“No one’s calling you,” I deadpan.
“See you later.” He slinks off, and I draw my lips into a thin line.
The turd.
“Do you think he did that on purpose?” Max asks with an amused grin.
“Definitely.”
“You look absolutely stunning,” he says in a low voice as he leans in so only I can hear.
“I know,” I manage, trying to keep my voice steady.
He chuckles softly. “Brat.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I spot Louise standing with Theo, eyeing us over the rim of her cocktail like the nosy bitch she is.
“We have an audience,” I murmur, turning back toward the bar.
Max’s hand skims along my exposed arm. “Check your messages,” he says, brushing past me. And then he’s gone.
Reaching into my purse, I check my phone. One unread message.
Max:Meet me outside in fifteen minutes.
The smile comes before I can stop it. Fifteen minutes. Just enough time to throw back a spicy margarita.
Around me, everyone seems preoccupied and blissfully unaware.
I shoot off a quick text to Henry, letting him know I’m bailing. I lock my phone, slip it into my clutch, and flag down the bartender like a woman on a mission. One margarita later, I make my way to the entrance.
Stepping outside, it starts to sprinkle just as a familiar gray SUV pulls up to the curb.
The door opens to reveal Max sitting inside like sin incarnate. His jacket is gone, his sleeves are rolled up, one arm flung across the back seat.
An arrogant smile curves his lips.
“Get in, sweetheart.”
Chapter Fifty-Three
Max
My eyes shamelessly run over her as we stand side by side, waiting for the lift doors to open. I’m convinced this emerald-green gown was created specifically to torture me.
I saw the way she turned heads tonight, the interest in Cole’s eyes when I clocked them talking from across the room.
I was excited for the launch tonight—this opening is the very reason I’m in London, but nothing could compare to the thrill of seeing Gemma. All the surrounding noise in the room fell away the moment I spotted her.
These last four weeks wrapped up in each other have been perfect. Not just physically—Christ, that’s been perfect too—but in all the small ways. Waking up to her every morning, her golden hair fanned across my pillows like she’s always belonged there. Showering together and learning every inch of her body. Every place she’s most ticklish. The way her laughter changes depending on her mood—the little one when she’s tired and the full belly one when I catch her off guard.
She’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever laid eyes on. She’s become the best part of my day, the one I want to tell everything to. I love getting to know her—every version of her.
Fuck.
I love her.
I’ve fallen for this clever, loud, brilliant woman and I’m so tired of hiding. I’m the lucky bastard taking her home, and I hate that I can’t tell anyone.
