“Jimmy, you should know better than to tell a lady she looks tired,” I scold him gently, mustering up a tired smile.
“Sorry, love,” he apologizes, looking sheepish. “You just look a bit peaky, that’s all.”
“I didn’t sleep too well,” I admit, which is the understatement of the bloody century. Kind of hard to get a good night’s rest when you’re up all night riding your boss’s cock.
“That boss of yours working you too hard?” Jimmy asks. If only he knew just how hard Liam’s been working me.
“Something like that,” I mutter. “I’ll take an extra shot in my flat white today, please.”
“Good call.” Jimmy nods and sets to making my coffee.
Just then, I spot Sir Whitmore leaving our offices with a gaggle of suits trailing behind him. Judging by the tightness around his eyes and the tension in his shoulders, the meeting I wasn’t allowed in didn’t go well. Liam won’t be happy.
As he walks past me, I muster up my best professional smile. “Good morning, Sir.”
For a second, I think he’s going to breeze right by, too preoccupied with his thoughts to even notice me. But then he stops abruptly. “You’re not driving more people away from my coffee, are you, Gemma?”
My eyes widen. “No, no, of course not! I would never. . .”
He waves a hand dismissively, cutting off my stammered apology. “Relax. It was just a little joke.”
I let out a shaky laugh. “Right. Sorry, I’m just a bit jittery this morning.”
“You and me both, dear.” He sighs, the weariness in his voice unmistakable.
Our eyes meet, and a moment of understanding passes between us. He knows that I know about the meeting.
I clear my throat, searching for something comforting to say. “You know, Jimmy’s chamomile tea is relaxing. Maybe you should give it a try?”
He nods, turning to Jimmy. “I think I will. Jimmy, I’ll have a chamomile tea, please.”
He’s sweet, considering most of the suits who come through here don’t even bother to make eye contact, let alone exchange pleasantries. They just bark their coffee orders.
I shift awkwardly, not wanting to overstep my bounds. It’s not my place to pry into the details of the meeting, especially not out here on the street.
“How have you been, Sir?” I ask instead. “Have you had a chance to do any sailing recently?”
He shakes his head, a rueful smile tugging at his lips. “No, not recently. I haven’t had much time, what with . . . well, you know.”
The unspoken hangs heavy in the air between us. Since his billion-pound company might be going under. Since his life’s work is on the line.
“Of course, I understand. You’re a busy man,” I say gently. “I hope you can find some time to get out on the water soon.”
He nods, taking the chamomile tea from Jimmy with a grateful smile.
“How about a pain au raisin, Sir? Or we’ve got some lovely Portuguese tarts,” Jimmy suggests, seemingly delighted at serving Sir Whitmore.
Sir Whitmore pauses, looking torn. It’s clear he doesn’t really want anything, but he also doesn’t want to disappoint Jimmy. “Ah, go on then. I’ll take a Portuguese tart, please.”
He hands over a crisp fifty-pound note, waving away Jimmy’s attempt to give him change. “Is business going well, son?” he asks, his eyes crinkling with genuine interest.
“It’s great!” Jimmy beams. “Never been better.”
I feel a pang in my chest at his enthusiasm. Please, god, let him keep this cart.
“Glad to hear it.” Sir Whitmore nods. “Keep the change, son. Consider it a tip for your excellent service.”
He turns to me then, his expression sobering. “You take care of yourself.”
