Chapter Thirty-Nine Gemma
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Gemma
“I met a young lad yesterday. It’s funny, he ordered a large latte and an apricot Danish,” Lance says, a wry grin stretching wide over his face. “He wouldn’t happen to be your bloke, would he?”
He plucks my Danish out of the display cabinet with tongs, popping it into a paper bag and rolling it closed before handing it to me.
I scoff. “He’s not young, and he’s not my bloke,” I say, taking a long sip of coffee. I hum as the warm liquid slides down my throat, thawing my chilled bones.
“If he’s younger than fifty, that’s a young lad in my books,” he laughs. “You’re blushing, lass.”
“You know what? You’re getting cheekier by the day, and I don’t know how I feel about it,” I tease, tapping my phone against the machine to pay.
“The closer I get to death, the less I care about manners,” he says, winking. “He’s a handsome young man, that one.” He folds his arms over his chest.
“Great. Why don’t you date him then?” I retort. “You could rob him blind with your outrageous prices and retire to the Scottish Highlands.”
“He’s a wee young for me.” He shrugs. “But he’s definitely had an effect on you, judging by the way you’re strangling that paper bag.”
I look down to find that I’m white-knuckling my breakfast.
“I’m just hungry,” I mutter.
“Aye, for Mister Tall Dark and Handsome?” Lance wiggles his bushy eyebrows suggestively.
“Oh, piss off. I’m finding a new coffee place,” I announce, turning to leave.
“No, you won’t,” Lance calls after me. “No one else will put up with your bullshite!”
I flip him off over my shoulder without looking back, but we both know he’s right.
And we both know I’ll be back first thing tomorrow morning.
When I arrive at the office, I zero in on the kitchenette in search of a biscuit. As usual, I polished off my Danish at a record pace.
My conversation with April replays in my head and I attempt to drown it out with thoughts of shortbread and Hobnobs.
April and Anna have always known about my relationship with Todd and why we broke up, but I’ve never opened up to April the same way she bravely laid herself bare after breaking up with Lucas and falling for James.
It’s a conversation I’ve always sidestepped like a puddle, because I know what I’m avoiding.
I just never wanted to admit it to myself.
It’s always been easier to bury my demons rather than tackle them head-on, especially when the man who’s caused my feelings to surface isn’t here long term.
The next few weeks is all we have. So, as relieved as I am to lighten the burden and have April validate my feelings without judgment, I’m still hesitant to let Max in.
Because at the end of the day, he goes back to his ritzy, glamorous life, and I’ll rarely get the chance to see him again.
The last thing I ever expected was to feel anything other than arousal for Max. And it’s time I admit that I do.
I know we’re a crash waiting to happen, but it feels so damn good, I want to take that risk.
Only question is, will those few weeks of cracking open my heart be worth the inevitable fall when he leaves?
I pluck three biscuits from the tin, stuffing one in my mouth whole.
“Stress-eating again, Gemma?”
I cringe at Louise’s condescending tone, turning around to face her. I pop my hip, and instead of responding verbally, I chew with my mouth open—loudly—right in front of her. When I swallow it, I flash her a saccharine smile.
Her perfectly made-up face contorts in disgust.
“That’s revolting,” she says.
“Did Satan send you up for a lunch break?” I ask.
“It isn’t even lunchtime,” she says, narrowing her eyes to frosty slits.
“Oh, you’re right. You must be on your regularly scheduled bitching hour, then. My mistake.” I toss another biscuit in my mouth, refusing to break eye contact.
She crosses her arms. “Ugh. Do you know how many calories are in those things?”
I hold my arms out wide. “Oh no! Looks like I’m fresh out of fucks to give.”
“Whatever,” she says, her smile razor thin as she flicks her glossy ponytail. “Sugar ages your skin and goes straight to your thighs. If I were you, I’d be more mindful.”
I cock my head to the side. “Are you acting like this because you’re shitty you didn’t get my job?”
“You don’t deserve it. That role should be mine,” she seethes.
“Tell me, does your back hurt from lugging that horrible personality around?”
Her nostrils flare. “Does your heart hurt getting clogged by all that butter?” Her gaze darts to the last biscuit in my hand.
I bark a laugh, genuine amusement slicing through my irritation. “Sweetheart, part of me is getting clogged on the regular, and I can tell you right now—it’s not from butter.”
She rolls her eyes and swivels on her heels, only to come face-to-face with Henry, who’s just entered the kitchenette. His eyes bounce between Louise and me, his expression morphing into something resembling suspicion.
“What are you looking at?” she spits at him, darting around his broad frame to make her escape.
“Wait!” I call out as she retreats down the hallway. “You forgot your pitchfork!”
She grumbles something unintelligible as she rounds the corner, the click of her heels fading as she disappears.
Henry stands stock still, a perplexed look on his face. “What was that all about?”
I brush it off with a wave. “Nothing. She just has sand in her vagina.” I notice the two cups of coffee in his hand. “Oh, thank you, but I already had a coffee.”
He scrunches his brows, his expression darkening. “This isn’t for you.”
“Who’s it for?” I ask, though an inkling in my gut already tells me the answer.
His smile is so wide it worries me.
“Max,” he says.
I frown, confused. “Why are you buying Max coffee?”
“Because you and Max are taking a little day trip out to visit Lord Harrington’s estate to view his private collection.”
“Why aren’t you coming?” The question comes out more desperate than intended.
“I have things to get through here,” Henry says, looking far too pleased with himself, like a cat who’s found a bowl of cream. The turd.
“The design campaign timeline needs adjusting after that feedback we received. Social media assets are ready to go out, so I’m meeting with the marketing team in thirty minutes, and the guest guide is almost finalized.
I just need to send them off to the event planners, travel agencies, and that new concierge staff that Livingstone Hotels have just hired,” he says, ticking off his laundry list with smug satisfaction.
“How convenient,” I deadpan.
I see a flash of navy behind Henry before Max enters the room.
All the air is sucked from my lungs as I take him in. The way his muscles strain against his suit is indecent. He looks like his suit owes him money.
Have his muscles gotten even bigger since he’s been here? Or am I just hyperaware of exactly what’s hidden underneath that expensive tailoring?
“Gemma,” Max says, his voice low and gruff. His eyes flick to appraise Henry, who gives him a curt nod.
“Morning, Max,” Henry says, extending him a coffee. “I’ve just told Gemma about today’s visit to the Harrington Estate and thought I’d get you a coffee to go.”
Suck up.
“Thank you,” Max mutters, accepting the drink. His gaze shifts back to me, his face totally unreadable. “Let’s go.”
Max’s long legs eat up the distance between the hallway and the lift.
My focus darts to Henry, waiting to see whether he’s serious.
“I’m going to assume whatever awkwardness I’m sensing between you two will resolve itself before you meet Lord Harrington,” he says. When his expression doesn’t change, I huff in annoyance, throwing the last biscuit in my mouth and following Max out.
The lift makes its descent toward ground level. Except, we don’t stop there. I pivot to find B for basement illuminated.
“Whose car are we taking?”
Max pulls keys from his trouser pocket, spinning the key ring around his index finger once. “Mine.”
The doors slide open, and I have to hurry to keep up with his long strides. Clicking the button on the car keys, a Mercedes’ taillights blink twice, indicating it’s unlocked.
“Since when do you have a car?”
He opens the driver’s side with a soft click. “It’s mine. I left it here when I went to New York. It’s been stored in a private garage.”
“Right,” I say, sliding into the passenger seat, running a hand over the cool, buttery leather interior. The car smells like him.
The car dips slightly as he gets in. “I usually call a driver for longer trips.”
“But not today?” I ask.
His eyes meet mine briefly before he reverses out of the parking garage. “Not today.”
As we turn into traffic, we’re both silent. The air feels weighted, like the moment before a storm breaks.
“How long is this drive?” I ask.
“About an hour and a half,” he replies, staring straight ahead.
I don’t respond. I can’t speak. All I can think about is my admission to April last night.
An entire day with Max made up of a three-hour road trip, viewing a posh art collection, then dinner tonight.
Just the two of us.
My libido won’t be able to handle it.
This is going to be a long day.