“Actually, it’s probably best if you come around here. It’ll be easier to look at the documents together,” he suggests, his voice rough.
I swallow a lump in my throat. Coming around to his side of the desk means standing close to him. Very close.
I drag a chair around and take a seat beside him, shifting my papers.
Clearing my throat, I point to the timeline. “Right here. If we can confirm the necessary permits for the rooftop pools by next week instead of two weeks’ time, we can move the entire shoot forward. That gives us more time to focus on the penthouse suites. After all, they’re the rooms that will attract the clientele we most want—the guests who think nothing of spending six figures on a holiday.”
He’s studying the documents, and I feel his eyes flick to me. “Makes sense. I’ll see if I can sway the planning department to fast-track the permits sooner.” His brows crease as he continues reading. “We’ll need to have the designers and stylists confirmed sooner too. Can you look into their availability for me, please?”
“Already on it,” I say. Our fingers brush as I flip the page and we both freeze, neither of us moving our hands away.
“I’ve got three backup options if our first choices fall through. One of them worked on the Ritz-Carlton on Piccadilly. I can send their information and portfolios through, if you like?” I’m trying to focus on the words in front of me instead of the warmth of his hand.
I continue pretending to read the timeline.
“Very proactive, and yes, please do.” His voice is lower now, and when I glance at him, I find him watching me instead of looking at the papers. “You keep impressing me.”
“Don’t sound so surprised,” I say, but there’s no real bite to it. Something in his tone and his gaze has me drawing closer to him.
“I’m not surprised at all.” He shifts in his chair and our shoulders brush. “Thank you for running this by me. It’s great. You’re very good at your job, Gemma.”
“Thank you,” I say.
We’re staring at each other now and the space between us pulses. His eyes dart to my mouth and I lick my lips.He makes a low sound at the back of his throat. I should create some distance. But I can’t seem to move.
His pinkie finger brushes mine. Thathadto be deliberate.
“We should—” I start.
“Should what?” he asks, his eyes darkening.
“Focus,” I breathe.
“Right.” But he’s not looking at my work. He’s looking at me.
When I uncross my legs instinctively, a few strands of hair fall in my face. He reaches up and tucks them behind my ear, his hand lingering against my cheek.
All rational thought scatters like marbles.
“Max,” I say, unsure if it’s a warning or a plea.
“I know,” he rasps. I’m unsure exactlywhathe knows, but the thoughts that sift through my mind arethis is a terrible idea, we should probably move, andkiss me.
“Anna would kill us,” I say.
“For what?” he says, leaning closer.
“You know what.” This time, it is a warning.
“We aren’t doing anything,” he says, the corner of his eyes crinkling as he fights a smirk.
“Max,” I warn again.
“Gemma.” He says my name like a confession.
I’m drowning in the depth of his eyes, his pupils almost totally dilated. I still can’t move away. It’s as if some unseen force tugs me closer to him.
His hand slides to the back of my neck as he leans in, close enough to steal my next breath. My eyes fall shut automatically.
