After leaving the office with my tail between my legs, I was buzzing to start fresh this morning. By day’s end, it seemed Max was impressed with everything I sent through—I even contacted London’s newest Gallery of Contemporary Art to see if they would be interested in collaborating with Gray Hotel, which he seemed pleased with. I was so proud of my idea that Henry and I decided to treat ourselves to some well-deserved vino at our usual haunt around the corner from work.
Henry’s busy telling me all about his partner Nate’s latest work fiasco, which has me howling, when his face suddenly drops. He plants his palms on the tabletop before leaning in.
“Gemma, Max is here.”
“What?” Confusion cuts through my wine buzz. He jerks his chin, and I follow his gaze, only to land on the very man who’s been haunting my every thought.
My mouth dries instantly.
Crap.
Max looks good. I mean,reallygood.
Damn it.
He’s more laid-back and at ease, forgoing his usual tailored suit for simple trousers and a button-down that fit him way too well.
I swear I hear Celine Dion, see wisps of smoke, and watch as doves burst into flight behind him as he makes his way over. The man looks like some kind of Adonis carved specifically to torture me. Honestly, he could have stepped out ofGQ.
My vagina develops its own heartbeat, thudding harder with every step he takes.
“What’s he doing here? He wasn’t even in the bloody office today!” I hiss at Henry.
I straighten my posture and take a desperate sip of my chilled Chardonnay, hoping the cool liquid reduces the heat flushing my cheeks. I canfeelhis eyes on me, like cool water lapping the shoreline, and suddenly, I am bare and exposed.
I know what this means.Heknows what this means. For Christ’s sake, even Henry knows what this means, which is precisely why he’s pressing his lips together to hide his amusement.
Rejecting Max at Ruby Lounge on Friday took every ounce of willpower I could scrape together from my traitorous body. I don’t think I can turn him away a second time. Not when he looks likethis. Not when this French Chardonnay tastes so good and I’ve already helped myself to two large glasses.
Shite.
Anna is going to murder me.
I can smell Max’s cologne before he says a word.
“Hello, Gemma,” he says.
God, that voice. It’s like melted chocolate. Dark, rich, and delicious.
“Henry.” His voice shifts into something rougher, colder as he addresses Henry.
“Max, great to see you, mate,” Henry says, extending his hand for a shake. Max accepts but says nothing. Instead, he throws his coat over an empty stool’s back, pulls it out, and settles in. I watch his large hands as he taps his knuckles against the hard wooden tabletop.
“What are you doing here?” he asks, directing his question at me.
Henry shoots me a confusedwhat the helllook from across the table before I respond.
I lift my wine glass, saluting Max before I take a long pull. “After-work drinks.”
“Is this something you do often, just the two of you?”
His focus remains fixed on me.
“Um. Often enough.” My brows pinch together.
Why do I feel like I’m justifying myself? Am I being scolded?
Henry clears his throat. “Can I get you something to drink, Max?” His tone is friendly, and I can tell he’s attempting to lighten the mood.
