Running a hand through my hair, she knocks twice on the door.
I smirk and anticipation coils in my gut.
Showtime.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Gemma
The door swings open to reveal—holy shit—Max. And he looksgood. Similar to last week, he’s in a pair of gray joggers but this time wears a fitted white t-shirt that molds perfectly to his washboard abs and muscular biceps. He isn’t wearing shoes or socks.
“Hello, Gemma,” his velvety voice purrs.
The scent of his cologne settles over me, making him even more alluring.
“Hi,” I reply, my advanced education shining through with my complex response.
His wolfish glare threatens to set my panties aflame. He steps aside for me to enter. I’ve seen his apartment before, obviously, but the view will never get old. I cross through the living area to the wall of windows.
“I wouldn’t leave this spot if this were my view. It’s breathtaking,” I say.
“It is,” he says, his hungry eyes boring into mine. “Would you like a glass of wine?”
“Please,” I respond.
I follow him to the kitchen where he carefully pours two healthy glasses of red. I accept the glass, clinking against his in a silent cheers before taking a sip.
“This is delicious. Thank you.” I lick a drop from my lower lip.
He tracks the movement. “You’re welcome.”
I perch on a barstool, putting the island between us. He leans against the counter opposite, casually crossing one leg over the other. I watch the way his joggers hang low on his hips.
Seeing him like this—relaxed, at ease, a glass of wine in hand—is positively intoxicating.
“So, it’s been a few weeks—how have you enjoyed being back in London?” I ask, forcing myself to make conversation. We’ll be in each other’s company at April’s engagement dinner tomorrow night, after all.
Usually, I approach my dates with the simple agenda of sussing them out over a glass of wine, unzipping, getting off, and grabbing an Uber home. Ineverbring them back to my flat—that’s my sacred space. But between work and our arrangement, Max and I see each other regularly now, and what can I say? I’m curious about the man behind the giant cock.
He lifts a brow, as if my question surprises him. “It’s good to be back. Though I’ll admit, seeing my family again hit me harder than anticipated. I feel like I’m missing out on time with them. Especially Anna.”
His vulnerability catches me off guard.
“I get that,” I say, nodding. “I know Anna has missed you. She’s really happy you’re back. Maybe you can visit more once the hotel is open.”
The corner of his lips twitch. “Maybe.” He shifts his stance, eyes studying me in a way that feels far too intimate. “How is the campaign going?”
“I’m looking into the private collections at the new Contemporary Art Gallery. I think I’ve found one with lotsof beautiful paintings that would work perfectly with the hotel’s aesthetic. The collection belongs to a young Lord Harrington.”
“I’ve heard of him,” he says.
I roll my eyes. “Of course you have. You rich people flock together. Is there some sort of secret society that us plebs don’t know about where you all sit around in a circle, jerking each other off and comparing offshore accounts?”
He laughs. The sound rich and sexy. “Not that I’m aware of. I’ve heard about him through Grayson.”
“Ah, the billionaire. That makes sense,” I say, taking another sip.
“The Harringtons come from old money, so it doesn’t surprise me that they have private collections. Most do.”
