Chapter Forty
Max
I organized this trip yesterday after my meeting with Henry about the art collection. He handed me the catalog Gemma acquired from the gallery, and I must admit, the pieces are exquisite.
The hum of the car’s engine fills the cabin as we glide through London’s early-morning traffic. The silence is awkward. She’s been suspiciously quiet since we left the office, which concerns me. Any other day, she has no issue letting her loose tongue run rampant, but ever since we buckled our seat belts, Gemma’s only been providing me one-word answers. I can’t figure out why.
Unable to take the silence, I hook up my iPhone to Apple Play and a gentle track from my playlist drifts faintly through the car.
“You’re very quiet,” I say.
“I’m tired,” she says.
“Hmm.”
I catch her rolling her eyes in my peripheral vision.
“Hmmwhat?” she snaps. I feel her gaze boring into the side of my face.
“Usually, I can’t get you to shut up.”
She turns in her seat, angling toward me. “Why isn’t Henry coming with us, Max?”
My jaw tightens, and I wait a beat before answering. “I told him not to.”
“What? Why?” Her hand moves to grip her seat belt.
“I told him to stay behind. His expertise is better utilized at the office finalizing the campaign materials.” There’s an edge to my voice. “We’re more than capable of assessing Harrington’s collection without a third party. I’m not paying you both to take the day off. Henry can stay back and work. This was your proposal, if I recall correctly.”
The truth, which I keep to myself, is more selfish. I wanted more time with Gemma alone, away from prying eyes.
The excuse I came up with about Henry’s workload is convenient, but it’s secondary to my real motivation.
She hums in annoyance. “I suppose that makes sense,” she concedes, dropping her hand and sinking back into the seat. The movement releases a wave of coconut scent from her shampoo.
My gaze drops briefly to where her hands now rest in her lap, running her thumb over her polished fingernails.
She’s fidgeting. Gemma doesn’t fidget. My brows knit together. Is she… nervous?
“What made you pick this particular collection?” I ask.
I’ve heard of Alexander—Lord Harrington—before. His father, Alistair Harrington, came from generations of prominent politicians, famous for his conservative approach. He served as a cabinet minister throughout the 1980s and 1990s but was more widely known for his very public affairs that humiliated his wife, Henrietta. Grayson’s parents moved in the same circles as the Harringtons, as billionaires do. I’ve heard, by all accounts, that Alexander is nothing like his father, who Grayson reports to be a pretentious, philandering narcissist with a stick lodged firmly up his arse.
Gemma crosses her ankles. “I liked it.”
It’s like drawing blood from a stone. Whatever’s bothering her, she’s determined to keep it locked behind ironclad defenses.
My eyes dart to the time displayed on the dash. We’re only approaching the outskirts of London now, and we have another forty-five minutes until we reach the estate. I inhale, releasing the breath slowly.
A notification banner pops up on the dash screen. I don’t recognize the number, but a preview displays underneath.
Max, this is Casey. Please talk to me. I miss you so much—
Gemma looks down before turning her head away to stare out the window. The temperature in the car seems to drop by ten degrees.
I reach over and dismiss the notification, my jaw clenching. Of all the rotten timing. I know I don’t owe Gemma an explanation, but I feel like I need to defend myself, which is ridiculous. As attracted as I am to her, we both know this ends soon.
I’m lost for words. Irritation flares inside me. What can’t Casey wrap her bloody mind around? I blocked her for a reason. I don’t want to talk to her. And now she’s gone to lengths to not only contact my sister, but obtain a random sodding phone number so she can message me?
