Chapter Fifty-Two Gemma
Chapter Fifty-Two
Gemma
Who the fuck am I?
Seven weeks ago, Max Browne wasn’t even a blip on my radar, and now? I’m thinking about him when I’m brushing my teeth. When I’m scrolling through my phone. When I’m reading my monster smut.
I think about the way he presses his lips together to stop himself from laughing during meetings. How he smells after a long day at work—like rich, decadent whisky.
I never liked the smell of whisky before him.
There’s something about being the person who gets to see him when the suit comes off. When he’s casually preparing dinner. When he’s freshly showered after the gym, looking boyish and gorgeous.
I’ve spent my late twenties and the majority of my thirties keeping men at vagina’s length, and he’s closing the distance without even trying.
Everything with him is easy. I like having someone to share my evenings with.
Someone who listens when I talk about my day.
Someone who makes my toast exactly the way I like it—burnt around the edges with peanut butter spread right to the corners.
Who brings me coffee before I’ve even realized I need it.
Last weekend, he bought a barista machine so I could make coffee for us in the morning. Not for himself. For us. Because he knows how much I love making it.
He knows how I take pride in getting the penis in my foam art just right.
So, when I walked into his penthouse on Saturday night and saw the sparkling new De’Longhi gleaming on his kitchen island, I almost cried.
Because he noticed. Because he cared enough to include a small part of my world in his. Because he wanted to.
We’re learning each other.
I’m realizing that letting him in isn’t the scariest part. It’s realizing that I don’t want him to leave.
“How’s that?” the hairstylist asks, fluffing my hair.
I blink, yanked from my thoughts of Max.
“Perfect.” I smile, turning my head to check out the stylist’s work. The loose, bouncy waves fall elegantly over my shoulders. It’s sexy and simple—exactly what I wanted for tonight. My dress, however, is slightly more risqué.
The launch party has come around so quickly.
Every influencer, journalist, and tastemaker will be there.
Now we just have to cross our fingers and hope that after tonight, Gray Hotel becomes the place to stay in London, and it’ll be job done.
Just like that. One minute I was flaps deep in preparing my pitch, and the next—bam—seven weeks of intense preparation, last-minute adjustments, and late nights ending in mind-blowing orgasms have flown by.
Despite everything behind the scenes with Max, we’ve managed to fool everyone at work, and I don’t think anyone—except Henry, of course—knows. Thank God.
I pay the stylist, gather my things, and head home to do my makeup.
The moment I walk into my flat, nerves explode through my body.
I’ve worked my arse off to get here—to be in the room, to show off all the amazing things Henry, the team, and I have planned and accomplished to ensure the Gray Hotel launch goes off without a hitch.
This is a major project to add to my CV and I’m proud of it.
I pause in front of tonight’s dress hung carefully on the frame of my wardrobe, right next to my bridesmaid’s dress.
April and James’s wedding is next week, and thank God the shop assistant didn’t recognize me when I returned to the New Bond Street boutique to purchase the beautiful purple dress I tried on weeks ago.
Turning on music, I head into the bathroom to start my makeup routine. I usually avoid doing my eyeshadow too heavy, but tonight? Screw that. Henry and I made this project our bitch and I’m ready to let every person in that room know it.
I slip into my deep emerald dress; the fabric clings to every curve like liquid.
The front plunges all the way to my belly button, drawing attention to my cleavage without being too revealing.
Two delicate straps trail over my shoulders and down a completely backless V that stops just below the dimples of my spine.
I’ve paired the dress with nude strappy heels.
It’s bold, simple and barely decent. It’s perfect.
Chin high, tits out, shoulders back. I’m ready.
Max Browne is going to cream his jeans.
An Uber notification flashes across my phone letting me know my car is here. I give myself one last look in the mirror, inhale deeply, and head out.
I step through the foyer, which looks even more lush and opulent under the dimmed chandeliers. I’m immediately struck by how effortlessly Lord Harrington’s pieces complement and elevate the space.
Two towering statues flank the grand entrance, and women flash their cameras, snapping the best Instagram-worthy photos to share.
Behind the long reception desk that stretches across the entire back wall hangs a single, breathtaking painting.
Oranges, yellows, reds, and blues swirl together like fire and water.
The lobby teems with immaculately dressed guests who have their names checked off a list at the entrance to the bar. Once I’ve been accounted for, I saunter in.
A waiter appears with a silver tray of champagne flutes, and I don’t hesitate, plucking one off the tray and taking a large gulp.
My gaze sweeps across the room, trying to find a friendly face.
Henry spots me from afar and weaves through the crowd with a glass of amber liquid.
I do a little jig on the spot and reach up on my tiptoes to wrap an arm around his neck.
“We did it! How great does this look?”
He smiles. “The marketing team nailed this party.” He tilts his chin toward the far wall lined with more paintings. “And you were right about the art—it’s completely transformed the hotel.”
“Obviously I was right,” I say, swatting his chest.
Henry steps back, giving me an appreciative look.
“You look lovely,” he says, taking a sip of his drink.
“I know. I’m gagging for a fingering tonight.” Henry chokes on his drink, smacking his chest. I eye him up and down. “You don’t scrub up too bad yourself,” I reply.
We mingle with guests and colleagues as we wander through the party. Around us are bursts of laughter, flashes of cameras, clinking glasses, and lots of designer labels—exactly what Gray Hotel was hoping for. Young, rich, and ready to spend.
After polishing off my champagne, I try one of the signature cocktails designed to pair with the artwork. It’s pink, topped with fairy floss. I have no idea what’s in it, but it tastes good. Henry’s cocktail is served in a copper mug—a twist on a Moscow Mule—and we polish them off in record time.
I’m wondering where the hell Max is when Henry’s expression shifts.
“Oh shit. Don’t look now. El Diablo at two o’clock,” Henry mutters.
Which, of course, guarantees I’m absolutely going to look.
I pivot on the spot, eyes searching until they land on Louise and Theo standing with Max.
As if he’s drawn to me, his eyes lift and lock onto mine. My heart stutters in my chest when I take him in.
He’s in a black suit and crisp white shirt, no tie, the top button undone with black dress shoes. His hair isn’t tousled in that unstyled hot way but rather slicked back, showcasing his perfect bone structure.
“Holy shit,” I whisper, leaning into Henry. “He looks like James Bond.”
“That,” Henry says with a dramatic head tilt. “Is why I’m gay.”
I nod, eyes still on Max. “Right? I’m so straight it’s insane. Could you imagine having two of Max? Ugh. All I’ve ever wanted is a boyfriend that has a boyfriend.”
I pause, realization crashing down on me. “Not that Max is my boyfriend.”
Henry presses his lips together. “Sure.”
My gaze flicks back just in time to see Louise rest her hand on Max’s forearm and laugh at something he’s said.
“Looks like Louise is cutting your lunch,” Henry says.
“More like cutting the cheese. Let’s get another drink,” I say, turning.
As we approach the bar, Chadwick is already standing with another suit I’m not familiar with.
“Gemma, Henry,” he says, beckoning us over. “I’d like you to meet Cole Livingstone. COO of Livingstone Hotels.”
I’ve heard of him before. The middle brother.
“A pleasure to meet you,” he says, extending a hand. His voice is honey and gravel, rough but smooth at the same time.
What are they putting in the water in the Livingstone household? I thought Grayson was handsome—Cole’s a whole different breed.
He’s built leaner than Grayson but stands at a similar height, with sandy blond hair slicked back much like Max’s. His hazel eyes catch flecks of amber and green under the lights, and his olive skin is airbrushed to perfection.
“Grayson sends his regards,” Cole says. “He’s dealing with an urgent work matter back home.”
Ah. The lawsuit—Max told me about it.
I accept his hand and paste on my best smile, eager to make a strong impression. “Cole, it’s so lovely to meet you.”
Henry and Cole make a quick introduction.
“Gemma and Henry worked closely with Max on the launch campaign,” Chadwick chimes in. “Henry is our chief creative officer, and Gemma’s our creative director.”
“You’ve done a spectacular job,” Cole says, his tone warm and friendly. “Congratulations. We’re all extremely impressed with what you’ve accomplished. It’s clear how much care and creativity went into ensuring this launch was a success—and from what I’ve seen tonight, it absolutely is.”
Before I can reply, I feel it—that familiar pull, as if he’s tugging on a string tethering us together. I know it’s Max before he even speaks.
“Cole.”
That voice. Low. Commanding. It slides down my spine like molasses. I turn my head slightly, heart pattering in my chest. He looks like every fantasy I never meant to have.
“Max,” Cole says, clapping a hand on his shoulder. “It’s good to see you.”
“You too, mate.” Max turns his focus to Henry and me. “I see you’ve met the brains of the operation.” His eyes land on me and linger.
“I have,” Cole says, smiling. “Very impressive.”
Someone taps Cole on the shoulder, drawing his attention.
“You’ll have to excuse me,” he says, nodding politely to Henry and me. “It was lovely meeting you both.”
He shakes Max’s hand. “I’m in London all week for work, so I’ll catch up with you later.”
With one last charming smile, he disappears into the crowd with Chadwick, leaving just the three of us.
“Well,” Henry says, clapping his hands together. “I think I see someone calling me.”
“No one’s calling you,” I deadpan.
“See you later.” He slinks off, and I draw my lips into a thin line.
The turd.
“Do you think he did that on purpose?” Max asks with an amused grin.
“Definitely.”
“You look absolutely stunning,” he says in a low voice as he leans in so only I can hear.
“I know,” I manage, trying to keep my voice steady.
He chuckles softly. “Brat.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I spot Louise standing with Theo, eyeing us over the rim of her cocktail like the nosy bitch she is.
“We have an audience,” I murmur, turning back toward the bar.
Max’s hand skims along my exposed arm. “Check your messages,” he says, brushing past me. And then he’s gone.
Reaching into my purse, I check my phone. One unread message.
Max: Meet me outside in fifteen minutes.
The smile comes before I can stop it. Fifteen minutes. Just enough time to throw back a spicy margarita.
Around me, everyone seems preoccupied and blissfully unaware.
I shoot off a quick text to Henry, letting him know I’m bailing. I lock my phone, slip it into my clutch, and flag down the bartender like a woman on a mission. One margarita later, I make my way to the entrance.
Stepping outside, it starts to sprinkle just as a familiar gray SUV pulls up to the curb.
The door opens to reveal Max sitting inside like sin incarnate. His jacket is gone, his sleeves are rolled up, one arm flung across the back seat.
An arrogant smile curves his lips.
“Get in, sweetheart.”