People laugh loudly, the scent of coffee wafting through the kitchenette.
And then I spot him. Max is leaning against the kitchenette counter, listening intently to something Louise is saying.
I’m certain Max is simply being polite, because her conversation’s about as dry as a nun’s vagina.
He’s wearing a charcoal suit today—tailored within an inch of its life—and I don’t mean to stare, but my eyes drop, anyway. Straight to those veiny, strong, capable hands cradling a mug. My body remembers those hands. The wicked things they did to me last night. The way he touched me like he’d branded me. And damn if my body doesn’t want him to.
You’ve got this, Gemma.
Scratch that—you don’t have this at all.
I watch, completely dazed, as he lifts his mug to his lips. His thick throat bobs with the swallow, and then, Christ, his tongue darts out to lick his full bottom lip.
As if he senses me, his gaze slides across the room to meet mine. I freeze mid-step. And while I should turn and march straight down the corridor, my feet have fused to the traffic-worn carpet.
Louise continues babbling, but he pays her no mind. Because his sinful eyes spark like cinders as he regards me, brimming with lust. By the time I take a cautious step forward, his gaze flicks back to Louise, who throws her head back in laughter. I cringe at the sound. Max smiles. A full-on, teeth-baring, panty-destroying smile.
A pang of something almost territorial hits me, which is ridiculous. We didn’t even sleep together.
I straighten my spine and force myself to move.
“Morning,” I say brightly, slipping out of my coat and tossing it over a free chair next to Henry. I approach Louise and Max, stepping between them. Louise scoffs as she’s forced to move back and I reach for the biscuit tin in the top cupboard. I arch my spine slightly as I do, knowing full well Max has a perfect view of my arse. I’m in high-waisted trousers that accentuate every curve, my sheer blouse tucked in, the white lace of my bodysuit peeking out subtly from underneath. I’ve perfected my corporate attire, maintaining professionalism with just enough sexy to not be overt.
Beside me, Max’s sentence trails off. He clears his throat as my arm brushes against his shoulder, the warmth of his gaze following the line of my body. When I turn around, biscuit tin in hand, Max’s eyes shift straight to my lips.
“Gemma,” he says, my name dripping like honey. “How was your evening?”
Louise’s expression morphs from insufferable friendliness to something more hostile. She’s pissed she’s lost her audience, and I couldn’t be more pleased. I pretend she isn’t there and refocus on Max.
“Great, thanks. Nothing exciting to report, unfortunately. But I slept like the dead,” I lie, popping the biscuit in my mouth and chewing slowly. “You?”
He smirks.
“Can’t complain,” he replies, shrugging coolly. But his jaw ticks—just for a second—and I catch it. He didn’t sleep well, either. Good.
Louise, ever the desperate opportunist, leans in. “Mine was good too.”
I blink at her. “I’m thrilled for you.”
“Max was just telling meallabout New York. Weren’t you, Max?” Louise bats her lashes at him, and my biscuit threatens to resurface.
“Yes,” Max says, his eyes never leaving mine. “Louise was asking about the New York office.”
“I bet she was,” I mutter.
Louise shifts closer to Max, pressing herself against his arm. “I’ve always wanted to see New York. The Empire State Building, Central Park…”
I wrinkle my nose in pure disdain as the beige conversation dribbles on. I knew the woman was awful, but her flirting is akin to watching someone trying to lick their own elbow.
Fine. If giving Louise attention is his way of retaliating for my walking out last night, then I already know I’ve won.Does he think flirting with Louise will make me beg for it? Let him try. Two can play this game. If this man thinks he’s capable of making me envious, he has another think coming.
This is my game. Iownthis game. Hell, I invented the bloody rules.
Before Max can respond, I saunter toward the long dining table where Henry sits, wholly focused on his phone. I drop into the seat beside him, scooting a little closer and crossing one leg over the other. Max can see us perfectly here.
Henry lifts his gaze from the screen, eyes darting between Max, Louise, and me, and narrowing when he realizes I’m dragging him into whatever this is.
Louise has more or less molded herself to Max’s side with one manicured hand resting on his forearm, the other toying with her ebony hair. My stomach clenches when Max’s lips curve into a smile at something she says.
