Chapter Forty-One Gemma
Chapter Forty-One
Gemma
I don’t know what I did to piss off someone in a past life, because the wealth before me is cruel. How can someone actually live in this thing? I’d be shit scared of ghosts. I could burn incense for a week and living in this place would still give me the creeps.
“Ready?” Max asks, switching off the engine.
No. Not even close.
I don’t know what came over me in the car. But when he told me why he instructed Henry to stay behind—wanting to be alone with me—I felt nervous. Edgy. Fidgety. I don’t get nervous, so my body did what it always does when emotions become inconvenient: It shut down.
And then Casey’s message appeared on the dash and my insides hit a panic button and bolted south. I was one text message away from prolapsing.
It’s not that the message itself was even dramatic. But the ex who can’t let go means baggage.
I understand Max is a divorced man. I’ve done divorced men before. Many times. Usually, it’s simpler—they just want to sow their wild oats. But this? Her persistence? Knowing she’s using different methods to reach him, all while we’re sleeping together? It bothers me. And I hate to admit that.
I can’t help but wonder if what they had was so special, so significant, that despite his protests, some connection there—some piece of her—still remains. Why else would she try so desperately to reach him? And why would it bother him so much?
Focus on the task at hand, Gemma.
I smooth my skirt and keep my tone neutral. “Ready.”
The front door swings open and out steps a tall—taller than Max—ridiculously good-looking, thirty-something-year-old walking wet dream.
Hello, Christmas.
I plaster on my professional smile, the one I use to impress clients and snobs. I shove all thoughts of Max and Casey to the recesses of my mind.
“Ms. Clarke,” he says, his tone charming. “Mr. Browne.”
I extend my hand to shake but he surprises me by bringing the back of my hand to his mouth, placing a small kiss on my knuckles. When his soft lips brush against my skin, I see Max out of the corner of my eye clenching his jaw so tightly, I swear he might crack his teeth.
“A pleasure, Lord Harrington,” I say.
“Please, call me Alexander. I insist.” He shoots me a dazzling white smile. He is otherworldly gorgeous.
“Alexander,” I repeat, and he smirks, turning to Max.
“Harrington,” Max says, accepting his handshake, and I notice his knuckles whiten. Alexander grimaces.
“Come in,” he says, waving us inside. We follow him through the grand entrance, and it takes everything I have not to balk—the interior is even grander than the outside.
Polished marble covers the floor and walls.
A grand staircase curves from the far right to the far left of the entrance, leaving a large open walkway through to what I assume is a living area.
I crane my neck, inspecting the impressive space as we walk through—to a drawing room?
I don’t know. I’m not fancy enough for this shit.
Max’s penthouse is impressive, but this is spectacular.
“Can I interest either of you in a drink? A tea or coffee, perhaps?” Alexander offers, looking directly at me as he speaks.
“I’d love a tea, thank you.”
He nods, fixing his attention on Max.
“I’m fine, thank you,” Max says, his voice clipped.
Lord Harrington pivots to face a staff member I didn’t even see was there. Has she been following us through the house the entire time?
“Right away, sir,” she says, dipping in a short curtsy before scuttling off.
He gestures to what appears to be a sitting room, and as we follow him, I feel the warmth of Max’s hand resting on my back, guiding me forward. His touch is light, but visible enough for Alexander to notice.
We each take a seat.
“So, Gemma,” Alexander starts, “Camille from the gallery told me you’re quite the art enthusiast.”
“Oh, no. Not me. That’s my friend, April. I appreciate beautiful art, but I couldn’t distinguish a Monet from a Manet,” I say, chuckling. “I just liked your collection. I guess I’m more into modern contemporary than I realized.”
The barest hint of a smile plays on his lips, his eyes never leaving mine.
“I appreciate your refreshing honesty. It’s rare in my circles.
” He leans closer. “Well, I’m certainly pleased you stumbled across some of my collection so we could meet.
” His eyes darken and his voice drops. “After viewing some of my pieces this afternoon, I’d be happy to give you a private tour of some of my more exclusive paintings. The ones I like to keep to myself.”
He’s flirting with me.
I side-eye Max shifting in his seat beside me, the leather creaking underneath him. It takes everything in me not to laugh at Max’s discomfort.
“That won’t be necessary,” Max says sharply.
Alex and Max have a stare-off, and before any dicks start swinging, I interrupt to attempt damage control.
“What I’ve already seen is beautiful, thank you. I’d be happy to see more of those. Maybe another time,” I say, deliberately fluttering my lashes. “What made you decide to start a collection of your own?”
Max presses his thigh against mine.
“My father began acquiring pieces from the 1300s to 1600s,” Alexander says.
“But I’ve taken the collection in a more contemporary direction since his passing.
The old man was incredibly conservative.
He believed art should be ‘respectable’ and ‘established.’ He called all modern art ‘graffiti’ and an abomination.
” His eyes meet mine. “I suppose it’s my way of rebelling.
” He chuckles to himself. “Rather juvenile, isn’t it? ”
I return a soft smile.
“There’s something satisfying about attaching the Harrington name to art that challenges convention…
and doing something I know wouldn’t please my father.
” He gestures around the room, adorned with centuries-old paintings and old portraits of stiff-faced ancestors who stare down from fancy frames. It’s actually creepy.
As I study the portraits, their lifeless, judging eyes seem to follow my movements. I wrinkle my nose without realizing and Max gives me a small nudge. Quickly, I smooth my expression while Alexander continues.
“This house is suffocated by tradition. I want to breathe fresh life into these walls, which is precisely why I began donating pieces from my collection to public institutions. Art shouldn’t be hoarded for selfish enjoyment. Art should be shared, appreciated, even debated,” he says.
I must admit, for a prude, it’s refreshing to see someone with so much privilege and entitlement appreciate art that would make the older generation clutch their pearls.
Alexander’s expression softens. “I find great joy in supporting emerging artists—those voices who might otherwise be silenced by the establishment if it weren’t for those with the ability to help them speak. It’s liberating.”
The staff member returns with a silver tea service that I assume costs more than my car, setting it down before us on an antique table. I thank her, lifting the floral teacup to my mouth and taking a long sip.
Alexander watches as my lips hug the rim of the cup. The way he watches me is so intent it feels like a physical touch.
I chance a quick peek at Max. He’s glaring at our host.
“Sir,” the staff member says. “Lady Harrington is on the phone and wishes to speak with you.”
“Please tell her I’m busy,” Alexander says.
“Sir,” she insists, nervously fidgeting with her hands as her gaze bounces between the three of us. “It’s regarding Ms. Freya Larsen.”
The shift in the air is immediate. The young lord’s nostrils flare as he inhales a deep breath, his face painted with irritation. There’s a story there. Who’s Freya Larsen?
He gives us a curt nod, standing abruptly. “Please excuse me. Natalie here can show you where my collection is, select as many as you wish—I have plenty more. Stay as long as you like. I’ll meet up with you later.”
And with that, he leaves the room.
Once the door closes behind him, I turn to Max with a raised eyebrow. “Well, that was interesting,” I say.
“He wants you,” he says bluntly.
“He’s only human.”
“He’s engaged to be married.”
My eyebrows shoot to my hairline. “What? To who? How do you know?”
“Grayson told me.”
“Is that who the woman is?”
“Freya Larsen, yes. She’s a Dutch heiress.” Max’s voice drops lower. “It’s an arranged marriage.”
“An arranged marriage? Why?”
He adjusts his cuff links, leaning in closer and lowering his voice. “From what Grayson gathered, financial necessity.”
My eyes widen. “What do you mean? The Harringtons clearly have enough money.”
Max nods. “All this? It’s expensive to maintain. The estate, the staff, the collections—it costs a fortune to keep up appearances. And word has it Alexander’s father had quite the gambling habit.”
“Gambling?” I gasp, leaning in. “The plot thickens.”
“Yes. But that’s not the only reason the marriage would be beneficial. The Larsen family has something more valuable than old money,” Max says.
I roll my eyes. “I’m hardly into guessing games—just spit it out already.”
“A renewable energy empire. Wind farms, solar technology, green shipping fleets—they’re all worth billions and are positioned perfectly for the future economy,” he says, his gaze flicking toward the door Alexander disappeared through.
“The Harringtons have the land, the social network, and political influence. The Larsens have the cash and the cutting-edge technology.”
I scrunch my nose. “So, what? They’re selling off their children like cattle for a bunch of windmills and butlers? That’s pretty bloody bleak.”
Max chuckles. “The Larsens will establish massive wind farms across England—they need someone with the land holdings and government connections to make it happen. And in return, they’re essentially funding the Harrington lifestyle and modernizing their entire operation.”
“And poor Freya gets sacrificed for the cause? I feel like she pulled the short end of the stick in this arrangement,” I say, disgusted. Another thought hits me. “Then again, maybe Alexander has a giant penis.”
“He certainly seems more interested in flirting with other women than honoring his arrangement,” Max grinds out.
“Can’t say I blame him,” I defend. “God, I couldn’t imagine not having a say in who sticks their dick in me for the rest of my life.”
“Ms. Clarke, Mr. Browne,” Natalie interrupts gently, “if you’ll kindly follow me this way, I’ll show you to the viewing gallery.”
Max’s hand rests against the curve of my lower back once again as we step behind Natalie. We’re alone in the corridor, so there isn’t any need for him to be touching me.
I think about what April said last night, that I can’t carry the responsibility and repercussions of Todd refusing to show up for me.
That I can and should let someone in. That I deserve to feel something, to allow myself to experience connection without assuming it will end in disappointment and hurt.
I’m not sure April understands what it’s like to open yourself completely to someone, to show them your darkest and most vulnerable parts, only to have them look at you with disgust. To have the person you love tell you your desires are abnormal and refuse to meet you.
To have that person make you feel like there’s something fundamentally wrong with you for wanting what you want and not being able to help it.
But she’s right—I should give Max a chance.
I deserve it, even if it is short-lived.
Todd made me feel broken when all I wanted was to be seen. Isn’t that what any woman wants? I think Max sees me.
Instead of dismissing him, I lean into Max’s touch, allowing myself to enjoy it. Whatever might be chasing Max from his past, right now his attention is fixed firmly on me. Maybe this is exactly where I want it to be.