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Synopsis
Some secrets should stay behind closed doors…
Gemma’s got it all figured out: she has her amazing best friends April and Anna, a high-flying job, and a dating life that’s strictly no-strings-attached. Men fall at her feet – and she walks away from them without a backwards glance.
Max is a jet-setter with zero interest in settling down. Between London and New York City, he’s in a position of power, working at a luxury hotelier. But when he meets Gemma in a high-stakes hotel pitch, their chemistry is instant, electric…and completely off limits. Why? Because Max is Anna’s brother. And Anna has just one rule: don’t even think about her brother.
But the danger zone is Gemma’s favorite place to be. And some things are worth bending the rules for…
Release date: January 13, 2026
Publisher: Grand Central Publishing
Print pages: 352
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The Suite Secret
Tierney Page
I detest the Tube at peak hour.
“Are you all right?” I say, turning to glare at the person jabbing their elbow into my ribs.
“Sorry,” mutters an older man beside me, busy scrolling through his phone.
We’re crammed into the train carriage like sardines, and unfortunately, it smells just as bad—like a blend of yogurt left out too long and body odor.
The joys of living in a city with a population of nine million.
With a huff, I turn back to the window, my reflection mirrored back at me thanks to the pitch-black tunnel. I push my glasses farther up my nose, watching as the occasional light flashes by. In the glass, I spot a tall man behind me, his back turned with his phone pressed to his ear, barking orders at whoever’s on the other end.
His voice is delicious—smooth and rich, like aged whisky, and I lower the volume of my music to eavesdrop.
“What? No, I can’t hear you properly. You’re cutting in and out… I’m on the bloody underground!” the man says. He pauses, adjusting his stance. “I know the meeting’s at nine. I’ll be there as soon as I can.” And with that, he hangs up, muttering a quiet, “Jesus, I should have taken the car.”
Snob.
Returning to my little bubble, I plug in my AirPods and tap my foot to the beat of the music.
Upon a sudden lurch of the carriage, the tall man crashes into me.
“Ouch!” I cry. Pain explodes through my back as the train suddenly slows down and passengers sway unsteadily. I yank out my headphones, shove them into my trench-coat pockets, and rub the sore spot on my back. I whirl around to deliver a scolding. “Oh, for God’s sake. Just hold on to the strap. It’s not that bloody—”
The man turns and I halt mid-sentence, not by choice, but because words escape me.
“I tried to grab the strap, but the crowd pushed me before I could,” he says. “Are you hurt?”
For the love of all things holy.
He’s at least six foot two, clad in a perfectly tailored dark gray suit. The fabric is undoubtedly expensive—vicuña or cashmere—but it clings snugly to his bulging biceps and thighs.
It’s obvious the bloke works out.
I’m captivated by his pale blue eyes—cool and clear, like aquamarine. His hair is dark brown, flecked with silver at his temples. It has just the right amount of product to give that I woke up like this look. His fair skin is flawless, even under the shitty carriage lights. He has a smattering of freckles dusted across the bridge of his nose and the apples of his cheeks, while faint stubble peppers his jawline, which is so sharp it could cut glass.
Something about him is vaguely familiar, but I can’t place it.
Have I seen him in passing? Surely, I would have remembered him had we met. You don’t forget a face like that.
There’s a casual confidence in his stance. While the rest of us are packed together, he somehow commands his own space. My brain turns to porridge because this stranger is radiating a serious case of Big Dick Energy.
Which just so happens to be my favorite kind of energy.
I don’t get my kicks from running or reformer Pilates. To be honest, I’d rather sit on a pineapple than exercise. However, sex—that’s a form of physical exertion I’m more than willing to engage in, and it definitely keeps my energy levels up. And I’ve become rather good at it, if I do say so myself. Honestly, I deserve a bloody medal. Considering I don’t work out, you’d swear I was an Olympic gymnast.
My favorite kind of sex, however, is the kind where I can sit back and enjoy myself. I like being in control—of course, I do—but after years of taking charge in the bedroom, sometimes I just want a well-equipped man to take charge of me. And this man looks like he’s capable of doing precisely that.
Powerful men in powerful suits with powerful penises make me very happy, and unfortunately, appear to be few and far between.
Trust me—I’ve done extensive research—this man intrigues me.
He clears his throat, pulling me from my daze.
“Huh?” I ask, still rubbing my back.
He huffs a low laugh. “I asked, are you hurt?”
His accent is Londoner, but somewhat muted, softer.
Where have I seen him?
I mentally flip through places I could’ve met him, scanning faces and voices—anything that might spark recognition. Without thinking, I brush my hair back from my shoulders and arch my back slightly—just enough to draw attention where I want it. The girls have never let me down.
His gaze follows the movement, trailing from my face and lingering where my body nearly brushes his chest. Even in the winter chill, I chose my outfit carefully. The neckline of my silk shirt dips beneath my open trench coat, just low enough to show my silver infinity necklace against bare skin. My skirt walks that perfect line between professional and sexy—a modest length but fitted enough to hint at the curves beneath.
The silence stretches and I realize I’ve been staring at him, completely lost in thought.
He tilts his head, studying me with an amused expression. “Right,” he says, his tone shifting to something I don’t quite like. “Perhaps I’m not being clear enough.”
He bends at the knees, bringing himself down to my eye level, as if I’m a confused child.
“I asked”—he pauses, his words dripping with condescension—“are you hurt?”
And just like that, the urge to knee him in the balls is overwhelming.
Jesus. Does he think I’m an idiot?
A trail of fire burns through my chest.
“No,” I say, my tone clipped.
“See?” He straightens to full height, an infuriating hint of humor dancing in his eyes. “Wasn’t that hard, was it?” The wink he gives me makes my eye twitch.
I scoff. “Excuse me?”
“You were just a bit slow on the uptake.”
He’s so patronizing, I want to kick him.
I recoil at his audacity and stumble straight back into the arms of whatever unfortunate soul is contributing to that god-awful body odor wafting through the carriage. Brilliant.
“I beg your pardon?” I demand, my voice rising.
His smirk widens. “You seemed a little… overwhelmed. I wasn’t sure if it was because you were hurt, couldn’t quite follow along, or maybe”—his eyes are pure mischief—“you were struck by my devastating good looks.”
Arrogant prick. If his head were any further up his arse, he could lick his nostrils clean.
“Did you just suggest I’m stupid?” My voice drops, more threatening than friendly. I ignore the remark about his good looks—because he’s absolutely right, the smug turd, but I refuse to give him the satisfaction.
He chuckles, clearly enjoying himself. “I said you were slow to respond, not that you are slow. There’s a difference.”
His gaze drops to my chest before snapping back up to meet my glare.
“Did you just look at my breasts?”
“Well…” He shrugs. “To be fair, you are shoving them in my direction.”
My mouth drops. The nerve of this man.
“I most certainly am not shoving my breasts into you.”
I absolutely am. Anyone with a set of eyes in their head can see exactly what I’m doing, but I’m not about to admit it. He knows I’m full of shite, but I won’t waver.
He raises a hand in mock surrender with an insufferable grin. “You’re right. My apologies. I’d step back to give you proper space, but there’s a pram lodged up my backside.”
I scrunch my brow and crane my neck to peek behind him, only to be assaulted by the sight—and smell—of someone’s rancid armpit. Sure enough, there’s a pram wedged between his arse and another passenger.
“Good,” I mutter, fishing my AirPods from my pocket and slipping them into my ears.
Turning back to the window, I watch his reflection, catching his soft scoff and the slight shake of his head as he turns away from me. Instead of music, I resume my latest audiobook, letting the narrator’s soothing voice drown out the sounds of sneezing, coughing, and—my personal favorite—crying infants.
Two stops later, we finally crawl into Leicester Square station. As I get ready to step off, I notice my charming new acquaintance is also disembarking. I find myself trailing behind him as he weaves through the crowd, heading for the escalator.
Women stare as he passes—of course they bloody do. But my attention is on the way his trousers hug his firm, spectacular arse.
Glorious. He might be totally up himself, but credit where it’s due.
By the time I reach street level, he’s disappeared into the sea of Monday morning commuters.
Another manic Monday begins.
The wind bites at my exposed skin, leaving a trail of gooseflesh in its wake. I bounce on the balls of my feet, alternating between rubbing my gloved hands together and tucking them under my arms to stay warm.
Around me, people dart between the criss-cross pathways of Soho Square Gardens, heads bowed against the cold.
Lance’s Kiosk stands at the edge of the gardens, chipped brown paint peeling from the worn timber and revealing patches of bare wood. The smell of coffee and hot food drifts into the cold air, making my stomach grumble as I step forward to order.
“Morning, lass. How are you?” Lance booms in his thick, northern Scottish accent. I order my usual, double-tapping the button on the side of my phone to pay.
“Ecstatic, thanks, Lance,” I reply, flashing him an exaggerated grin.
He chuckles, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he slides over my apricot Danish and latte. “Thirteen pounds, love.”
My jaw practically hits the floor. “What the hell, Lance? That’s daylight robbery! It was ten pounds on Friday!”
He sighs, adjusting his woolen rounded cap. “Council’s hiked up their rates. Sadly, it’s me and my customers taking the hit. I’ve already lost four regulars, and it’s only Monday. I was hoping to upgrade my coffee machine and replace the display cabinet, but it doesn’t look like that’ll be happening anytime soon. In fact, it’s all looking a bit grim.”
My shoulders slump in defeat. “Bloody hell, Lance. I’m so sorry.”
Lance’s gaze drops to the ground before returning to meet mine. He forces a small, weak smile. I can barely stand it. He’s the sweetest man.
I’ve been frequenting his stall ever since I started working at Prestige Partners, stopping by for my daily Danish and latte every morning on the way to work. Rain, hail, or shine, Lance has always been here.
“Twenty-five years I’ve run this kiosk. Back then, a coffee was barely a wee two quid.” He removes his hat, scratching his bald spot. “I don’t know how you youngsters do it.”
“Honestly, Lance? Neither do we. Half my pay check’s gone before I’ve even paid rent.”
He nods, leaning in and crossing his arms over the counter. “But we don’t have a choice, eh? Can’t just stop living.”
“Exactly. Bastards.” I gesture to my latte. “Though I might have to start rationing my coffee addiction.”
Lance laughs, but it’s a tired sound. “You’d think with all these clever new gadgets, life would be easier. Cheaper. But it’s just more expensive, and no one’s happier.”
I shoot him a smirk. “I don’t know about that. Your coffee and pastries make me pretty happy.”
He reaches forward, gently holding my hand around my pastry. “As long as I get to see my regulars—well, for now, anyway.”
Pressure builds in my chest. Lance’s Kiosk is a large part of why people visit Soho Square Gardens, and I couldn’t bear seeing it go. It’s not just the coffee—it’s him. There’s a comfort in knowing that, even if you’re not looking forward to sitting at a desk all day, he’ll be there every morning to greet you with a friendly smile. The area without him would feel emptier, colder, barren.
“Hang in there,” I say.
He offers a slight shrug. “I’ll fight it as long as I can, lass. But if it’s not meant to be…” He doesn’t finish his sentence. He doesn’t need to.
I place my coffee on the counter, delicately covering his hand with mine. I can feel him tremor. “You’ll be okay,” I say, squeezing a little tighter.
“Enough of that,” he says, releasing his grip. “How’d that date go then, lass?” Lance changes the subject.
I shake my head. “Disastrous.”
His face splits in a grin. “You don’t have much luck with the fellas, do you?”
I take a tentative sip of my coffee. “Oh, I get lucky plenty, but no, when it comes to finding someone who isn’t a complete tosser? My track record is spectacularly shit.”
He points a finger at me, his eyes twinkling. “Don’t you give up hope yet, lass. There’s a good man out there somewhere for you.”
I scoff. “I’m not looking for a relationship, Lance. I just need someone to shag—someone who can keep up with me. They’re either intimidated by me or completely selfish.”
He laughs. “Aye, you need someone with a backbone. You deserve someone who appreciates that fire in you, not someone trying to put it out.”
I raise my coffee in cheers. “See?” I nod. “You get it.”
He plants his palms on the counter. “Aye. My Everly was just like you back in the day. See, when we were young, we had the sexual appetite of a—”
I nearly choke on my coffee. “Christ, Lance! Too much information!” I hold up my hand to stop him. “Right, that’s my cue to exit before you scar me for life. Bye!”
“Aye, but I was just getting to the good bit!” he calls after me, chuckling to himself.
The revolving door opens into the lobby where blasts of heat wrap around me, thawing my cheeks. My heels click against the polished tile floors as I head toward the lift, sipping my latte.
“Morning, Gemma!” Tab, our receptionist, greets me with a bright smile and wave from behind the desk.
“Morning, Tab.” I beam.
I’ve been at Prestige Partners for nine years, starting as a fresh-faced creative intern straight out of London College of Communication. Henry Matthews, our chief creative officer, saw potential after viewing my grad portfolio and took me under his wing. Henry and I make a great team. What started as small talk and stiff work conversations quickly turned into after-work vinos and the occasional Sunday brunch.
Henry’s become a real friend, not just a colleague. Miraculously, he’s the first gorgeous man I’ve maintained a purely professional relationship with—though I suspect his boyfriend might have something to do with that.
I’ve never been one to shy away from sexual adventure, especially after my last long-term relationship. I made it my mission to experience everything I missed out on while being tied down to Todd.
The thought of two gorgeous men and me, focused entirely on joint pleasure, is very appealing, but I’d bet good money that if I ever had a crack, I’d be up shit creek without a paddle, and I value my position here far too much to jeopardize it.
I didn’t claw my way from junior intern to associate creative director to throw it away now. I might play around outside these four walls, but at work, I’m strategic about everything.
It wasn’t all glamour at the beginning. I started off managing social media content for smaller boutique hotels and crafting email campaigns for luxury hotel spas. I spent countless late nights tweaking presentations to ensure my pitch was the best, and it paid off. Now, at thirty-four, I’m the youngest creative director in the agency’s history, leading our biggest luxury hospitality accounts. Today, Henry and I are gearing up to pitch our campaign for what’s set to be London’s most talked-about hotel in decades.
Ping.
A notification chimes.
Balancing my pastry and coffee in one hand, I bite down on the finger of my glove, tugging it off before pulling my phone from my pocket.
Declan: You busy tonight?
“Ugh,” I groan, rolling my eyes as soon as I see the name.
Declan was last night’s mistake, courtesy of KinkApp. I used to use the mainstream dating apps but deleted them when I realized most of the men on there are painfully vanilla and actively looking for marriage and babies—so not my vibe.
I matched with Declan last week, drawn in by his silver-fox looks and the promise of experience. Sure, he might be forty-three, but I’ve always had a thing for an age gap. I thought, What could go wrong?
Well, it turns out plenty can go wrong.
He rescheduled the date twice. At first, I suggested coffee and a walk on Sunday morning, but unfortunately, Declan doesn’t “believe in waking up to an alarm,” so he never commits to morning plans. That should have been my first red flag, but I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt and meet him for dinner instead.
This is when I finally learned that giving someone the benefit of the doubt never benefitted me.
Throughout the entire meal, his eyes never made it north of my tits—which, if I’m honest, I can’t blame him—they are phenomenal. But then came the speech about his journey of “self-discovery” and how after four months of celibacy, he’s “finally ready to honor his body with release.”
That should have been where I drew the line in the sand. But what can I say? I’m not one to turn down the opportunity for a good shag. Plus, I was horny and stupidly optimistic—a dangerous cocktail. I hoped that he might actually be able to put his money where his mouth is and deliver in the bedroom. So, I went back to his flat, hoping he’d prove me wrong about being a complete waste of my time, and wouldn’t you know it? He came inside me after two disappointing pumps, then proceeded to tell me that our souls had just intertwined on a higher frequency.
I don’t think I’ve ever dressed and legged it out of a building so quickly. I scrubbed my skin raw as soon as I got home.
I cringe, tapping out of the message. I must remember to unmatch him.
“Ooft.” A deep sound reverberates through the space as I walk straight into something—no, scratch that—someone. My glove slips from my mouth and the lid pops off my cup, sending coffee splattering all over my victim’s shirt. My Danish and phone clatter to the floor, both covered in coffee, and the screen cracks on impact.
“Shit!” I say. “I’m so sorry!”
I look up, freezing as I come face-to-face with a pair of familiar crystal blue eyes.
My eyes narrow to slits as they land on the jerk from the train.
“You,” I say, accusatory.
He wipes his hands down the front of his shirt.
Oops, I’ve completely ruined it.
He flicks his fingers and droplets of coffee fly through the air, spattering onto my cream trench.
“You,” he replies, his voice equally low and cutting.
“Perfect,” I say, inspecting the brown dots on my coat. “There goes my bloody breakfast.”
“I know. I’m the lucky prick wearing it.”
I dramatically sweep my eyes over the foyer. “What happened to the pram?”
He cocks an eyebrow. “You mean the one I had lodged up my rectum on the Tube?”
I click my tongue. “That’s the one. Did you manage to get it all the way inside this time? I imagine that would have been a difficult feat, considering how tight I’m certain your arse is.”
He releases a deep chuckle.
Shit. Even his laugh is hot.
No, traitorous vagina. You do not have a say in this.
I look up as his gaze drops to his shirt. It strikes me that he’s lost the suit jacket. The damp, stained fabric clings to his flat, taut stomach, accentuating a dusting of dark chest hair beneath.
Out of all the offices in the area, he had to be at mine. Why?
My stupid heart stutters, which is bloody annoying, because this guy is magnetic. It doesn’t happen often, but every now and then you lock eyes with someone and feel that pull—like gravity itself shifted and suddenly you’re the only two people in the room.
That’s exactly what this feels like.
I don’t know him, but he affects me. And I’ve just gone and spilt half my latte all over him. I didn’t get more than a few sips from of it, so I’m also pissed—that latte cost me half of my thirteen-pound breakfast, the rest of it currently swimming in a puddle on the floor.
I never lose my cool in front of a man. If anything, it’s the other way around. I’m confident and go after exactly what I want. And I’ll be damned if this stranger, just because he’s handsome, is the one to throw me.
I squat to collect my phone and soggy Danish. “Fuck,” I mutter, trying to hide the phone cover as I wipe the liquid off the screen, inspecting the damage.
“Is it broken?” he asks.
I angle the phone to show him, and he scrunches his nose when he spots the labyrinth of cracks.
“What are you doing here, anyway?” I say, dabbing my sleeve over the coffee stains on my coat as I straighten to full height.
“I’m here on business. I’m assuming you work in this building,” he says, bending down to collect my glove. I snatch it from him, shoving it into my pocket.
“Got it in one, Sherlock,” I reply, my eyes trailing over his frame. “Hope that shirt wasn’t too expensive.”
“Only Tom Ford.”
“Shame.”
“I can tell you’re really cut up about it.” The corner of his lip twitches.
“Naturally.”
Behind him, I see Tab spring into action, grabbing paper towels and cleaning spray from under her desk. She walks toward us.
His brows pinch, eyeing me with way more interest than I’m comfortable with after making a complete tit of myself. “What’s your na—”
“It’s okay, Tab,” I say quickly, interrupting him as I lift a hand to stop her. “I’ll clean it up.”
“No, no. I insist!” Tab says, dropping to her haunches, mopping up the coffee puddle and wiping his shoes.
“Oh,” he starts. “That really isn’t necessary—”
“Exactly, see? He’s happy to clean his own shoes.”
Tab’s cheeks stain pink before she ducks her head and darts back to her desk.
I fix him with a pointed look. “Well, this has been nice. But I have a very important meeting to attend, so if you’ll excuse me.”
Before he can respond, I sidestep him, darting toward the elevator.
“Apologies about the shirt,” I call over my shoulder.
Once I’m inside, I turn back to find the stranger rooted in place, watching with a smirk as I jab at the buttons, willing the doors to close. As they finally shut, I release a deep breath, inspecting my ruined coat. “Damn it.”
Six companies occupy multiple floors of the building.
I watch the elevator numbers ascend to see which floor she gets off at. I turn away when I see she’s reached the upper levels.
Bingo. Exactly where I’m going.
I noticed her the moment I stepped onto the Piccadilly line, trying to get as close as possible in the crammed carriage. As luck would have it, some mother wedged her pram against my arse, trapping me in place. Between that and being sandwiched amongst other passengers, I couldn’t have moved even if I’d wanted to.
She’s of average height, maybe five six, with a slender build and curves in all the right places. Even with her trench, I could clearly make out the dip of her waist. Her coat hung open, teasing the fullness of her chest and the delicate infinity necklace resting against her creamy skin. Her dark blond hair brushed just past her shoulders. Cute wire-framed glasses perched askew on her button nose. Her ivory skin was makeup free, except for a flick of eyeliner, and glossy lips that begged to be touched.
Most of all, I was intrigued by her sass—she didn’t speak to me the way some women do. Not that I’d expect her to swoon, but I’d be lying if I said other women didn’t.
Venom and sin wrapped in a delicious, unassuming package, and I can’t help but crave her bite.
I run my hand down my front. Lukewarm coffee has seeped through the expensive fabric, plastering my shirt to my skin. It feels revolting, but I can’t even bring myself to care—I had too much fun watching the little live wire panic.
I’d been heading out to grab a coffee before my meeting, but looks like I’ll be wearing it instead.
I glance at my watch and sigh. Five minutes until the meeting.
I wonder if she’ll be there.
I pivot, catching the receptionist’s gaze again. Tab, I think her name was. She blushes.
Her cherry-red lips curl into a shy smile, and when I return it, her cheeks flush an even deeper hue.
I straighten my posture and head toward the elevator, passing inquisitive eyes.
I press the button for the top floor marked PRESTIGE PARTNERS—EXECUTIVE SUITES.
A chime sounds as the elevator doors slide open to reveal a bright, airy space with a modern layout.
A secretary’s desk sits front and center in a spacious foyer, flanked by corridors leading to several offices. Right there, leaning casually over the desk with arms crossed, is Grayson Livingstone—CEO of Livingstone Hotels. He’s doing what he does best, if his easy smirk and the secretary’s insufferable giggles are any indication.
Classic Grayson.
He runs the prestigious New York luxury hotel empire passed down by his late grandparents, shared with his two brothers, Cole and Noah.
We met back when I decided to complete my MBA in New York. What started as after-class drinks and attending lectures together quickly evolved into a close friendship I’m extremely grateful for.
I roll my eyes as I watch Grayson work his usual charm. Women turn their heads—and drop their knickers—wherever Grayson Livingstone goes, the lucky bastard. Not that I can talk. I don’t exactly have trouble in that department either, especially following my divorce four years ago.
Like Grayson, I’ve got zero interest in entertaining anything more than a quick fuck. Four years of freedom since my divorce have taught me exactly how I prefer to keep things: uncomplicated.
Stepping forward, I clap Grayson on the shoulder. He jolts, standing upright as he tugs at the lapels of his jacket.
“Sorry, ma’am. Is my boss here keeping you from getting anything done?” I ask the secretary.
She spins a biro between her pink-tipped fingers, biting down on her lower lip.
“Not at all, sir,” she says, fluttering her lashes. She pauses when her eyes zero in on the stain marring my shirt.
“Just call me Max, please,” I insist.
“I’m Molly,” she says.
“Molly,” Grayson repeats with a sly smile, like he’s testing her name on his tongue.
Grayson raps his knuckles against the smooth mahogany desk. “Right, better let you get back to it, then. Do feel free to call me.” He grins, sliding a sleek matte-black business card out from his jacket—the one with his direct number printed on it.
His fingers brush hers as she takes it, and sure enough, it earns him another giggle.
He turns to me, scrunching his nose as his gaze trails down my wet shirt. “Jesus, you smell like sour milk. What happened to you?”
“Some bird spilled her coffee all over me.”
“Obviously,” he says, chuckling, checking his watch. “Shit. We don’t have time to get you a new shirt.” He looks up. “Can you throw your jacket over the top?”
I nod.
Working closely with Grayson these past few years has changed my life in ways I never could’ve imagined. I had spent years in investment banking at a property firm in Canary Wharf, where my focus had been on hotel acquisitions and developments. I oversaw the details that determined whether a luxury property would thrive or fail. I structured deals for renovations and new builds, worked on expansion strategies, and analyzed high-profile portfolios—learning the business side of an industry I’d grown up loving.
I received a desperate call from Grayson two years ago. His grandfather had just passed away, leaving him and his brothers an empire they weren’t quite ready to inherit, regardless of how hard they all worked. He needed someone beside him who he could trust implicitly and understood business the way he did. His call couldn’t have come at a better time. The divorce from Casey had been final for a year by then, and I was itching for a fresh start, away from her and the constant phone calls.
Seventy-two hours after Grayson’s cry for help, I was on a plane to New York, stepping into a new chapter as chief development officer for Livingstone Hotels.
For two years, I helped Grayson lead Livingstone’s global expansion, acquiring twelve new luxury properties and boutique hotels worldwide. Now the role has taken me back to the city I grew up in.
Touching down at Heathrow yesterday awoke something unexpected in me. Knowing that my parents and my sister Anna were a few suburbs away again brought a comfort I hadn’t realized I’d been missing. The tooting of cab horns, gray skies, and row after row of white terraced houses reminded me of everything good I’d left behind, instead of dwelling on the negativity I’d associated this place with because of Casey.
I started to feel slight remorse. The deeper I descended into the belly of London, the more homesick I felt. But I’m not back here to settle into my old life or to share Sunday roast at Mum’s, I’m only here for two months. This isn’t a homecoming—it’s business.
I’m launching Livingstone Hotels’ boldest venture yet: Gray Hotel. Grayson’s idea, naturally. It’s a sleek new luxury hotel brand, blending old-money elegance with a modern edge, set in London’s affluent Mayfair. Picture penthouse suites and infinity pools overlooking Hyde Park.
It’ll be the kind of place that draws in the young, hungry, and wealthy. A hotel where every Instagram story promises FOMO and every check-in feels like guests have finally made it. Guests will come to see and be seen. To flaunt their wealth.
It’s exactly the sort
“Are you all right?” I say, turning to glare at the person jabbing their elbow into my ribs.
“Sorry,” mutters an older man beside me, busy scrolling through his phone.
We’re crammed into the train carriage like sardines, and unfortunately, it smells just as bad—like a blend of yogurt left out too long and body odor.
The joys of living in a city with a population of nine million.
With a huff, I turn back to the window, my reflection mirrored back at me thanks to the pitch-black tunnel. I push my glasses farther up my nose, watching as the occasional light flashes by. In the glass, I spot a tall man behind me, his back turned with his phone pressed to his ear, barking orders at whoever’s on the other end.
His voice is delicious—smooth and rich, like aged whisky, and I lower the volume of my music to eavesdrop.
“What? No, I can’t hear you properly. You’re cutting in and out… I’m on the bloody underground!” the man says. He pauses, adjusting his stance. “I know the meeting’s at nine. I’ll be there as soon as I can.” And with that, he hangs up, muttering a quiet, “Jesus, I should have taken the car.”
Snob.
Returning to my little bubble, I plug in my AirPods and tap my foot to the beat of the music.
Upon a sudden lurch of the carriage, the tall man crashes into me.
“Ouch!” I cry. Pain explodes through my back as the train suddenly slows down and passengers sway unsteadily. I yank out my headphones, shove them into my trench-coat pockets, and rub the sore spot on my back. I whirl around to deliver a scolding. “Oh, for God’s sake. Just hold on to the strap. It’s not that bloody—”
The man turns and I halt mid-sentence, not by choice, but because words escape me.
“I tried to grab the strap, but the crowd pushed me before I could,” he says. “Are you hurt?”
For the love of all things holy.
He’s at least six foot two, clad in a perfectly tailored dark gray suit. The fabric is undoubtedly expensive—vicuña or cashmere—but it clings snugly to his bulging biceps and thighs.
It’s obvious the bloke works out.
I’m captivated by his pale blue eyes—cool and clear, like aquamarine. His hair is dark brown, flecked with silver at his temples. It has just the right amount of product to give that I woke up like this look. His fair skin is flawless, even under the shitty carriage lights. He has a smattering of freckles dusted across the bridge of his nose and the apples of his cheeks, while faint stubble peppers his jawline, which is so sharp it could cut glass.
Something about him is vaguely familiar, but I can’t place it.
Have I seen him in passing? Surely, I would have remembered him had we met. You don’t forget a face like that.
There’s a casual confidence in his stance. While the rest of us are packed together, he somehow commands his own space. My brain turns to porridge because this stranger is radiating a serious case of Big Dick Energy.
Which just so happens to be my favorite kind of energy.
I don’t get my kicks from running or reformer Pilates. To be honest, I’d rather sit on a pineapple than exercise. However, sex—that’s a form of physical exertion I’m more than willing to engage in, and it definitely keeps my energy levels up. And I’ve become rather good at it, if I do say so myself. Honestly, I deserve a bloody medal. Considering I don’t work out, you’d swear I was an Olympic gymnast.
My favorite kind of sex, however, is the kind where I can sit back and enjoy myself. I like being in control—of course, I do—but after years of taking charge in the bedroom, sometimes I just want a well-equipped man to take charge of me. And this man looks like he’s capable of doing precisely that.
Powerful men in powerful suits with powerful penises make me very happy, and unfortunately, appear to be few and far between.
Trust me—I’ve done extensive research—this man intrigues me.
He clears his throat, pulling me from my daze.
“Huh?” I ask, still rubbing my back.
He huffs a low laugh. “I asked, are you hurt?”
His accent is Londoner, but somewhat muted, softer.
Where have I seen him?
I mentally flip through places I could’ve met him, scanning faces and voices—anything that might spark recognition. Without thinking, I brush my hair back from my shoulders and arch my back slightly—just enough to draw attention where I want it. The girls have never let me down.
His gaze follows the movement, trailing from my face and lingering where my body nearly brushes his chest. Even in the winter chill, I chose my outfit carefully. The neckline of my silk shirt dips beneath my open trench coat, just low enough to show my silver infinity necklace against bare skin. My skirt walks that perfect line between professional and sexy—a modest length but fitted enough to hint at the curves beneath.
The silence stretches and I realize I’ve been staring at him, completely lost in thought.
He tilts his head, studying me with an amused expression. “Right,” he says, his tone shifting to something I don’t quite like. “Perhaps I’m not being clear enough.”
He bends at the knees, bringing himself down to my eye level, as if I’m a confused child.
“I asked”—he pauses, his words dripping with condescension—“are you hurt?”
And just like that, the urge to knee him in the balls is overwhelming.
Jesus. Does he think I’m an idiot?
A trail of fire burns through my chest.
“No,” I say, my tone clipped.
“See?” He straightens to full height, an infuriating hint of humor dancing in his eyes. “Wasn’t that hard, was it?” The wink he gives me makes my eye twitch.
I scoff. “Excuse me?”
“You were just a bit slow on the uptake.”
He’s so patronizing, I want to kick him.
I recoil at his audacity and stumble straight back into the arms of whatever unfortunate soul is contributing to that god-awful body odor wafting through the carriage. Brilliant.
“I beg your pardon?” I demand, my voice rising.
His smirk widens. “You seemed a little… overwhelmed. I wasn’t sure if it was because you were hurt, couldn’t quite follow along, or maybe”—his eyes are pure mischief—“you were struck by my devastating good looks.”
Arrogant prick. If his head were any further up his arse, he could lick his nostrils clean.
“Did you just suggest I’m stupid?” My voice drops, more threatening than friendly. I ignore the remark about his good looks—because he’s absolutely right, the smug turd, but I refuse to give him the satisfaction.
He chuckles, clearly enjoying himself. “I said you were slow to respond, not that you are slow. There’s a difference.”
His gaze drops to my chest before snapping back up to meet my glare.
“Did you just look at my breasts?”
“Well…” He shrugs. “To be fair, you are shoving them in my direction.”
My mouth drops. The nerve of this man.
“I most certainly am not shoving my breasts into you.”
I absolutely am. Anyone with a set of eyes in their head can see exactly what I’m doing, but I’m not about to admit it. He knows I’m full of shite, but I won’t waver.
He raises a hand in mock surrender with an insufferable grin. “You’re right. My apologies. I’d step back to give you proper space, but there’s a pram lodged up my backside.”
I scrunch my brow and crane my neck to peek behind him, only to be assaulted by the sight—and smell—of someone’s rancid armpit. Sure enough, there’s a pram wedged between his arse and another passenger.
“Good,” I mutter, fishing my AirPods from my pocket and slipping them into my ears.
Turning back to the window, I watch his reflection, catching his soft scoff and the slight shake of his head as he turns away from me. Instead of music, I resume my latest audiobook, letting the narrator’s soothing voice drown out the sounds of sneezing, coughing, and—my personal favorite—crying infants.
Two stops later, we finally crawl into Leicester Square station. As I get ready to step off, I notice my charming new acquaintance is also disembarking. I find myself trailing behind him as he weaves through the crowd, heading for the escalator.
Women stare as he passes—of course they bloody do. But my attention is on the way his trousers hug his firm, spectacular arse.
Glorious. He might be totally up himself, but credit where it’s due.
By the time I reach street level, he’s disappeared into the sea of Monday morning commuters.
Another manic Monday begins.
The wind bites at my exposed skin, leaving a trail of gooseflesh in its wake. I bounce on the balls of my feet, alternating between rubbing my gloved hands together and tucking them under my arms to stay warm.
Around me, people dart between the criss-cross pathways of Soho Square Gardens, heads bowed against the cold.
Lance’s Kiosk stands at the edge of the gardens, chipped brown paint peeling from the worn timber and revealing patches of bare wood. The smell of coffee and hot food drifts into the cold air, making my stomach grumble as I step forward to order.
“Morning, lass. How are you?” Lance booms in his thick, northern Scottish accent. I order my usual, double-tapping the button on the side of my phone to pay.
“Ecstatic, thanks, Lance,” I reply, flashing him an exaggerated grin.
He chuckles, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he slides over my apricot Danish and latte. “Thirteen pounds, love.”
My jaw practically hits the floor. “What the hell, Lance? That’s daylight robbery! It was ten pounds on Friday!”
He sighs, adjusting his woolen rounded cap. “Council’s hiked up their rates. Sadly, it’s me and my customers taking the hit. I’ve already lost four regulars, and it’s only Monday. I was hoping to upgrade my coffee machine and replace the display cabinet, but it doesn’t look like that’ll be happening anytime soon. In fact, it’s all looking a bit grim.”
My shoulders slump in defeat. “Bloody hell, Lance. I’m so sorry.”
Lance’s gaze drops to the ground before returning to meet mine. He forces a small, weak smile. I can barely stand it. He’s the sweetest man.
I’ve been frequenting his stall ever since I started working at Prestige Partners, stopping by for my daily Danish and latte every morning on the way to work. Rain, hail, or shine, Lance has always been here.
“Twenty-five years I’ve run this kiosk. Back then, a coffee was barely a wee two quid.” He removes his hat, scratching his bald spot. “I don’t know how you youngsters do it.”
“Honestly, Lance? Neither do we. Half my pay check’s gone before I’ve even paid rent.”
He nods, leaning in and crossing his arms over the counter. “But we don’t have a choice, eh? Can’t just stop living.”
“Exactly. Bastards.” I gesture to my latte. “Though I might have to start rationing my coffee addiction.”
Lance laughs, but it’s a tired sound. “You’d think with all these clever new gadgets, life would be easier. Cheaper. But it’s just more expensive, and no one’s happier.”
I shoot him a smirk. “I don’t know about that. Your coffee and pastries make me pretty happy.”
He reaches forward, gently holding my hand around my pastry. “As long as I get to see my regulars—well, for now, anyway.”
Pressure builds in my chest. Lance’s Kiosk is a large part of why people visit Soho Square Gardens, and I couldn’t bear seeing it go. It’s not just the coffee—it’s him. There’s a comfort in knowing that, even if you’re not looking forward to sitting at a desk all day, he’ll be there every morning to greet you with a friendly smile. The area without him would feel emptier, colder, barren.
“Hang in there,” I say.
He offers a slight shrug. “I’ll fight it as long as I can, lass. But if it’s not meant to be…” He doesn’t finish his sentence. He doesn’t need to.
I place my coffee on the counter, delicately covering his hand with mine. I can feel him tremor. “You’ll be okay,” I say, squeezing a little tighter.
“Enough of that,” he says, releasing his grip. “How’d that date go then, lass?” Lance changes the subject.
I shake my head. “Disastrous.”
His face splits in a grin. “You don’t have much luck with the fellas, do you?”
I take a tentative sip of my coffee. “Oh, I get lucky plenty, but no, when it comes to finding someone who isn’t a complete tosser? My track record is spectacularly shit.”
He points a finger at me, his eyes twinkling. “Don’t you give up hope yet, lass. There’s a good man out there somewhere for you.”
I scoff. “I’m not looking for a relationship, Lance. I just need someone to shag—someone who can keep up with me. They’re either intimidated by me or completely selfish.”
He laughs. “Aye, you need someone with a backbone. You deserve someone who appreciates that fire in you, not someone trying to put it out.”
I raise my coffee in cheers. “See?” I nod. “You get it.”
He plants his palms on the counter. “Aye. My Everly was just like you back in the day. See, when we were young, we had the sexual appetite of a—”
I nearly choke on my coffee. “Christ, Lance! Too much information!” I hold up my hand to stop him. “Right, that’s my cue to exit before you scar me for life. Bye!”
“Aye, but I was just getting to the good bit!” he calls after me, chuckling to himself.
The revolving door opens into the lobby where blasts of heat wrap around me, thawing my cheeks. My heels click against the polished tile floors as I head toward the lift, sipping my latte.
“Morning, Gemma!” Tab, our receptionist, greets me with a bright smile and wave from behind the desk.
“Morning, Tab.” I beam.
I’ve been at Prestige Partners for nine years, starting as a fresh-faced creative intern straight out of London College of Communication. Henry Matthews, our chief creative officer, saw potential after viewing my grad portfolio and took me under his wing. Henry and I make a great team. What started as small talk and stiff work conversations quickly turned into after-work vinos and the occasional Sunday brunch.
Henry’s become a real friend, not just a colleague. Miraculously, he’s the first gorgeous man I’ve maintained a purely professional relationship with—though I suspect his boyfriend might have something to do with that.
I’ve never been one to shy away from sexual adventure, especially after my last long-term relationship. I made it my mission to experience everything I missed out on while being tied down to Todd.
The thought of two gorgeous men and me, focused entirely on joint pleasure, is very appealing, but I’d bet good money that if I ever had a crack, I’d be up shit creek without a paddle, and I value my position here far too much to jeopardize it.
I didn’t claw my way from junior intern to associate creative director to throw it away now. I might play around outside these four walls, but at work, I’m strategic about everything.
It wasn’t all glamour at the beginning. I started off managing social media content for smaller boutique hotels and crafting email campaigns for luxury hotel spas. I spent countless late nights tweaking presentations to ensure my pitch was the best, and it paid off. Now, at thirty-four, I’m the youngest creative director in the agency’s history, leading our biggest luxury hospitality accounts. Today, Henry and I are gearing up to pitch our campaign for what’s set to be London’s most talked-about hotel in decades.
Ping.
A notification chimes.
Balancing my pastry and coffee in one hand, I bite down on the finger of my glove, tugging it off before pulling my phone from my pocket.
Declan: You busy tonight?
“Ugh,” I groan, rolling my eyes as soon as I see the name.
Declan was last night’s mistake, courtesy of KinkApp. I used to use the mainstream dating apps but deleted them when I realized most of the men on there are painfully vanilla and actively looking for marriage and babies—so not my vibe.
I matched with Declan last week, drawn in by his silver-fox looks and the promise of experience. Sure, he might be forty-three, but I’ve always had a thing for an age gap. I thought, What could go wrong?
Well, it turns out plenty can go wrong.
He rescheduled the date twice. At first, I suggested coffee and a walk on Sunday morning, but unfortunately, Declan doesn’t “believe in waking up to an alarm,” so he never commits to morning plans. That should have been my first red flag, but I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt and meet him for dinner instead.
This is when I finally learned that giving someone the benefit of the doubt never benefitted me.
Throughout the entire meal, his eyes never made it north of my tits—which, if I’m honest, I can’t blame him—they are phenomenal. But then came the speech about his journey of “self-discovery” and how after four months of celibacy, he’s “finally ready to honor his body with release.”
That should have been where I drew the line in the sand. But what can I say? I’m not one to turn down the opportunity for a good shag. Plus, I was horny and stupidly optimistic—a dangerous cocktail. I hoped that he might actually be able to put his money where his mouth is and deliver in the bedroom. So, I went back to his flat, hoping he’d prove me wrong about being a complete waste of my time, and wouldn’t you know it? He came inside me after two disappointing pumps, then proceeded to tell me that our souls had just intertwined on a higher frequency.
I don’t think I’ve ever dressed and legged it out of a building so quickly. I scrubbed my skin raw as soon as I got home.
I cringe, tapping out of the message. I must remember to unmatch him.
“Ooft.” A deep sound reverberates through the space as I walk straight into something—no, scratch that—someone. My glove slips from my mouth and the lid pops off my cup, sending coffee splattering all over my victim’s shirt. My Danish and phone clatter to the floor, both covered in coffee, and the screen cracks on impact.
“Shit!” I say. “I’m so sorry!”
I look up, freezing as I come face-to-face with a pair of familiar crystal blue eyes.
My eyes narrow to slits as they land on the jerk from the train.
“You,” I say, accusatory.
He wipes his hands down the front of his shirt.
Oops, I’ve completely ruined it.
He flicks his fingers and droplets of coffee fly through the air, spattering onto my cream trench.
“You,” he replies, his voice equally low and cutting.
“Perfect,” I say, inspecting the brown dots on my coat. “There goes my bloody breakfast.”
“I know. I’m the lucky prick wearing it.”
I dramatically sweep my eyes over the foyer. “What happened to the pram?”
He cocks an eyebrow. “You mean the one I had lodged up my rectum on the Tube?”
I click my tongue. “That’s the one. Did you manage to get it all the way inside this time? I imagine that would have been a difficult feat, considering how tight I’m certain your arse is.”
He releases a deep chuckle.
Shit. Even his laugh is hot.
No, traitorous vagina. You do not have a say in this.
I look up as his gaze drops to his shirt. It strikes me that he’s lost the suit jacket. The damp, stained fabric clings to his flat, taut stomach, accentuating a dusting of dark chest hair beneath.
Out of all the offices in the area, he had to be at mine. Why?
My stupid heart stutters, which is bloody annoying, because this guy is magnetic. It doesn’t happen often, but every now and then you lock eyes with someone and feel that pull—like gravity itself shifted and suddenly you’re the only two people in the room.
That’s exactly what this feels like.
I don’t know him, but he affects me. And I’ve just gone and spilt half my latte all over him. I didn’t get more than a few sips from of it, so I’m also pissed—that latte cost me half of my thirteen-pound breakfast, the rest of it currently swimming in a puddle on the floor.
I never lose my cool in front of a man. If anything, it’s the other way around. I’m confident and go after exactly what I want. And I’ll be damned if this stranger, just because he’s handsome, is the one to throw me.
I squat to collect my phone and soggy Danish. “Fuck,” I mutter, trying to hide the phone cover as I wipe the liquid off the screen, inspecting the damage.
“Is it broken?” he asks.
I angle the phone to show him, and he scrunches his nose when he spots the labyrinth of cracks.
“What are you doing here, anyway?” I say, dabbing my sleeve over the coffee stains on my coat as I straighten to full height.
“I’m here on business. I’m assuming you work in this building,” he says, bending down to collect my glove. I snatch it from him, shoving it into my pocket.
“Got it in one, Sherlock,” I reply, my eyes trailing over his frame. “Hope that shirt wasn’t too expensive.”
“Only Tom Ford.”
“Shame.”
“I can tell you’re really cut up about it.” The corner of his lip twitches.
“Naturally.”
Behind him, I see Tab spring into action, grabbing paper towels and cleaning spray from under her desk. She walks toward us.
His brows pinch, eyeing me with way more interest than I’m comfortable with after making a complete tit of myself. “What’s your na—”
“It’s okay, Tab,” I say quickly, interrupting him as I lift a hand to stop her. “I’ll clean it up.”
“No, no. I insist!” Tab says, dropping to her haunches, mopping up the coffee puddle and wiping his shoes.
“Oh,” he starts. “That really isn’t necessary—”
“Exactly, see? He’s happy to clean his own shoes.”
Tab’s cheeks stain pink before she ducks her head and darts back to her desk.
I fix him with a pointed look. “Well, this has been nice. But I have a very important meeting to attend, so if you’ll excuse me.”
Before he can respond, I sidestep him, darting toward the elevator.
“Apologies about the shirt,” I call over my shoulder.
Once I’m inside, I turn back to find the stranger rooted in place, watching with a smirk as I jab at the buttons, willing the doors to close. As they finally shut, I release a deep breath, inspecting my ruined coat. “Damn it.”
Six companies occupy multiple floors of the building.
I watch the elevator numbers ascend to see which floor she gets off at. I turn away when I see she’s reached the upper levels.
Bingo. Exactly where I’m going.
I noticed her the moment I stepped onto the Piccadilly line, trying to get as close as possible in the crammed carriage. As luck would have it, some mother wedged her pram against my arse, trapping me in place. Between that and being sandwiched amongst other passengers, I couldn’t have moved even if I’d wanted to.
She’s of average height, maybe five six, with a slender build and curves in all the right places. Even with her trench, I could clearly make out the dip of her waist. Her coat hung open, teasing the fullness of her chest and the delicate infinity necklace resting against her creamy skin. Her dark blond hair brushed just past her shoulders. Cute wire-framed glasses perched askew on her button nose. Her ivory skin was makeup free, except for a flick of eyeliner, and glossy lips that begged to be touched.
Most of all, I was intrigued by her sass—she didn’t speak to me the way some women do. Not that I’d expect her to swoon, but I’d be lying if I said other women didn’t.
Venom and sin wrapped in a delicious, unassuming package, and I can’t help but crave her bite.
I run my hand down my front. Lukewarm coffee has seeped through the expensive fabric, plastering my shirt to my skin. It feels revolting, but I can’t even bring myself to care—I had too much fun watching the little live wire panic.
I’d been heading out to grab a coffee before my meeting, but looks like I’ll be wearing it instead.
I glance at my watch and sigh. Five minutes until the meeting.
I wonder if she’ll be there.
I pivot, catching the receptionist’s gaze again. Tab, I think her name was. She blushes.
Her cherry-red lips curl into a shy smile, and when I return it, her cheeks flush an even deeper hue.
I straighten my posture and head toward the elevator, passing inquisitive eyes.
I press the button for the top floor marked PRESTIGE PARTNERS—EXECUTIVE SUITES.
A chime sounds as the elevator doors slide open to reveal a bright, airy space with a modern layout.
A secretary’s desk sits front and center in a spacious foyer, flanked by corridors leading to several offices. Right there, leaning casually over the desk with arms crossed, is Grayson Livingstone—CEO of Livingstone Hotels. He’s doing what he does best, if his easy smirk and the secretary’s insufferable giggles are any indication.
Classic Grayson.
He runs the prestigious New York luxury hotel empire passed down by his late grandparents, shared with his two brothers, Cole and Noah.
We met back when I decided to complete my MBA in New York. What started as after-class drinks and attending lectures together quickly evolved into a close friendship I’m extremely grateful for.
I roll my eyes as I watch Grayson work his usual charm. Women turn their heads—and drop their knickers—wherever Grayson Livingstone goes, the lucky bastard. Not that I can talk. I don’t exactly have trouble in that department either, especially following my divorce four years ago.
Like Grayson, I’ve got zero interest in entertaining anything more than a quick fuck. Four years of freedom since my divorce have taught me exactly how I prefer to keep things: uncomplicated.
Stepping forward, I clap Grayson on the shoulder. He jolts, standing upright as he tugs at the lapels of his jacket.
“Sorry, ma’am. Is my boss here keeping you from getting anything done?” I ask the secretary.
She spins a biro between her pink-tipped fingers, biting down on her lower lip.
“Not at all, sir,” she says, fluttering her lashes. She pauses when her eyes zero in on the stain marring my shirt.
“Just call me Max, please,” I insist.
“I’m Molly,” she says.
“Molly,” Grayson repeats with a sly smile, like he’s testing her name on his tongue.
Grayson raps his knuckles against the smooth mahogany desk. “Right, better let you get back to it, then. Do feel free to call me.” He grins, sliding a sleek matte-black business card out from his jacket—the one with his direct number printed on it.
His fingers brush hers as she takes it, and sure enough, it earns him another giggle.
He turns to me, scrunching his nose as his gaze trails down my wet shirt. “Jesus, you smell like sour milk. What happened to you?”
“Some bird spilled her coffee all over me.”
“Obviously,” he says, chuckling, checking his watch. “Shit. We don’t have time to get you a new shirt.” He looks up. “Can you throw your jacket over the top?”
I nod.
Working closely with Grayson these past few years has changed my life in ways I never could’ve imagined. I had spent years in investment banking at a property firm in Canary Wharf, where my focus had been on hotel acquisitions and developments. I oversaw the details that determined whether a luxury property would thrive or fail. I structured deals for renovations and new builds, worked on expansion strategies, and analyzed high-profile portfolios—learning the business side of an industry I’d grown up loving.
I received a desperate call from Grayson two years ago. His grandfather had just passed away, leaving him and his brothers an empire they weren’t quite ready to inherit, regardless of how hard they all worked. He needed someone beside him who he could trust implicitly and understood business the way he did. His call couldn’t have come at a better time. The divorce from Casey had been final for a year by then, and I was itching for a fresh start, away from her and the constant phone calls.
Seventy-two hours after Grayson’s cry for help, I was on a plane to New York, stepping into a new chapter as chief development officer for Livingstone Hotels.
For two years, I helped Grayson lead Livingstone’s global expansion, acquiring twelve new luxury properties and boutique hotels worldwide. Now the role has taken me back to the city I grew up in.
Touching down at Heathrow yesterday awoke something unexpected in me. Knowing that my parents and my sister Anna were a few suburbs away again brought a comfort I hadn’t realized I’d been missing. The tooting of cab horns, gray skies, and row after row of white terraced houses reminded me of everything good I’d left behind, instead of dwelling on the negativity I’d associated this place with because of Casey.
I started to feel slight remorse. The deeper I descended into the belly of London, the more homesick I felt. But I’m not back here to settle into my old life or to share Sunday roast at Mum’s, I’m only here for two months. This isn’t a homecoming—it’s business.
I’m launching Livingstone Hotels’ boldest venture yet: Gray Hotel. Grayson’s idea, naturally. It’s a sleek new luxury hotel brand, blending old-money elegance with a modern edge, set in London’s affluent Mayfair. Picture penthouse suites and infinity pools overlooking Hyde Park.
It’ll be the kind of place that draws in the young, hungry, and wealthy. A hotel where every Instagram story promises FOMO and every check-in feels like guests have finally made it. Guests will come to see and be seen. To flaunt their wealth.
It’s exactly the sort
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