He inhales sharply, and then his lips brush mine, barely. So soft, so tentative, it feels too delicate to be real.
Then, my phone buzzes loudly on the desk and our trance is broken. We spring apart like the moment singed us. I lean over and grab my phone, seeing Anna’s name on the screen.
Anna:Just messaging to let you know that April called. She took too much magnesium and shat her pants again.
And if that’s not a sign, I don’t know what is. What on earth was I thinking, staying late with Max? Itwasentirely unnecessary—of course, I could have handled this over an email like any normal person. I don’t know why I insisted.
Actually, that’s a lie—I know why. When it comes to Max Browne, my vagina tries to stage a coup and takes over all decision making.
Is there such a thing as female pre-nut clarity? Because I could really use some right now.
Max runs a hand through his hair, looking as shaken as I feel.
“I should go,” I say, standing abruptly and gathering my things. “I’ll work on this and send you an updated timeline tomorrow.”
“Gemma,” he says evenly, but I’m already at the door.
“Gemma,” he repeats more forcefully.
I hesitate and eye him cautiously.
He shakes his head. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
I nod, slipping out of his office and practically running to the lift.
Crap.
Chapter Eighteen
Max
I?’ve finished another grueling workout after a long day, and I’m sitting with a glass of Macallan and my book,The Art of Warby Sun Tzu. I have a great deal of respect for Sun Tzu’s approach to strategy—the idea that every business negotiation is a battlefield where the smartest player wins. Seemed rather fitting.
Aside from the almost-kiss with Gemma yesterday, the rest of my week has gone smoothly. I kept my distance today, deciding to work from my apartment as much as possible going forward. I’ll only venture into Prestige’s office when necessary.
Gemma and I have been corresponding via email all day, and everything she’s sent regarding the timeline shift has been outstanding. She even sent through a new idea for Gray Hotel to collaborate with London’s newest Gallery of Contemporary Art, and I gave her the green light to investigate it further. I also spoke to the planning department this morning, dropping Grayson’s name—you have to use all your resources in this industry—and they fast-tracked our application. I should have approval in my inbox by Monday.
Thankfully, it seems we’ve both managed to move on from last night.
My phone buzzes with a text from Noah, asking where the hell I am. It’s Thursday night and I’m meeting my uni mate at our old haunt in SoHo, which happens to be right near Prestige’s building. I haven’t seen Noah since leaving for New York. I’ve kept in touch with old friends, but everyone has their own lives now. Things aren’t the same as when we were in our twenties and early thirties. Some friendships changed after Casey and I split; others dissolved naturally due to distance and different pathways. Most of the lads have moved on—wives, kids, some even with teenagers now.
Christ.
That makes me feel old.
Priorities change. They have lives that revolve around playdates, barbecues, and football practice, and I’d never hold that against them—it’s what they wanted. It’s just not whatIwanted.
There’s a strange disconnect sometimes—they talk about private schooling and mortgages, while I talk about the latest art museums I’ve visited, books I’ve read, and weekend trips to the Hamptons.
Different worlds, but I stay connected with those who reciprocate the friendship.
I shrug on my coat, comb my fingers through my hair, and roll my shoulders. Maybe a night with Noah is just what I need to get my head straight and stop thinking about Gemma Clarke’s plush lips and that lacy, flimsy bra.
I hop into an Uber—I don’t do the Tube. Not after my first day at Prestige Partners.
I walk into the bar, which is teeming with people, as per usual on a Thursday. It’s comforting returning to a place so familiar after years away and feeling like nothing’s changed. I scan the crowd until I spot Noah perched on a stool at the far end of the bar, paying for his lager before turning around. He locates me through the sea of faces.
It’s like a punch to the gut.
