“Of course,” I assure him. “I’ll hold things down here and see the launch through—you take care of things in New York. I can handle this.”
He arches an eyebrow. “Even the crazy woman in the kitchen?”
I laugh. “Even her.”
He straightens the lapels on his jacket. “I was impressed with their presentation. What do you think?”
“I think we go ahead. I’m happy with everything I’ve seen.”
He nods. “I trust your judgment.”
“Thanks. They know what they’re doing.” I nod. “We could create something exceptional here.”
He claps me on the shoulder. “I know I can count on you. Ring me if you need anything, yeah?”
“Of course. Now, piss off,” I say. He laughs, turning to leave, but I catch him. “And look after that eye, will you? You’re going to need it.”
“It feels like someone’s taken sandpaper to it.” Despite his mood, he smiles. “But worth it for that pitch.” He checks his watch. “Shit. I better run before I miss my flight.” He starts toward the elevator before spinning back, pointing at me. “If anything feels off—”
“I’ll call you immediately. Good luck,” I say.
“I’m going to need it.” He steps into the elevator car and calls over his shoulder, “See you back in New York in two months!”
I return to the kitchenette, where the spitfire calmly sips her coffee, tapping away at her shattered phone screen.
Yeah, I have a feeling I’m going to need a little of that luck too.
Chapter Seven
Gemma
I arrive at Anna’s red-brick terrace house in Putney armed with a bottle of Cabernet. After the day I’ve had, I’ll be snapping off the neck and guzzling the whole lot.
“What happened to your shirt?” The moment I step through Anna’s front door, her eyes zero in on the safety pin currently fighting for its life to hold my shirt together.
“That’s what I was messaging you about earlier. I’m going to need a very large glass of this before we get into that.”
I kick off my heels and follow Anna into her kitchen. She rummages through her cabinets, wine glasses clinking as she plucks three from the top shelf.
My eyes sweep the downstairs area. “Where’s Mason?”
Anna sets the glasses on the counter. “Boys’ night.”
I frown. Her tone catches my attention. I’ve noticed she and Mason haven’t been spending much time together lately, and Mason always seems to vanish whenever Anna hosts us. They’ve been together since our early twenties and married for eight years, and for the most part, they’ve had a happy marriage. I’m beginning to wonder if not everything is as it seems. But if something were wrong, she’d tell us… wouldn’t she?
A gust of crisp winter air whooshes through the house as April swings the door open, causing a shiver to snake down my spine.
“Close the bloody door!” I say.
April pushes it shut then shrugs off her coat, tossing it over the sofa before joining us in the kitchen. “Coming from the woman who slams my door into my wall every time she visits. You frighten the daylights out of poor Basil. It makes him stress poop!”
“I’m telling you right now, that cat isn’t crapping on the floor due to stress,” Anna says.
April rolls her eyes before noticing and pointing at my shirt. “Hey, what happened?”
I turn to Anna. “Pour the wine.”
Anna twists the cap, and it releases with a satisfying crack.
