The moment I walk into my flat, nerves explode through my body. I’ve worked my arse off to get here—to be in the room, to show off all the amazing things Henry, the team, and I have planned and accomplished to ensure the Gray Hotel launch goes off without a hitch. This is a major project to add to my CV and I’m proud of it.
I pause in front of tonight’s dress hung carefully on the frame of my wardrobe, right next to my bridesmaid’s dress. April and James’s wedding is next week, and thank God the shop assistant didn’t recognize me when I returned to the New Bond Street boutique to purchase the beautiful purple dress I tried on weeks ago.
Turning on music, I head into the bathroom to start my makeup routine. I usually avoid doing my eyeshadow too heavy, but tonight? Screw that. Henry and I made this project our bitch and I’m ready to let every person in that room know it.
I slip into my deep emerald dress; the fabric clings to every curve like liquid. The front plunges all the way to my belly button, drawing attention to my cleavage without being too revealing. Two delicate straps trail over my shoulders and down a completely backless V that stops just below the dimples of my spine. I’ve paired the dress with nude strappy heels.
It’s bold, simple and barely decent. It’s perfect.
Chin high, tits out, shoulders back. I’m ready.
Max Browne is going to cream his jeans.
An Uber notification flashes across my phone letting me know my car is here. I give myself one last look in the mirror, inhale deeply, and head out.
I step through the foyer, which looks even more lush and opulent under the dimmed chandeliers. I’m immediatelystruck by how effortlessly Lord Harrington’s pieces complement and elevate the space.
Two towering statues flank the grand entrance, and women flash their cameras, snapping the best Instagram-worthy photos to share. Behind the long reception desk that stretches across the entire back wall hangs a single, breathtaking painting. Oranges, yellows, reds, and blues swirl together like fire and water.
The lobby teems with immaculately dressed guests who have their names checked off a list at the entrance to the bar. Once I’ve been accounted for, I saunter in.
A waiter appears with a silver tray of champagne flutes, and I don’t hesitate, plucking one off the tray and taking a large gulp.
My gaze sweeps across the room, trying to find a friendly face.
Henry spots me from afar and weaves through the crowd with a glass of amber liquid.
I do a little jig on the spot and reach up on my tiptoes to wrap an arm around his neck.
“We did it! How great does this look?”
He smiles. “The marketing team nailed this party.” He tilts his chin toward the far wall lined with more paintings. “And you were right about the art—it’s completely transformed the hotel.”
“Obviously I was right,” I say, swatting his chest.
Henry steps back, giving me an appreciative look.
“You look lovely,” he says, taking a sip of his drink.
“I know. I’m gagging for a fingering tonight.” Henry chokes on his drink, smacking his chest. I eye him up and down. “You don’t scrub up too bad yourself,” I reply.
We mingle with guests and colleagues as we wander through the party. Around us are bursts of laughter, flashes of cameras, clinking glasses, andlotsof designer labels—exactlywhat Gray Hotel was hoping for. Young, rich, and ready to spend.
After polishing off my champagne, I try one of the signature cocktails designed to pair with the artwork. It’s pink, topped with fairy floss. I have no idea what’s in it, but it tastes good. Henry’s cocktail is served in a copper mug—a twist on a Moscow Mule—and we polish them off in record time.
I’m wondering where the hell Max is when Henry’s expression shifts.
“Oh shit. Don’t look now. El Diablo at two o’clock,” Henry mutters.
Which, of course, guarantees I’mabsolutelygoing to look.
I pivot on the spot, eyes searching until they land on Louise and Theo standing with Max.
As if he’s drawn to me, his eyes lift and lock onto mine. My heart stutters in my chest when I take him in.
He’s in a black suit and crisp white shirt, no tie, the top button undone with black dress shoes. His hair isn’t tousled in that unstyled hot way but rather slicked back, showcasing his perfect bone structure.
“Holy shit,” I whisper, leaning into Henry. “He looks like James Bond.”
