Thursday.
It’s comforting returning to a place so familiar after years away and feeling like nothing’s changed.
I scan the crowd until I spot Noah perched on a stool at the far end of the bar, paying for his lager before turning around. He locates me through the sea of faces.
It’s like a punch to the gut.
He looks the same, a few more grays peppered around his ears and lines etched around his eyes. In an instant, I’m transported back to 2006 when we would all stumble in here after work, ties loosened after busting our arses all day in our junior roles.
I love New York, but damn, I’ve missed this.
“Mate,” Noah says, shaking my hand and pulling me in for a hug.
“Good to see you, mate,” I say.
“It’s been too long,” he says.
“It has. How’s Elena? How are the kids?” Noah married Elena shortly after Casey and I tied the knot. His wife was best friends with Casey, but when she started partying, they grew apart. Three kids later, I’m so thankful Noah and Elena and I have remained close friends.
Noah fills me in on life and how the lads are.
I laugh as we reminisce about old times, the nights we’d get rip-roaring drunk and stumble home at dawn and somehow make it into the office a few hours later.
I tell him all about New York, my new role and why I’m currently in London, about Gray Hotel and, I suspect due to the three pints I drink, I tell him about Gemma.
His eyes light up with that old glint. “It’s been a while since you’ve fancied anyone, innit?” he says, nudging me with his elbow.
I shake my head and smile. “I don’t fancy her. She’s Anna’s best friend. A pain in my arse, more like it.”
He guffaws. “Oh, bollocks.” He points at me with his index finger, the way he always did when calling out my bullshit. “I know that look. It’s the same look you had when you first told me about Casey. You like her.”
My smile drops at the mention of my ex, but I quickly recover, taking a swig of my beer.
He notices and quickly adds, “All I’m saying is that it wouldn’t be the worst thing to explore your attraction to Gemma. Just have a shag and move on with it, yeah? You’ve been wound tighter than a pair of testicles in skinny jeans since the divorce.”
That earns him a laugh. He has no idea how many women I’ve bedded since moving to New York.
“Anna’s going through some shit with her husband,” I say, staring into my lager. “I don’t think it’s the right time to get in her best friend’s knickers.”
He frowns, turning to fully face me. “You’re telling me your sister, who’s nearly thirty-five years old, has a problem with two of her favorite people enjoying each other’s company?
” He shakes his head. “That’s just an excuse, mate.
You’re all adults. You’re entitled to make your own decisions. She’ll get over it.”
“I work with the woman,” I say, as if it’s obvious that I shouldn’t be entertaining the idea of sleeping with her. Because it is obvious.
I take another sip and his eyes narrow. “Yeah, but only for this campaign. Once the hotel’s opened, you’ll fly back to New York and you won’t have to worry about seeing her again.”
He chuckles before taking a sip of his drink. “You’re making this a bigger deal than it is, you realize? It’s only sex.”
And that’s just it. She’s the kind of woman who could absolutely ruin me. She’s witty, ambitious, and sexy as sin. She’s everything I’d ever want in a woman, which is why I can’t have her. Because the second I sink into her, I’ll be done for.
Getting through six more weeks of working together will be hell when all I can think about is touching her. And once I get a taste? There’s no chance it’ll be the last.
And, at that moment, as if I manifested the woman herself, I hear a laugh.
Her laugh.
Of all the thousands of bars in London, of course she’d be at this one.
I close my eyes and release a long exhale before turning around. I immediately locate the source of the unmistakable sound.
She’s there with her fingers elegantly curled around a glass of white wine, her head thrown back as she giggles at something I can’t hear. One leg elegantly crossed over the other, revealing toned calf muscles. The hem of her skirt rides up enough to expose a glimpse of her shapely thigh.
Henry sits opposite her wearing a wide smile I immediately want to punch off his face. He leans in, speaks again, and she guffaws again.
I hate that he makes her laugh like that. It should be mine to draw out, not his.
The intrusive questions invade my thoughts. Has he fucked her? Is this what they do every week? Meet after work for a drink before he takes her back to his place and bends her over every flat surface? Has he tasted her? Licked that smooth skin? Heard his name while she cried it out?
My body tenses.
“Jesus, mate. What’s gotten into you?” Noah asks, following my gaze until he stops on Gemma. He lifts his eyebrows with understanding. “Ah. Let me guess—”
“Please don’t.”
“That’s her, isn’t it?”
I sigh. “Yes.”
He whistles lowly. “She’s a bit of all right, isn’t she?” He pauses to study her with appreciation. “No wonder you’re twisted up. She’s bloody gorgeous.”
My mouth tightens. “She is.”
“Who’s the bloke?” he asks, jerking his chin toward Henry.
“Henry Mathews. Her boss. He’s working on the campaign with us,” I deadpan as my eyes narrow, watching their exchange.
“Certainly doesn’t look like her boss,” he says, his voice laced with amusement.
He’s not helping. This sudden possessiveness is totally foreign to me. As much as I’m trying to fight it, seeing her with another man, colleague or no, grates against me.
I try to remind myself how miserable Anna looked at dinner on Sunday. I try to talk myself out of walking over and claiming her best friend.
“Why don’t you go over there?” Noah suggests.
“And what? Leave you?”
He chugs the remainder of his beer, placing it down on the bar with a light thud, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He checks his watch. “It’s getting late, anyway. Elena’s going to need a hand after bathing the kids. I like to be there to tuck them into bed.”
His youngest is only two. I nod. “All right, I’ll get going too.”
“Oh, piss off. Stop worrying about your sister—she’ll survive. It has nothing to do with her. Go over there and see to it that gorgeous woman enjoys the rest of her night, yeah?” he says.
I exhale, feeling my last tether of restraint snap clean in two.
He slaps my back. “Good lad.”
Fuck it.
I can’t resist any longer. I’m going over there.
I’m not a religious man, but I’ll take her being here as a sign from the universe.
Noah claps me on the shoulder before pulling me in for another hug as we say our goodbyes.
“Give my love to the family. We’ll catch up before I leave,” I assure him.
“We bloody better. Have fun,” he says with a shit-eating grin. He turns and leaves.
I down the last of my beer and walk straight to their table. Henry spots me first, his eyes widening. He leans forward and says something to Gemma a second before he nods toward me in acknowledgment.
Gemma turns in her seat, and when those jade green eyes lock with me, everything else in the bar fades into the background.
I’ve made my decision.
She’s mine.