Love to Loathe Him: Chapter 14

I stride through the sea of suits on their way to work on Friday morning, nearly body-slamming about three people because my mind is too busy spiraling into a black hole.

There’s no coming back from this. Now, I have to look the man in the eye every single damn day, knowing he’s seen the filthy depths of my subconscious.

But things could be worse. I’ve seen people do far more questionable things in our office. Like the guy who xeroxed his dick and stuck it to the window, or the couple we caught going at it like rabbits in the server room.

All I did was write about it. In the grand scheme of things, that’s tame.

If only I’d written about literally anyone else, though. The cute admin guy. The hunky masseur downstairs with the magic hands. Dennis from Accounting with the unfortunate rash.

Last night, after dragging Lizzie home early from the party, I plummeted into a whirlwind of anxiety. And when that happens, I have this quirk: I click on the most deranged ads on social media from the darkest corners of the internet and buy ludicrous junk.

Last night, it was a strap that promised to erase my double chin, no surgery required.

So now, I’m the not-so-proud owner of a collection of gadgets that are supposed to give me a jawline like Henry Cavill and a chin like Angelina Jolie. The worst part is, once you start clicking on these ads, they multiply like rabbits. Before you know it, you’re in a full-blown tailspin of self-loathing and questionable purchases.

I stop at the Comfort Cup coffee cart right outside the office, and even though Jimmy’s already serving a queue, he gives me a cheerful wave while steaming milk for someone’s latte.

I can’t help but smile back. These Comfort Cup carts are awesome. They’re part of the TLS charity “TLS Community Rebuild,” which helps homeless folks get back on their feet by giving them jobs at these non-profit cafés and carts scattered all over the UK. Doing something far more noble and meaningful than my job, that’s for sure.

By the time I reach the front, Jimmy’s already got my flat white waiting. I’m nothing if not predictable.

Also I’ve given Jimmy a bag of my own secret stash of coffee beans that he grinds just for me. It’s this smooth Ethiopian brew that makes the regular TLS coffee taste like it was filtered through a sock. I get it, it’s a charity and all, but there’s only so much low-grade sludge a girl can choke down.

So, I pay full price for my coffee—and those for my HR team—but I get it made with my own special blend.

“Morning, Gemma,” he says. “You’re up bright and early after last night. Did you have a good time at the party?”

Jimmy remembers everything about everyone he serves. I’m pretty sure I only mentioned the party in passing.

“It was great,” I lie, handing over my card. “Although I’m paying for it now. I’m not used to partying it up on a school night.”

“Not like some of the guys in your place.” He grins, handing me my coffee. “I see them stumbling out of their Ubers in the morning, downing Red Bulls and popping Advil.”

I roll my eyes. “That sounds about right.”

He gives me my card back and leans over the counter, his hands dangling relaxed like he hasn’t a care in the world. “I hope you’re still going to your boxing class tonight. Don’t let a hangover keep you from taking care of yourself.”

I feel my cheeks heat up. Damn Jimmy’s elephant memory. I told him once that I started boxing classes, and now he asks me about it every week without fail.

“Yeah, probably,” I lie again, knowing full well that I’ll be lucky if I can squeeze in a bathroom break, let alone an hour of punching out my frustrations.

“How is Winnie feeling this week?” Jimmy asks, looking seriously concerned. Bless him. “I hope the vet figured out why she was off her food?”

“He thinks she has mild gastritis. She’s okay but she’s on some specially formulated digestive care food. Which she is not impressed with.” I take a sip of my coffee, remembering Winnie’s look of betrayal when I served her the new food.

“That smells absolutely delightful.” A posh voice pipes up behind me.

I turn to see an elderly guy with a bowler hat and the saddest gray eyes I’ve ever seen. I’m sure I’ve seen him around the area before, but I can’t quite place him and it’s too early in the morning.

“That’s because I gave Jimmy my special beans to use.” I smile, trying not to sound like I’m bragging about my coffee snobbery. “Heavenly when brewed just right, which Jimmy always does.”

Turning to Jimmy, I gesture toward Mr. Sad Eyes. “Jimmy, make the gentleman a cup with my beans. None of that usual bland stuff they make you use.” I shudder at the thought of subjecting this poor soul to the horrors of the standard TLS brew.

Jimmy’s eyes widen, and he take a quick inhale of breath. “You better be going to work, or you’ll be late, kiddo.”

“You’ve changed your tune.” I laugh, slipping Jimmy a generous tip. “You’re forever telling me I work too hard. Now you’re shooing me off to work and it’s eight a.m. Go on, use my brand for the gentleman.” I turn to him. “It’s so much better.”

Mr. Sad Eyes raises an eyebrow at me, clearly shocked by my impromptu act of coffee kindness. He mumbles a quick thank you, his voice barely audible over the hiss of the espresso machine.

“I hope you like it.” I smile, trying to inject some warmth into his stormy gray eyes as Jimmy hands over the coffee.

“With that aroma, no doubt I will. Thank you,” he says awkwardly, then takes a sip and nods. “Very good indeed.”

As the old guy walks off Jimmy bursts into laughter.

“What’s so funny?” I demand.

“You didn’t recognize him? That was Sir Whitmore, you know, the man who owns the company that funds these carts?”

I choke on my own coffee, the hot liquid searing my throat as I splutter. Yeah, I bloody well know who Sir Whitmore is. The real question is, how the hell did I not recognize him? He looks so much older and frailer in real life.

“You’re shitting me,” I rasp, feeling like I’ve just burnt my own house down.

He’s here for the big meeting with Liam and the lawyers this morning. And I just served him my personal stash of coffee and insulted his company’s brew to his face. If Liam finds out, he’ll murder me. Rip me apart with his bare hands.

Jimmy, oblivious to my internal meltdown, just keeps grinning. “He’s not usually around this area. He always visits the carts wherever he is, but his offices aren’t near here.”

My pulse quickens. I’ve never talked to Jimmy about what’s happening with TLS right now, about the takeover that’s looming on the horizon. The business is floundering hard, on the brink of administration. If it goes under, it could lead to the closure of all its stores and the loss of around 20,000 jobs. And that will surely be the death of the charity that runs these carts.

He grins. “Come for a chat later!”

I force a smile, the muscles in my face straining with the effort. “I’ll try,” I tell him, but we both know I won’t have time. I never do.

As I walk away, my stomach twists with guilt and dread. I really hope Jimmy doesn’t lose his job. The man was homeless for years for all of his twenties, and now here he is at thirty, grinding away at a cart, serving ungrateful suits day in and day out. And yet, he’s always got a smile on his face. If I ever need a dose of perspective, Jimmy is my go-to guy.

Meanwhile Brandon is up there crying because he didn’t get a new Lamborghini this year, even though I know for a fact he just bought himself a Porsche.

It’s almost like last night never happened. I smash the send button on what feels like my ten thousandth email of the day. I haven’t seen Liam all morning and it’s nearly lunchtime.

How the hell did I share my diary in the first place? An image of the great wine spillage when Winnie jumped springs to mind. Wiping it clean, I must have somehow dragged it over to the corporate folders by accident.

A sharp rap on my door snaps me out of my thoughts. Speak of the devil and he appears.

Liam barges in and tosses a stack of papers unceremoniously onto my desk. “The terms, in writing.”

The moment our eyes meet, my face bursts into flames.

Last night, I at least had the benefit of a few glasses of liquid courage sloshing around in my veins. But now, stone-cold sober and faced with the man himself, I’m acutely aware that Liam McLaren knows I fantasize about him while engaging in a bit of DIY love.

Kill me now.

There’s only one thing left to do. Own it. Grab this situation by the metaphorical lady balls and show Liam McLaren that I’m not to be messed with. “You’re efficient. Less than twenty-four hours.”

I skim the pages, and my heart practically leaps out of my chest. The salary. There in black and white, a figure that’s double what I’m currently earning.

It takes every ounce of my acting skills not to react, not to let on just how much this means to me.

Freedom, much quicker than I thought. My nest-egg will be decent enough to take the risk to go self-employed and not have to worry about mortgage interest rates going up. I can give myself a year to flounder, to fail spectacularly, and to hopefully, eventually, succeed.

Trying my best not to let my giddiness and excitement show, I scan the rest of the document.

The part regarding juniors starting under mentorship and not Ollie is in there. I’ve been fighting that for a year. It’s a win for the little people. If you can call junior staff with elite degrees from elite universities “the little people.” But it doesn’t matter. We all need a hug sometimes. I read on. So far, so good.

C. Jones shall disclose full honesty and transparency to McLaren in all matters related to Ashbury Thornton’s business, without omission or obfuscation of any kind. “Full honesty” shall be defined as promptly providing any and all information requested by McLaren related to Ashbury Thornton and the TLS Deal.

D. No Cat Poo Deposits. Jones shall refrain from placing, depositing, or otherwise leaving any feline excrement, waste, or droppings (collectively “Cat Poo”) on McLaren’s desk or any other property belonging to McLaren or Ashbury Thornton, and shall take all necessary precautions to prevent any such occurrence.

There goes my plan to leave a steaming pile of cat shit on his desk every morning.

“Is this a joke?” I ask. “Did the lawyers seriously sign off on this?”

“The legal team has dealt with their fair share of unique requests over the years. Nothing shocks them anymore.” He leans in, bracing his hands on my desk, his face mere inches from mine. I can practically count the individual hairs of his perfect Henry Cavill–like jaw. “You wanted it in writing. Yes, it’s absurd, but here we are.”

“I’m sorry, but I must have missed the part where you suddenly gained telepathic powers. How are you going to know if I’m telling the truth? Are you planning on hooking me up to a lie detector every morning?”

Liam’s lips curve into a smirk, his eyes glinting with a dangerous sort of amusement. “Oh, I’ll know. I can read you, Gemma. Didn’t get to where I am without being able to sniff out a lie from a mile away.”

“Really? You didn’t seem to figure out that I was lying for five years about how much you irritated me.”

“I knew. You think I haven’t learned a thing or two about you in the five years we’ve worked together? I just didn’t give a damn. But now that you’ve shoved it in my face, demanding a reaction? That’s a different story. I know you dislike me, Ollie, and most of our exec board. I know how much it kills you to be even a minute late. I’m well aware of your festering resentment over your work friend’s termination—which, I might add, was entirely justified and long overdue. I know your nose scrunches up when you’re pissed off, no matter how hard you try to maintain that professional facade. I know your morning ritual—that special coffee from the shop downstairs, the meticulous checking of your customized to-do list before you so much as power up your computer. And I know you think you look bloody fantastic in that blue dress of yours—which you do, by the way.”

I suck in a sharp breath, feeling like he’s stealing all the oxygen from my lungs.

“Your professional mask has been impressive; I’ll give you that. But my intuition has never steered me wrong. I just didn’t think you’d ever have the guts to rip that mask off and show me the real you.”

I busy myself fixing some papers on my desk, desperately trying to regain my composure. “Well, anyway, this whole thing is a farce. Nice touch with part D, though. You should be a comedian if bartending doesn’t work out.”

Liam chuckles. “The contract may be a farce, but your new salary is very real. Effective immediately. Maybe you can get your kitty something nice.”

I inhale sharply, pretending not to be affected by the mention of my new salary and how weirdly dirty “kitty” sounds in his rough Northern tones. “Good. Thank you. Maybe I’ll buy you a present too. Get you a nice, long tie. One that’s long enough to strangle you with when you inevitably piss me off.”

The words hang in the air between us, a challenge I can’t quite believe I’ve issued.

Liam’s eyes darken, his gaze dropping to my mouth in a way that makes me think of things I shouldn’t. “Careful. Keep talking like that, and I might have to break my rule and let you try.”

Let me? What’s that supposed to mean? He’s going to let me strangle the life out of him?

He made it quite clear he doesn’t mix business with pleasure—not that I would want that—so he must be messing with me. I clear my throat, pursing my lips and trying to ignore how flustered I feel. “Right. Well. If that’s all, I have about a million emails to attend to, so if you’ll excuse me—”

“That’s not all,” he cuts me off.

Of course it’s not.

“I need you to accompany me to a charity event next Wednesday evening.” There’s no question in there.

“Okay . . . fine. What’s the event?”

“Charity auction by Trafalgar Lifestyle Stores.”

Shit. I hope to god that Sir Whitmore isn’t there. “You never invite me to these. What’s expected?”

“The old man doesn’t exactly have a glowing opinion of me.” His jaw clenches with barely contained irritation. Gee, I wonder why. “That’s where you come in. You’re the people person here. Astute, able to read a situation.”

He wouldn’t be saying that if he saw me with Sir Whitmore this morning.

“Are you paying me a compliment?” I ask.

“Considering the mistakes you’ve made over the past few weeks, don’t push your luck.”

I make a huffy sound. “What do you need me to do?”

“Find me an ‘in’ with Whitmore. Right now, the guy is letting emotions cloud his business judgment. That’s where you come in. Find the old guy’s weakness. That’s why I’m bringing you, rather than Ollie or some random date.”

“I’ll do my best,” I say, trying to ignore the butterflies going mental in my gut.

I’m not sure I’m entirely comfortable with this. I told Sir Whitmore that his coffee was garbage, which might be an in, but it’s not a great one.

And more importantly, I’m not sure I’m okay with being complicit in exploiting the old man’s vulnerabilities. He and his son are known for being genuinely good guys—philanthropists who pour their hearts and souls into helping the homeless, the NHS, and all sorts of other worthy causes.

Liam narrows his eyes at me. “Spit out whatever’s on your mind.”

I pause, weighing my words carefully. But he did ask for the truth. “Maybe Sir Whitmore has good reasons to dislike you. He wants to preserve TLS’s legacy. You just want to sell it to the highest bidder, which basically means chopping it up into pieces and hawking them off to some faceless conglomerate in Hong Kong or Dubai.”

Liam’s lips curl into a distinctly unimpressed smirk, his eyes flashing with a hint of danger. “Well then, I guess you’ll just have to work your magic and convince him that I’m not such a big, bad wolf after all. That I’m a caring businessman who only has TLS’s best interests at heart.”

I snort, the sound escaping before I can stop it. “You mean you want me to lie through my teeth.”

Those chocolate-brown eyes flare with annoyance. Liam might claim to want the truth, but he sure as hell isn’t used to hearing it.

“You really do have a remarkably low opinion of me, don’t you?” he murmurs.

He’s read my diary. It’s not like I can backpedal now and pretend I think he shits rainbows and sunshine out of his perfectly sculpted ass. The cat’s out of the bag.

“With all due respect,” I reply evenly. “My opinion of you doesn’t matter, Liam.”

“No, I suppose it doesn’t,” he states bluntly, his tone laced with a biting edge that makes me want to flinch. “I don’t need you to like me, Gemma. I just need you to do your job. Charge whatever dress you need on the company card. Spare no expense.”

“Got it,” I say, my mind already racing with the logistics of finding a formal gown that meets Liam’s undoubtedly exacting standards.

There’s no way this is going to last. Sooner or later, he’s going to get fed up with my honesty and fire me.