Chapter Thirty Gemma
Chapter Thirty
Gemma
My heart thuds erratically against my rib cage as panic sets in. I attempt to peel my eyes open, aware that it’s morning, but I can’t. I can’t see anything.
I reach up and rub my eyes. A crumbly feeling against my fingers confirms one of my worst fears—my eyes are sealed shut with a thick layer of crusty gunk.
“Oh my God!” I shout, fully awake now. “I fell asleep! No!”
I buck and thrash around in a mad panic, the sheets rustling around me. That’s when I inhale a distinct scent that stops me cold.
Max.
It smells like Max.
Oh shit. I’m in Max’s bed. Because I fell asleep. With my bloody daily contact lenses in.
“I’m blind!” I cry. My stomach swirls and swells with anxiety. “I can’t see anything. Shit!”
“What’s wrong?” His alarmed, gravelly voice comes from somewhere nearby. “Gemma? What’s wrong?”
“My contacts,” I moan, rubbing frantically at my eyes. “I fell asleep wearing my contacts. I can’t open my eyes!”
Firm fingers wrap around my wrists. “Stop rubbing,” he says, voice calm, gently pulling my hands away from my face. “You’ll make it worse.”
“This is why I never stay over. It’s why I put the bloody contacts in! I wasn’t meant to stay here!”
“Just hold still,” Max instructs, his voice firm. I feel the bed dip and his weight shifts. He must be standing. Footsteps retreat from the bed and my heart plummets. “No, no, please don’t leave me! Where the hell are you going?”
He laughs. The sick bastard. “Don’t go anywhere. I’ll be right back.”
“Not like I can go very far like this, can I?” I say.
I hear the twist of a tap and the sound of water from his en suite. A moment later, he returns.
“I’m going to help you. Just stay calm,” he says.
“I am being bloody calm!” I hiss.
Something warm and damp touches my eyelid—a washcloth.
He gently wipes away the crusty buildup with tender movements.
I cling to his wrist like a monkey to a tree as I attempt to settle my nerves.
I inhale deeply and count to four before exhaling to the same count.
A trick my therapist taught me that I always thought was bullshit until this very moment.
He moves from one eye to the other, his touch careful and reassuring.
“Can you open them now?” he asks.
I attempt to blink, my eyelids unsticking painfully. Rich sunshine filters through. “Sort of,” I croak, squinting through hazy, irritated eyes. Max’s face gradually swims into handsome focus above me, his expression painted with genuine concern.
“This is karma for Grayson’s eye, isn’t it?” I ask.
He chuckles. “No, I’m sure it’s not.”
His brows are furrowed, and his hair is adorably disheveled. He’s wearing those sexy gray joggers, but he’s lost the t-shirt from last night. Even with my shitty eyesight, I can make out his perfectly cut muscles.
Of course he looks perfect first thing in the morning. No puffy eyes, no bad breath, no drool stains.
He leans in, placing a gentle kiss under one eye, then the other. “Better?” he asks, his tone gentle.
His softness catches me unaware.
“Uh… Somewhat. They sting. I need to get these contacts out before they permanently fuse to my corneas.”
He stands, offering me his hand, which I hesitantly accept.
The moment I try to stand, my foot catches in the tangled sheet dangling off the edge of the bed.
I lurch forward, blindly grabbing for anything as I go down.
My hands instinctively find the waistband of his joggers and I cling on for dear life, dragging them down to his ankles as I fall.
I land on my knees with a loud thud, coming face-to-face with Max’s most impressive asset.
“Jesus!” I shout, falling back on my arse.
“Are you okay?” Max asks, his voice laced with concern.
“I can’t see shit!”
He bends to help me up at the same time I ungracefully push myself off the floor, his exposed manhood slapping me across the cheek.
We both freeze.
“Did you just—did your penis just slap me in the face?” I ask, horrified.
“I think technically you pulled my pants down and positioned yourself there,” he says, hauling his joggers back into place.
“Why is it hard?!”
“It’s the morning,” he says, like it’s obvious.
“Please just help me up.”
Hooking his hands under my armpits, he pulls me to stand and walks me through to his bathroom, guiding me to the basin. I lather with soap and rinse before attempting the contact lens extraction. I pull down my lower eyelid and try to fish out the dried-up lens.
My eyes feel like they’ve been scrubbed raw. I squint against the bathroom lights. Tears well and I blink rapidly to keep them at bay. Each flutter of my eyelid feels like fire.
“Here, let me help you,” he offers, stepping forward.
“No, please don’t. It will only make me more anxious,” I say.
He watches helplessly as I poke and prod. “Ah, ouch!” I wince, dropping my hands with frustration. “It hurts. I don’t think I can get them,” I say, wringing my hands in front of me. “You see, this is why I don’t do exclusive. It’s a sign.”
“It’s not a sign. You’re being dramatic.”
I pivot to face him, trying my best to pin him with my most intimidating look. “Tell me I’m being dramatic one more time and, I swear to God, I’ll tittie-twist your nipples so hard, they’ll pop off.”
“If you wanted to touch my nipples, sweetheart, all you had to do was ask,” he deadpans.
Sweetheart. My stomach somersaults at the endearment and rasp in his voice.
I swivel back to the sink for another attempt, carefully extracting my contacts on the second try. I toss the little plastic discs on the bathroom counter and rub my eyes in a bid to alleviate the sting.
“Ugh,” I groan. “They hurt.”
“Hey,” he says, his hands resting on my shoulders. “Don’t panic. It’s okay. I can take you to an optometrist.”
“Max, I don’t know if you realize,” I say, gesturing to myself. “But the only clothes I have with me are my dental floss lingerie, or your jumper. Not exactly appropriate.”
“Let’s try getting you home for clothes and your glasses,” he offers.
I sigh. “Fine.”
My flat is my sanctuary, filled with my favorite things—tarot cards, crystals, dead indoor plants I keep meaning to replace, smutty books, and, of course, my colorful collection of dildos.
Max Browne being in my flat is a big deal.
He stands in my living room, hands in his pockets, head tilted while he reads through my book titles.
“Front Loader?” he says.
“It’s about a sentient washing machine,” I say.
He looks at me as if the idea is preposterous, a crease forming between his eyebrows.
“How does that work?” he asks, puzzled.
“Easy. The drawer where you load the washing liquid turns into a dick.”
His forehead wrinkles in confusion before he begins flipping through the pages.
While he busies himself with my books, I change. I snatch my glasses off the bedside table and almost cry from relief when I put them on. My eyes are still sore and a little fuzzy, but at least I don’t have to worry about falling face-first into anyone’s crotch for the time being.
I pull on the nearest outfit draped over the armchair—the chair that became my unofficial clothes-horse as soon as I moved in—then turn to the full-length mirror hanging on the back of my door.
My eyes widen in horror as I take in my appearance. My hair looks like it could host a family of birds, my complexion resembles a patchwork blanket with half-rubbed-off makeup clinging to dry areas of skin, and my eyes are red and puffy.
David Attenborough could document this. I look like a newly discovered species.
If Max declares he never wants to sleep with me again, I’d understand.
Deciding I don’t have time to fuss about my presentation, I quickly toss my hair into a topknot. I brush my teeth and, erasing evidence of last night, gently run a washcloth over my skin, taking extra care around my eyes, which protest at even the lightest touch.
Max is sitting on my sofa reading—oh God—Fifty Shades of Gravy, a smutty book about a woman and her Sunday roast.
This is why I hate men in my flat. They poke around when I’d rather them just poke me and be done with it.
“I must admit, this has me intrigued,” he says as I approach, not lifting his gaze from the book. His lips quirk up. “Particularly chapter three where she uses the basting brush.”
“Wait until you get to the part where he uses the thermometer. That’ll really blow your mind,” I say, slinging my handbag over my shoulder. “You ready?”
Ignoring me, he points to a row of crystals lined up beneath my windowsill.
“I must admit, I didn’t take you for the spiritual type. What are they for?”
My gaze is immediately drawn to the amethyst crystal, and I cringe internally at the memory of depositing it up Anna’s yoga instructor’s butt.
“I use them to keep all the men out,” I say, stone-faced.
He smirks, dropping the book to the coffee table and walking toward me. My heart beats in Morse code with each step.
“Your place is cozy. It suits you,” he says.
I scan the room, and of course Max sticks out like a sore, ridiculously well-groomed thumb against my clutter. He looks so out of place here. His penthouse is all glass and stainless steel. My flat? It’s tiny, colorful, and dotted with mismatched knick-knacks I’m certain he quietly loathes.
“What you mean is it’s small, the view’s shit, and it lacks a stone countertop,” I say. “We can’t all have penthouse views and German appliances.”
“That’s not at all what I meant,” he says, perplexed.
“You were just being polite,” I say.
Reaching up, he brushes a loose hair behind my ear, trailing his thumb across my cheekbone and tipping my head back slightly.
“I’m not bullshitting you. I like it. This place has personality. It feels lived in.” He shrugs. “It feels like a home.”
I search his face for signs he’s taking the piss, finding none.
The morning light illuminates his handsome features, the light catching the hazel flecks dotted across his crystal blue irises.
The image of him as we came together flashes through my mind without permission—his strong jaw clenched, his eyes half-lidded.
Up close, and now with my glasses on, I can see the shadow of his stubble and the slight creasing around his eyes as he regards me with an intensity I’m beginning to know well. His touch is tender and anything but platonic.
“How are your eyes feeling?” he asks, worried.
“Sore,” I say, my voice low.
My body thrums with the same adrenaline that had me climbing him like a tree last night. For a moment, I think he might kiss me.
“We should go,” I whisper.
He drops his hand as if my skin scalds and steps back, clearing his throat.
“Good idea.” He gestures to the front door. “After you.”
As I lock up behind us and we head to the optometrist, I think about tonight and how on earth I’m going to explain my irritated, bloodshot eyes to Anna.