Gemma remains silent, still facing the window, but I can see the slight purse of her lips in her reflection.
“She’s been sending Anna messages,” I say, unable to help myself.
She shifts to face me. “Anna? Why?”
“Because she can’t get through to me.” Gemma just blinks and I squeeze the steering wheel. “I shouldn’t have to keep explaining to her why we’re not fucking together.” The words come out harsher than I intended. “Sorry. It’s not you I’m angry with.”
“You don’t need to explain yourself, Max,” she says. Her voice has softened and her face has relaxed.
I hold my anger deeply, annoyed that Casey’s managed to get to me and we haven’t even spoken.
“I respect honesty, Gemma,” I say, my voice low. “I don’t want to talk about Casey. Ever. But with you…” I release a deep breath. “I want us to be honest. That’s how this works,” I say.
She moistens her lip with a quick swipe of her tongue. “Okay.”
“I don’t want to talk to her,” I say. I suddenly need her to understand—like it matters more than anything that she knows.
She meets my eyes. “It’s fine. I believe you, Max.”
The sincerity in her voice loosens something wound tight in my chest. We lapse into silence, but it feels different now—comfortable.
The countryside rolls by, shifting from the endless gray of London’s reach to lush green fields, cottages, and manor houses. Before long, I’m pulling into the driveway of Harrington Estate, announcing myself at the large wrought iron gates. They creak as they open.
I pull up to the estate and turn to Gemma, whose mouth has dropped open.
“Not what you expected?” I ask, allowing myself a small smile at her reaction.
The estate before us is impressive—even by my standards. Limestone walls covered in crawling ivy, tall windows, and a large entrance framed by two stone lions. There’s something about old British wealth that not even New York money can replicate.
She blinks. “Holy shit. This place is off its tits!”
Well then. I guess everything reallyisfine.
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 meansbaggage.
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, allwhile 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.
