Love to Loathe Him: Chapter 10

I watch Gemma sprint out of my office, her red ponytail swishing.

I thought I had her all figured out. But now, the woman’s leaving cat shit on my desk and somehow walking away unscathed. Who knew HR could be so feral?

Before I can even process what the hell just happened, Ollie’s rapping on my door.

“Bad news,” he pants. “Trafalgar Lifestyle Stores sent back their comments on our indicative offer.”

“Finally,” I hiss through gritted teeth, frustration levels already maxed out from my showdown with Gemma. “Well, go on then. Don’t tell me they have an issue with the price.”

“Nope. They’ve objected to . . . everything else. Except the core purchase price, that is.”

I go still, my eyes narrowing. “Come again?”

“They’ve rejected all our terms,” Ollie says, voice tight. “The offshoring plans, the closures, operational restructuring—they don’t seem to have agreed with any of our strategic recommendations for streamlining the company. Hell, they even took issue with how we operate our own business.”

“What the hell does that have to do with anything?” I snap, yanking the ridiculously thick document from Ollie’s hands.

I flip through this joke of a response, my jaw clenching tighter with each page. Every recommendation, every proposal my team crafted to save TLS from financial oblivion under Sir Whitmore’s outdated leadership—rejected.

They want to bury their heads in the sand? Fine. Watch how that plays out. I put together a strategy that keeps the main business in Britain, which was his core stipulation for the company. But you have to give and take a little, for fuck’s sake.

This is a global market. You can’t expect to run a business this size and turn a profit when your costs are through the roof compared to your competitors. It’s simple math—even a schoolkid could understand it.

This is a giant “fuck you” to everything we’ve proposed. If I wasn’t dead set on acquiring this company, I’d tell them to go fuck themselves right back.

I’ve got all the numbers, all the facts, all the projections. On paper, I’m not just the best choice, I’m the only choice that doesn’t end with TLS being worth less than it already is. And that should be the only thing that matters when it comes to deciding which deal is the most legitimate.

But it’s clear that logic and fiscal intelligence are no longer the prevailing factors for Sir Whitmore. He’s not just rejecting my firm’s superior strategy and resources—he’s rejecting me.

I know damn well if this exact same bid had Alastair Charles Harrington’s name at the bottom instead of mine, Sir Whitmore would be creaming his tweed pants to accept it.

This is a point of resistance I haven’t encountered before in business.

He doesn’t give a shit about the final offer. He just doesn’t like me. And he’s willing to lose money over it, just to go with Alastair and his blue-blood pedigree. I, on the other hand, am blue collar through and through, despite what my ten-thousand-pound tailored suits say.

Alastair knows how to play Whitmore’s game. He’ll feed the old man what he wants to hear, even though when the dust settles, he’ll tear the company apart just as I would.

For the first time, I need something that often doesn’t matter in this game.

I need to be liked.

Perhaps Gemma’s diary of disdain opened my eyes.

Because on some level, I realize that everyone who does my bidding, celebrates my wins, and cashes their fat bonus checks—they might respect me, they might fear me, but they don’t like me.

And for my employees, that’s fine. I don’t need to be liked. I just need them to perform. But with Whitmore? I need him to like me. I need him to trust me.

I’ve been focused on the bottom line, but it’s clear now I need to start playing a different game.

“I’d really like to get a copy of that.” Edward chuckles, his deep voice laced with way too much amusement for my liking. He gives his scotch a swirl, the amber liquid catching the light and throwing off golden sparks. “Have it framed for reference. Your HR manager’s quite the wordsmith. Perhaps she missed her calling as a stand-up comedian specializing in CEO roasts.”

I glare at my oldest friend, who’s been having a field day with Gemma’s little burn book for the past half hour. I’ve never seen the bastard so bloody entertained. It’s Friday night and we both decided to grab a drink after hitting the gym; to take the edge off after a hell of a week.

Edward Cavendish, as posh as Alastair fucking Charles Harrington but without the stick up his ass. We’ve been friends since he swooped in to save my scrawny hide from Alastair’s boot back in school.

“She’s right, of course,” Edward continues, his eyes twinkling with mirth. “You do tend to act like you’re the King of England.”

My eyes narrow to slits. “I work hard, and I expect my staff to do the same. I don’t play games. My demands are clear as fucking crystal. My staff are the highest paid in London. And now I’m acting like the King of England?”

“Actually,” he muses, scanning my phone, “now that I think about it, comparing you to the king is a bit of a stretch. He’s far more dignified and refined. I do hope I’m present if she ever makes good on her threats to strangle you with your own tie, though. Wouldn’t miss that for the world.”

“Give me that back,” I growl, snatching my phone from his hands.

Edward leans back, his posture relaxed. “So, is the poor girl fired yet?”

I run a hand through my hair, tugging at the short strands in frustration. “No,” I admit grudgingly. “Not yet, anyway. I haven’t confronted her about it.”

Edward’s brows shoot up. “Why on earth not?”

“I haven’t decided how to handle it yet.”

A knowing smirk plays on his lips. “Do you have a soft spot for this one?”

“Of course not,” I snap, perhaps too quickly. “It’s not that simple. She’s my HR manager. The one who usually handles all the dirty work of firing and disciplining for me. This is . . . complicated.” I pause, my scowl deepening. “It’s like asking the executioner to behead himself.”

“Makes me glad I don’t work in finance. I’m glad to say I’ve never found poo on my desk before.”

“Come off it, mate. You see far worse than a bit of cat shit in your line of work,” I say, eyeing Edward. He’s a top surgeon at one of central London’s NHS hospitals. A workaholic like me, but for a far nobler cause. “How’s it going anyway? Surprised you could carve out time to meet me for a drink.”

Edward’s face turns serious, the lines around his eyes deepening. I’ve known the bloke long enough to recognize that look, the one that says he’s carrying the world on his back.

“It’s been rough,” he admits, his voice heavy with exhaustion. “We’ve had staff out sick left and right, and the ones who are still standing are stretched thin as it is.”

I feel a twinge of frustration, of helpless anger on his behalf. In my world, I can throw money at problems until they disappear. But that’s not how the National Health Service works. Edward’s hands are tied in ways mine never are.

“Shit, mate. I’m sorry,” I say, the words feeling hollow. But I mean them, with every fiber of my being. “If there’s anything I can do to help, anything at all . . . you tell me.”

He chuckles, his usual humor returning. “Appreciated, but unless you’ve got a secret stash of nurses hidden away somewhere, there’s not much even you can do.” His eyes meet mine, knowing. “The only nurses you know are those who dress up in that club of yours. Don’t think I don’t know why you wanted to meet here, Liam.”

I smirk, caught out but not bothered. “I can’t get anything past you, can I?”

It’s true, I sometimes ask Edward to meet here if I’m planning a trip to the Athenæum later. But it’s not just about that. This place is a sanctuary of sorts—private, quiet, refined.

“Isn’t it time you tried to have a real relationship rather than mysterious hookups in your sexy club?”

“Mate, I could say the same about you.” The words leave my mouth before I can stop them, and I immediately regret it as I see the pain flash across Edward’s face, the way his hand goes instinctively to rub the back of his neck.

“Shit. Edward, I’m sorry,” I say quickly, wincing at my own insensitivity.

“No, you’re right. I suppose it is time,” he says softly.

The weight of those words hangs heavy between us. Edward’s beautiful wife died two years ago, and watching him fall apart in the aftermath was one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to witness. I tried to be there for him, tried to offer whatever comfort I could, but how do you even begin to console someone who’s had their partner ripped away?

And despite what Gemma might think of me, I take care of my own. My inner circle—their well-being matters to me more than any business deal. Supporting Edward through his suffering nearly wrecked me.

“Sounds like we both need a break, mate,” I say, shifting the conversation. “We need to get down to the coast. It’s been too long now.”

“Yes, I badly need that.” He sighs.

Edward and I share a love for sailing. There’s nothing better than getting out of the city, shedding the suit, and getting onto that open water. Doing physical labor to the point where you’re so tired, your brain finally shuts off. I sleep like the dead on my boat.

I’ve always appreciated how the sailing community doesn’t give a shit about your background or what you do for a living. It’s something that’s good for both of us. People stiffen when they hear I’m the CEO of Ashbury Thornton Equity and melt when they hear Edward is a top surgeon. Out there, we’re just two blokes who know how to handle a boat.

An hour later, we settle our tab and say our goodbyes, and I’m headed to the Athenæum. I need to find a redhead to play out this angry secretary fantasy.

Maybe even put in a request to get her to wear a dress like Gemma’s. I wonder if I could find out where it’s from without sounding like a creepy stalker with a fetish.

But there’s a nagging suspicion in the back of my mind that no one is going to live up to the real thing. And that is an alarming thought considering I cannot and will not go there.