Chapter Thirty-Seven Gemma
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Gemma
I’m so sorry for putting you at risk like that. We shouldn’t have done this at all.
The words have been replaying in an endless loop in my mind since Saturday night.
The prick.
First, he convinces me to have sex with him—only him, no less—then he has the balls to turn around and tell me it was a mistake.
I realize the word mistake didn’t exactly leave his mouth, but it didn’t have to. I could see it in his stupid, gorgeous baby blues.
I’m punching the buttons on my keyboard far too forcefully, but I’m pissed.
At least my eyes are somewhat back to normal—small mercies.
“Christ, who twisted your knickers?” Henry asks, strolling into my office and falling into the seat opposite my desk.
Ignoring his question, I shoot him a warning glance, lifting my eyes to meet his briefly before proceeding to harass my keyboard.
“Great. Excellent. Well, whatever’s happened better not affect our work,” he says, voice dry.
I lift my gaze to his again. “It won’t affect our work. I told you it wouldn’t. Nothing happened.”
“Bollocks,” he says, a cheeky smirk lifting his lips.
I roll my eyes. “I have work to do, so if there’s a reason for your visit, I’d appreciate it if you’d cut to the chase.”
His eyebrows reach his hairline. “Don’t forget I’m your boss, you little bitch.”
I roll my lips to stop myself from cracking a smile.
“Let’s try again. What happened?” he says, talking to me like a child.
I release a harsh exhale. “So… we slept together.”
Henry rolls his eyes. “Obviously. We’re talking about you—that’s implied. What went wrong? Was it bad?”
I stop typing. “Firstly,” I say, putting one finger up, “I feel like that was an insult. Secondly”—I raise a second finger—“no. It wasn’t bad. It was anything but bad, and that’s the issue.”
He scrunches his nose. “Why is that an issue? Last time I checked, a good shag is nothing to sneeze about.”
I glare at him.
“Oh. You like him, don’t you?” His voice has a taunting lilt. He adjusts in his seat, making himself comfortable like he owns the place.
“Of course I don’t like him.” I pause to consider my next words. “I like his penis.”
“You like everyone’s penis.”
Dammit. He’s right. Well, excluding Tim.
“Excuse me. Rude. I don’t like your penis.”
“You’ve never seen my penis,” he deadpans.
“Is that an invitation?” I ask, teasing. When he glares at me, I pump my eyebrows suggestively to get a rise out of him. It’s working. He’s chewing his cheek to stop himself from laughing.
A knock against the wooden doorframe causes Henry and me to jump.
Hand to my chest, I catch my breath as I lock eyes with the man who’s been haunting my every thought.
He stands tall in the doorway, looking like a god. He leans on his shoulder, one leg crossed in front of the other, to-go coffee in hand, jawline chiseled. He’s wearing my favorite suit—navy blue. It makes the crystalline in his ocean eyes pop.
He doesn’t spare Henry a glance as his gaze penetrates mine, and a swarm of butterflies erupts in my stomach.
Detecting the shift in energy, Henry clears his throat.
I must remember to get some crystals for my office.
“Max, good morning. I hope you had a great weekend,” Henry says, his face bright.
Max arches a thick brow. “Henry,” he says, nodding in acknowledgment before his eyes bore into mine again. “Gemma.”
Henry swivels back around to face me, fixing me with a what the hell look. I tap my polished nail lightly over the mahogany surface in front of me.
“Good morning, Max.” I keep my tone cool while inside, my body doesn’t know whether to scream or cream. It’s quite the quandary.
“Well,” Henry says, clapping his hands, “I’ll leave you to it.” He turns to Max. “I was wondering if you’re free this afternoon to discuss the artwork Gemma’s found that might be suitable for the hotel.”
Max gives a firm nod. “Sure.” He shakes his wrist, checking the time. “How’s two o’clock sound?”
“Perfect,” Henry replies, standing.
This time I fix him with a don’t leave me look, which he responds with a screw this expression.
To be honest, I can’t blame him. If I could flee the scene, I would. The tension is so thick, even a blind man could grope it.
I watch as Henry makes his escape, my focus returning to Max.
“Well. If that’s all…” I say.
He steps forward, my heart beating in time with each one.
Wordless, he places the coffee and pastry bag in front of me and steps back.
I take in the green stamp and my eyes widen. “How do you know about Lance?”
“Who is Lance?” he asks, his face turning stormy.
“My barista.”
His eyes shift to the coffee and his expression relaxes. Jesus, this man is broody. “His prices are extortionate.”
“He’s having some financial trouble,” I say, leaning back in my chair and folding my arms across my chest. It’s defensive, but I feel better having a barrier between us. “How did you know where I get my coffee from? Are you following me?”
His face is unreadable now. “Lucky guess.”
“Should I be flattered or concerned?” I ask, cocking an eyebrow.
“That depends,” he says, taking the seat Henry just vacated. “Are you still pissed at me?”
I take a sip. “I’m not pissed.”
I am pissed.
“Bullshit,” he says.
I wait a beat before responding. “Fine. I’m pissed.”
A smirk plays at the edge of his mouth. “I figured as much.”
I lean forward, lowering my voice. “What did you expect? One minute we’re… you know…”
“Having sex,” he finishes for me. The way he says it makes me remember exactly how it felt when he whispered filthy things in my ear on Saturday night.
“Right. And the next you’re apologizing like it was some terrible mistake. Let’s not forget—this whole thing was your idea. If it doesn’t work for you anymore, then maybe we need to be honest about that and rethink the arrangement.”
There. I’ve said my piece, and strangely, I feel lighter for it.
Because the truth is, we both walked into this with open eyes—or in my case, legs.
We knew what it was. But this—this is exactly why I stopped dating.
It never stays simple. It always finds a way to twist and before you know it, something good turns to shit.
I have other things I can do besides worry about Max Fucking Browne.
Like reiki.
“That’s not—”
“You literally said, and I quote, ‘I’m so sorry for putting you at risk like that. We shouldn’t have done this at all.’” I mimic his deeper voice, badly.
His expression shifts—surprised, perhaps, that I remember his exact words. Of course I do. They’re responsible for the bags under my eyes.
“I didn’t mean the sex was a mistake. If you had just let me explain,” he says, dropping to a baritone that melts my insides. “I meant the location. The timing. Not… us.”
Us. The word hangs between us like a loaded gun.
The relief that cocoons me after his admission is strangely foreign. The worry that’s been festering in my chest since Saturday night finally dissipates. I hadn’t realized how much I needed to hear that he doesn’t regret what we did.
I sit with his words for a moment, churning them over in my mind.
He’s right. I know he’s right. Our timing was reckless, and our location was impulsive.
The night was about celebrating April and James and their deserved happiness, but we made it about us instead.
I practically ran out of their dinner after the guest room incident.
We put ourselves in a position to hurt Anna—someone we both care for tremendously.
His concern wasn’t rejection; it was consideration. For Anna. For us.
“I was going to call you,” he says.
“I wouldn’t have answered,” I reply, suddenly finding my cuticles interesting.
“Look at me, please,” he commands.
I lift my eyes.
“Right,” I say, keeping my tone easy. “Well, thank you for the clarification. And the coffee.” I gesture to my computer screen. “But I really do have work to finish before the meeting.”
“Gemma, I can see that you’re playing Minecraft in the reflection of your glasses.”
Shit.
I quickly close the Minecraft window, only for it to minimize and reveal the jeweled butt plug I was looking at on a sex toy website.
I slam my laptop closed, feeling heat burn up my neck.
The corner of his mouth twitches. He definitely saw that.
“Was there something else you needed?” I ask, attempting to salvage any remaining dignity.
He lifts his chin. “Have dinner with me.”
“That didn’t sound like a question,” I retort.
“It wasn’t.”
My heart does a ridiculous flutter in my chest. “I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I say.
“Why not?” His eyes never leave mine, intense and searching.
Because you’re my best friend’s brother. Because you’re only in London temporarily. Because I can still feel your hands on my skin and your lips on my mouth, and it’s driving me insane. Because “nothing” is starting to feel like “something,” and that is terrifying.
These thoughts pick at me, pulling a loose thread begging to be unwound. But instead, I repress them and say, “Dinner was never part of the deal.”
“The deal’s changed.”
“You can’t just go changing the rules. You’re the one who enforced them in the first place.” I take another sip.
“And I’m the one changing them.”
I cross my legs. “That doesn’t seem fair.”
“Give me one dinner to make it up to you.”
“What do I get out of it?”
His gaze grows heavy. “Whatever you want.”
Well, this just got more interesting. I purse my lips and consider his offer. “That’s it? That’s your grand offer? I get one thing?”
“One dinner, one thing in exchange.” His smile turns confident. The cocky bastard knows he’s got me.
“Fine. You can have one dinner. But not tonight. Thursday.”
“Done. I’ll have a car pick you up at seven.”
I must admit, the coffee paired with a dinner date and private driver is far more appealing than anything any other man has offered me. “Great.”
His smile turns sinister. He rises to leave but pauses in the doorway, turning to look at me over his shoulder. “And Gemma?”
“Yes?” I ask, lifting my gaze from my laptop.
“Buy the butt plug.”