I shrug. “Look, he said he was fine. We got the pitch out of the way. Theyseemedto be impressed. I’m sure they’ve both forgotten about the whole button incident by now.”
He grunts. “Max Browne had to lead him out by the hand. Do you know what that does to a man’s ego?”
“I’m sorry, Henry.” I don’t know what else to say.
He looks at me earnestly. “I know you are.”
“Would you like me to go talk to him? See if he’s okay?”
“No. That won’t be necessary. Go and have a break. I’ll talk to Grayson in the meantime and attempt damage control.”
I rise, smoothing a hand down my skirt with trembling fingers. The lump in my throat betrays me. Despite my calm exterior, I’m terrified. Our pitch was brilliant—exceptional, even—but I could have blown this entire campaign. I looked a total mess. Who would want to work with someone afterthat?
Henry must see through my bravado because his expression softens as I reach for the door handle.
“Gemma,” he says, stopping me.
I peer over my shoulder.
“Despite the button—and your overall state—you did a brilliant job. Well done. I hope you’re proud.”
Tears prick my eyes, but I blink them back. I swing the door open, about to leave when—
“Oh, and Gemma?”
“Yeah?” I turn to face him.
He points to his cheekbone. “Take care of that, please.”
Confused, I touch my cheek before heading to the bathroom. Once inside, I inspect my reflection.
Because this day couldn’t possibly get any worse, there’s a perfect line of blood across my cheekbone.
“Oh, you’re bloody joking.”
Chapter Six
Max
The rich, nutty aroma of coffee wafts through the kitchenette as I press the Nespresso machine button.
After a quick dash to Harrods for a new shirt—and dropping Grayson at the optometrist to have his eye checked, the poor bloke—I can finally settle in with the pitch notes Gemma and Henry provided.
Gemma.
Anna’s best friend.
I knew I’d seen her before.
I pull up Anna’s Instagram, scroll through her following list, and open Gemma’s profile when I find it.
I squint when I click on her most recent post, using my thumb and index finger to zoom in. Gone is the silk shirt and mid-length skirt. Instead, she’s wearing a tiny leather skirt, come-fuck-me boots, and a lace bodysuit.
Now,thislook suits her.
There’s poise and certainty in the way she carries herself. Like she knows exactly what she’s doing—knows the effect she’ll have on any poor bastard who looks. The way she smirks at the camera—it’s like she’s daring anyone to lookaway, and that glint in her eye has me making my decision: I don’t want to.
A smile tugs at my lips as I picture the way she’d burst into the boardroom looking delightfully disheveled. Her hair was a mess, I swear there was blood smeared on her cheek—I don’t even want to know whose—and her coat matched my shirt.
