His eyes narrow to slits, his voice suspicious. “What do you want?”
“You have something my new hotel could use.”
His eyebrows sneak up to his hairline. “And what’s that?”
“I need a café space—something authentic, not another soulless corporate chain. I want guests walking into the lobby and feeling like they’ve found a local gem.” I pause. “What if I offered you a prime spot in a new luxury Mayfair hotel? Full fit-out, guaranteed foot traffic, and year-round customers?”
Lance sets the cup down. “What’s the catch?”
“There isn’t one. Just good business. You’d maintain full autonomy—vendors, menu, branding. All of it is yours. I have no interest in changing what you do. What you’ve built here is exactly what we’re missing.”
His expression softens, shifting to curiosity, so I continue.
“I need authenticity. You need visibility.”
“Aye.”
“I think we can help each other.”
He leans his elbows on the counter. “Tell me more.”
Chapter Fifty-Two
Gemma
Who the fuck am I?
Seven weeks ago, Max Browne wasn’t even a blip on my radar, and now? I’m thinking about him when I’m brushing my teeth. When I’m scrolling through my phone. When I’m reading my monster smut.
I think about the way he presses his lips together to stop himself from laughing during meetings. How he smells after a long day at work—like rich, decadent whisky.
I never liked the smell of whisky before him.
There’s something about being the person who gets to see him when the suit comes off. When he’s casually preparing dinner. When he’s freshly showered after the gym, looking boyish and gorgeous.
I’ve spent my late twenties and the majority of my thirties keeping men at vagina’s length, and he’s closing the distance without even trying.
Everything with him is easy. Ilikehaving someone to share my evenings with. Someone who listens when I talk about my day. Someone who makes my toast exactly the way I like it—burnt around the edges with peanut butter spreadright to the corners. Who brings me coffee before I’ve even realized I need it.
Last weekend, he bought a barista machine so I could make coffee for us in the morning. Not for himself. Forus. Because he knows how much I love making it.
He knows how I take pride in getting the penis in my foam art just right. So, when I walked into his penthouse on Saturday night and saw the sparkling new De’Longhi gleaming on his kitchen island, I almost cried. Because he noticed. Because he cared enough to include a small part of my world in his. Because hewantedto.
We’re learning each other.
I’m realizing that letting him in isn’t the scariest part. It’s realizing that I don’t want him to leave.
“How’s that?” the hairstylist asks, fluffing my hair.
I blink, yanked from my thoughts of Max.
“Perfect.” I smile, turning my head to check out the stylist’s work. The loose, bouncy waves fall elegantly over my shoulders. It’s sexy and simple—exactly what I wanted for tonight. My dress, however, is slightly more risqué.
The launch party has come around so quickly. Every influencer, journalist, and tastemaker will be there. Now we just have to cross our fingers and hope that after tonight, Gray Hotel becomestheplace to stay in London, and it’ll be job done. Just like that. One minute I was flaps deep in preparing my pitch, and the next—bam—seven weeks of intense preparation, last-minute adjustments, and late nights ending in mind-blowing orgasms have flown by.
Despite everything behind the scenes with Max, we’ve managed to fool everyone at work, and I don’t think anyone—except Henry, of course—knows. Thank God.
I pay the stylist, gather my things, and head home to do my makeup.
