“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 oweshimmoney.
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 LordHarrington,” 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.
