“Now, let’s go find Camille and pretend she didn’t just hear about the chief development officer of Gray Hotel fingering me.”
April snorts. “Charming.”
We locate Camille, who does an excellent job of keeping her shit together despite my confession. Her cheeks are still tinted pink when she leads us to a small office with a portfolio containing details about the paintings we loved.
Apparently, they belong to a young Lord Harrington’s private collection. He temporarily donated them to thegallery following his father’s death three months ago. His snotty father never approved of contemporary art, favoring Renaissance pieces with lots of naked cherubs and people looking constipated in frills. So, his son specifically wanted these paintings displayed somewhere they could be appreciated by the public, without his father having a bitch-fit from beyond the grave.
I thumb through the portfolio with April. I always thought lords would be stiff and boring, but this man hasgoodtaste. I think we could definitely set up an exclusive collaboration with Gray Hotel.
I can already envision the marketing campaign. Social media ads, Instagram and TikTok posts, involving popular British lifestyle influencers, appealing to lavish women who want to spend a day at the spa surrounded by gorgeous products and paintings while they indulge in the luxury of Gray Hotel.
The idea of bringing these works to an audience who might not visit art galleries makes my corporate heart thrum. Not only do the artists benefit from exposure, but Lord Harrington can peacock the shit out of his impressive art repertoire with a similar demographic.
After Camille hands over a brochure including the pieces we’ve seen today, she scribbles his contact details on the back of a gallery business card. I set a reminder to arrange a meeting to view more of his private collection with Henry and Max.
As April and I say goodbye outside, a sheepish look crosses her face. She surveys our surroundings to make sure we’re alone before leaning in. “So… was it good at least? With Max?”
A slow, satisfied grin spreads across my face. “Mind-blowing. Let’s just say the man has a reason to be as confident as he is. His cock is enormous.”
“Oh God, I knew you’d give me too much detail. I shouldn’t have asked!” She groans, covering her ears. “I need to be able to look him in the eye at our dinner next weekend!”
Shit. I totally forgot that Max was attending that.
“You okay? You didn’t forget about the dinner, did you?” April asks.
“No! Of course not,” I say, a half lie. “I just remembered I needed to finish something for Henry.”
“Oh, sure. Well, have fun. Give Henry my best. I’ll see you soon!” She waves.
“Love you!”
I head back to the office where I flip through Lord Harrington’s brochure with Henry. Thankfully, he loves the artwork. He tells me he’ll eventually have a chat to Max about visiting the Harrington Estate to view the collection in person, and excitement fizzes through me.
By five-thirty, I’m out the door and racing home to prepare for tonight.
As I get ready, I conclude that if he’s expecting sex tonight, he’s in for a disappointment.
Why? Because I’m not about to hand over exactly what he wants on a silver platter. If Max Browne wants exclusivity, then he can wait a little longer. As much as I’m dying to feel him stretch me open with that gorgeous cock, I’m not letting him call all the shots. He’s not the only one steering the ship.
I swap out my glasses for a pair of daily wear contacts, which I wear as an insurance policy, so I don’t end up staying the night. Because Ineverstay the night. It screams attachment, and there will be none of that.
By the time eight forty-five rolls around, I’m fluffing my hair and slipping on my shoes.
Game time.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Gemma
I arrive at exactly nine. Max buzzes me up and by the time I reach his apartment, I find him leaning against his doorframe. Gone is his expensive suit and in its place, he’s wearing low-slung gray joggers—help me, God—and a tight black t-shirt.
His hair is damp and pushed back, his skin glowing.
He’s so effortlessly handsome it’s annoying.
“Gemma,” he coos.
I prowl toward him, my heels clicking. “Max.”
