Love to Loathe Him: Chapter 15

This week at work has been . . . interesting, to say the least. Liam and I have fallen into this bizarre new rhythm, where I find myself being a lot blunter with him about work stuff than I normally would be. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not exactly spewing the kind of verbal diarrhea I unleash in my diary. But still, there’s a new level of honesty there that feels both refreshing and slightly terrifying.

And then there’s this tension between us that I can’t quite put my finger on. I don’t know if it’s lingering awkwardness from the diary fiasco, or if it’s something else entirely.

Which brings me to tonight’s charity gala. I’m wondering how the hell I’m going to be an asset for him at this. No pressure.

Standing awkwardly at the entrance of the grand Mayfair hotel, I pretend to check my phone, trying to ignore any glances thrown my way. Thanks to Lizzie, I’m transformed into a vision in a long green dress that hugs my curves and makes my red hair pop. The back dips lower than I’d usually go for, and my ample breasts are precariously held in place by industrial strength boobie tape.

A black Porsche glides up, and the driver leaps out to do the whole door-opening performance, as if the person inside is too royal to handle a handle.

And then, out steps the man himself.

My throat goes dry as I watch him emerge from the car, his tall, muscular frame unfolding with the grace of a predator. I feel my body react instinctively. Dear god, the man is built. His jacket is tight across those broad shoulders, while the trousers mold sinfully over his thick thighs. And he’s so tanned, you’d think he worked outside. Must be all the sailing he does.

Not that he seems to notice, or care, that he’s just caused a stadium wave of whiplash as every woman in a ten-mile radius cranes her neck to get a better look.

He ascends the steps with purposeful strides, those brown eyes dragging over me with casual dismissal that makes me feel like I’m wearing a potato sack and not Gucci.

“Hi,” I say, flashing an awkward smile, trying to summon even a fraction of the effortless confidence this man marinates in. “I hope this outfit is appropriate?”

Those brooding eyes rake over me again, slower this time. “Yes.” He gives a curt nod. “Shall we?”

I guess a terse affirmation is the closest I’ll get to a compliment from Liam.

He extends his arm and I loop mine through it, trying not to react to the solid wall of heat pressing against my side.

As we take the steps to the hotel and enter the ballroom, I feel like I’ve stumbled onto the set of a Jane Austen adaptation. Crystal chandeliers drip from the ceilings, every surface is gilded within an inch of its life, and a string quartet saws away at something that sounds Mozart-esque. Like the play Lizzie auditioned for, but with less bodice-ripping.

The dance floor is a sea of upper-crust couples, dressed to the nines like they’re about to have high tea with the royals. The type to judge me for having the audacity to secure my dress with double-sided tape instead of a fleet of personal seamstresses. I’m used to corporate shindigs, but this is an entirely different ballgame.

“It’s very traditional,” I murmur, trying not to sound as out of place as I feel.

Liam’s arm flexes against my side as he effortlessly snags two champagne flutes from a passing waiter.

“What were you expecting?” he asks, his voice low and laced with dry amusement. “Perhaps a foam party in the middle of the dance floor?”

I press my lips together. He can be such a snarky prick. “I see you have even less patience at these events than you do in the office. Your usual arm candy must have a delightful time, being subjected to your sunny disposition all evening.”

“They usually have no complaints.” His voice drops an octave and shivers skate down my spine at the undisguised innuendo.

“Even if they do get the same generic flowers and note every morning,” I retort before I can stop myself.

His brow lifts, a flicker of surprise crossing his features. “I thought Rosie was more discreet than that. I’m disappointed.”

Shit, the last thing I want is for his PA to get in hot water because of my big mouth. “Rosie didn’t tell me. I just notice things around the office. And I’ve overheard her on the phone, ordering the same bouquet, the same note, over and over again. Sometimes there’s jewelry too, for the lucky ones. It doesn’t take a genius to put two and two together.”

“Sounds like you’ve got a problem with it. What, you want me to hire a songwriter and compose a personalized sonnet for every girl I take out?” he asks, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

Where the hell am I going with this?

“What you do in your free time is none of my business.” I take a pointed sip of champagne. “So, what’s on the agenda for tonight?”

“You’ll accompany me while I do the rounds. Then we’ll attend the auction.”

“What sort of things will they be auctioning off?” I ask.

“Jewels. Paintings.” His tone is casual, like he couldn’t care less. “Boats.”

“Right. Just the essentials, then.”

Liam’s hand settles against the small of my back as an elderly couple approaches. I nearly jump out of my skin at the intimate heat of his touch. My eyes flicker up to gauge his reaction, but he’s focused on the pair.

This guy looks like he was literally born in the 1600s—all wrinkled and liver-spotted with an impressive gray handlebar mustache, and his wife’s draped in enough pearls to sink the Titanic.

“Liam, my boy!” the old geezer bellows.

“Lord Richards.” Liam doesn’t miss a beat, his hand remaining firmly on my back as he dips his head in a show of respect. Somehow, he still manages to look like an arrogant prick even when he’s being polite. “Lady Richards, always a pleasure. Allow me to introduce my companion for the evening, Gemma Jones.”

I’m not sure why but suddenly I feel like a hooker.

The old woman offers me a limp handshake. “Hello, dear. Don’t you look lovely.”

“Thank you so much, so do you. Lovely to meet you both.” I smile, trying not to wince as her husband’s clammy paw engulfs my hand. He pumps my arm like he’s trying to start a lawnmower, making my tits jiggle in my dress. I think he’s trying to shake them free.

Three pairs of eyes zero in on my bouncing tits, including Liam’s. I extract my hand from Lord Fossil Pervert’s grip, my cheeks on fire.

“So, Lord Richards,” Liam smoothly redirects. “What catches your eye at the auction this evening?”

The old lech’s watery eyes rove up and down my body, undressing me with his gaze. Gross.

“I’ve got my sights set on a stunning Henry Moore sculpture,” he rumbles, still looking at me. “A goddess, by all accounts.”

Yeah, I’m pretty sure he’s talking about me and my rack, not some priceless artwork. If he wasn’t old enough to be my great-grandfather and married, I might be flattered.

“Oh, we simply must show you!” his wife trills, waving the auction catalog. “Though I expect you won’t try to outbid us, hmm?”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” Liam replies smoothly, his hand still pressing against my bare back. I’m not even sure if he realizes his fingers are grazing my skin, but it’s making my nipples hard. Just perfect.

I nearly choke on my champagne when Lord Fossil Pervert whips out an honest-to-god lorgnette—one of those tiny opera glasses rich people used to use before they invented contacts.

He pretends to study the auction listing his wife is pointing at, but the crafty old bastard isn’t fooling me. He’s totally eye-fucking my tits through those ridiculous specs.

“Darling, show them which sculpture you mean,” his wife prattles on, jabbing a finger full of obscenely large rings at the pages.

But Lord Fossil Pervert isn’t even pretending to look at the catalog anymore. He’s got his beady eyes glued to my rack. I can’t believe he busted out a lorgnette just to get a better look.

And the worst part? Liam’s touch on my back has my nipples cutting against my dress.

His fingers flex against my skin, the only sign of his growing irritation. “If you’ll excuse us,” he grits out through clenched teeth, “we really need to be moving along.”

“Of course,” Lady Richards coos, totally unaware that her husband is mentally motorboating me.

Her husband looks devastated as Liam leads me and my tits away.

“Sorry about that,” Liam mutters once we’re out of earshot. “He was out of line.”

I snort. “Yeah, well, that’s a first for me. Getting objectified through a pair of antique opera glasses.”

Liam’s jaw clenches. Before I know it, he’s yanked me against him, his body hard and unyielding. I stiffen, caught off guard by the sudden movement.

“I’m sorry,” he grinds out, his voice low and rough. “I don’t want anyone disrespecting you like that.”

My nipples brush against his chest, the friction sending sparks of electricity through me even through the fabric. Wearing this dress was a mistake.

Before I can stop myself, I snap: “Maybe if you kept your damn hands to yourself, Lord Fossil Pervert over there wouldn’t have anything to stare at.” I instantly regret opening my big mouth. I don’t want Liam to know his touch is the reason I’m about to poke someone’s eye out.

One dark eyebrow rises as he removes his hand from my back. “Lord Fossil Pervert.” He chuckles. “You have a name for everyone, don’t you?”

I yank my shawl tighter around myself, trying to hide the fact that my body didn’t get the memo about hating Liam McLaren.

“Your hands are like ice,” I mutter, cocooning myself in the fabric and lies.

He makes a big show of rubbing his hands together, which are clearly not cold at all, the smug bastard. His eyes drag over me in a slow, deliberate once-over, zeroing in on my nipples begging for his attention beneath my dress. The heat in his gaze tells me he knows I’m full of shit, and my face burns, waiting for him to humiliate me with that stupid fantasy I wrote in my journal.

“Sorry for making you uncomfortable,” he says instead, his tone infuriatingly calm. “Come on, there’s someone I need to talk to. Sir Whitmore’s CFO.”

I huff and adjust my shawl, trailing after Liam. As he works the room, schmoozing the rich and pretentious, he doesn’t lay a single finger on me again. And a teeny tiny bit of me loathes to admit that I’m disappointed.

“Do I hear one hundred thousand?” The auctioneer booms from the stage, presenting a small statue of a naked, voluptuous, Roman-looking goddess.

Lord Fossil Pervert’s hand shoots up from across the hall, his fifth priceless “artwork” bid of the night. I can’t resist rolling my eyes because, honestly, it looks like something from IKEA’s bargain bin. An hour into this ridiculous auction, and I’m appalled by the excess on display.

My silent rebuke earns me a scorching look from Liam. Damn him. He’s taking up too much space beside me with those thighs splayed wide and toned arms crossed over his broad chest.

“Next up, a true maritime gem—the Georgie yacht!” The posh auctioneer gestures to a photograph with a theatrical flourish. “State-of-the-art navigation, every conceivable amenity for luxurious voyages. Let’s start the bidding at a modest two hundred and fifty thousand pounds, shall we?”

Liam’s hand lifts, and I try not to splutter.

Across the room, another bidder counters with two seventy.

Liam raises his hand again, and I turn to scope out the competition. Tall, blond, and handsome—definitely giving off Thor vibes.

“Alastair Charles Harrington,” I mutter, more to myself than anyone. Owner of Vertex Capital.

The bidding war intensifies. I squint at the yacht photo, trying to figure out what all the fuss is about. The numbers are jumping up in fifty-thousand-pound increments. When the auctioneer booms, “One million pounds,” Liam raises his hand, and I’m pretty sure my jaw is on the floor.

“Sold to Mr. Liam McLaren for one million pounds!” The gavel cracks down amid stunned applause.

I turn to Liam. “Congratulations. I thought you already had a yacht.”

The corner of his mouth quirks up. “Now I have one more.”

“I can’t imagine needing more than one yacht.”

Amusement flickers in his eyes, like he’s indulging a silly child. “It’s to show Sir Whitmore my appreciation for his charity auction. A gesture of goodwill.”

“You really want to win brownie points with this guy, huh?” I murmur, keeping my voice low so only Liam can hear.

I glance over at Alastair, who’s staring our way, a blond runway model type at his side. He doesn’t seem too bothered by the fact that Liam just snatched the yacht out from under him. Maybe he’s had a moment of clarity and realized that spending a million pounds on a boat is a bit like setting fire to a great big pile of cash.

Thank goodness, Liam’s little impulse buy is the last item on the auction block. As we stand up to leave, I turn to him, eyebrow raised.

“Don’t look so shocked, Gemma. This is standard fare for these auctions.”

I can’t contain my skepticism. “I’ll keep that in mind next time I’m in the market for a gold-plated toilet brush or something equally overpriced,” I quip. Curiosity gets the better of me. “So, how much is that boat really worth?”

“Original asking price. Quarter mil.”

My jaw drops. “That was one hell of an expensive dick measuring contest.”

Liam’s eyes darken, his jaw ticking as he leans in close. “I don’t need to measure anything.”

I swallow hard, my mind flooded with very inappropriate images of his cock. Great.

“Come on. It’s time to pay our respects to the man himself.” He takes my arm, steering me toward what I can only assume is my impending doom.

Liam leads me over to Sir Sebastian Whitmore—the man, the legend I so foolishly insulted just days ago—and his son who looks like a younger, hotter version of his dad.

I’m not sure why I didn’t tell Liam about my run-in with Sir Whitmore. Maybe I just wanted to cling to my shiny new doubled salary for a bit longer.

Anyway, Sir Whitmore might not recognize me with all this makeup on. Or maybe he’s got crap eyesight. A girl can dream.

“Sir Whitmore, Will,” Liam greets them with a lazy drawl that somehow manages to sound both bored and threatening at the same time. “This is Gemma, my HR manager at Ashbury Thornton.”

I slap on my most dazzling smile, deciding to just own our last encounter instead of playing dumb. “Sir! So lovely to see you again. And it’s great to meet you, Will.”

I see the exact moment Sir Whitmore recognizes me—his bushy brows furrow in what can only be described as a less-than-pleased expression.

Liam frowns, glancing at me sideways. “You two have met before?”

“We met outside one of my Comfort Cup carts,” Sir Whitmore says.

“Sir, about that—” I start, ready to launch into a groveling apology.

But he cuts me off with a wave of his hand, his eyes softening just a fraction. “Your coffee choice was excellent. Excellent,” he says, winking at me like we’re sharing some sort of inside joke.

Wow, that’s surprisingly nice of him.

I try not to let my relief show too plainly on my face and smile apologetically back at him, mouthing, Thanks.

But the moment Sir Whitmore and Will turn their attention to Liam, it’s like someone cranked the A/C to arctic levels.

“McLaren,” the old man practically spits.

“Excellent auction, as always,” Liam says, his tone smooth and confident despite the icy reception. “I trust the funds raised will go a long way toward supporting your charitable endeavors.”

Considering he’d dropped the most cash on any single item tonight, his angle is about as subtle as a brick to the face.

But the Whitmores aren’t having it.

“You think throwing money around at a charity event will make us roll over and let you dismantle everything I’ve built?” Sir Whitmore says. He’s not shouting—he’s too posh for that—but his disapproval is clear as day. “You don’t give a damn about our ethos or the employees who’ve been with us over three decades. The hard-working factory workers who rely on this job.”

I sneak a glance at Liam, half expecting to see steam coming out of his ears. But his expression remains collected, only the slightest narrowing of his eyes giving away his irritation.

“I give a damn about the survival of your company,” he says, his voice taking on a steely edge. “If it goes under, all that talk about employees becomes meaningless. I’d think long and hard about the deal currently on the table if I were you. It shows just how serious Ashbury Thornton is about this acquisition.”

Sir Whitmore’s lips flatten into a grim line. “Your proposal would leave my company unrecognizable.”

Liam leans in, his tall frame looming over the older man. “My proposal would make your floundering company profitable again. The market is changing. Businesses aren’t the same as they were ten years ago. You’re a great businessman, but you’re stuck in the wrong era.”

I wince at his words. That is possibly the worst thing he could have said.

The Whitmores bristle, looking positively livid.

I shift my weight, feeling like I’m stuck in the middle of a dick-swinging contest, the second of the evening.

“My dad has more workers loyal to him than any other company in the UK,” Will snaps, dripping with the kind of upper-class disdain that only an Eton education can provide. “You’d do well to learn from him. Are you one big happy Ashbury Thornton family, huh? Because from where I’m standing, it sure doesn’t look like it.”

He turns to me, his expression softening. “I do apologize, Gemma. You seem like a delightful young woman. Please don’t take any of this personally. In fact, I rather pity you for having to work under such an arrogant, insufferable man.”

I look between the three men wondering how the hell I’m going to defuse this. Or at the very least, not make it worse. There’s some subtle elitism at play here, and it’s clearly getting under Liam’s skin, even if he’s doing his best to hide it. But Liam’s not exactly helping his case by throwing around ageist jabs, telling Sir Whitmore he’s in the wrong era.

Liam wants me to get an “in” with Whitmore. Well, sometimes the best way to bond is over a common enemy. It’s just unfortunate that, in this case, said enemy happens to be my boss.

“You’re right. He can be a bit of a bastard to work for,” I say, my tone conspiratorial. I can feel Liam go rigid beside me, but I plow on. “If this deal goes through, count yourself lucky you’ll never have to deal with him again.”

Liam chokes, his body stiffening beside me like he’s just been hit with a taser. But both Whitmores chuckle, the sound almost jarring after the tense exchange.

“You don’t pull any punches, do you?” Sir Whitmore says.

“When you work with people like Liam, you have to be as tough as nails,” I reply, pointedly ignoring the death glare Liam is drilling into the side of my head. “All CEOs in my industry are like that. They’re not exactly known for their warm and fuzzy personalities. But for all his flaws, Liam’s a straight talker and he works exceptionally hard. You always know you’re getting the honest truth from him, even if it’s not what you want to hear.”

Sir Whitmore grunts, but for the first time in this whole argument, he doesn’t immediately fire back. Progress, maybe?

Liam, on the other hand . . . Stunned doesn’t even begin to cover it.

But I’m on a roll now, and everyone’s too gobsmacked by my brutal honesty to stop me. “And if I can make one more point without overstepping, Sir,” I add, my voice growing stronger, “Liam’s from up North. He was born to a single, working-class mother. Yes, he got into private school thanks to his stepdad, but he built this company from the ground up with his own money and grit. So too did his brother Patrick. And Liam may be the only man in this room who wasn’t born into wealth. Maybe he has more in common with the workers who you want to protect than you realize.”

My cheeks flush as I feel three sets of eyes boring into me. Maybe I went too far.

“The McLaren brothers’ story is very admirable. I don’t disagree with that,” Sir Whitmore finally says, sounding almost grudging. “But it doesn’t mean I agree with how he does business. Now if you’ll excuse us, we must be heading on.” He nods curtly at me. “Gemma. Liam. Enjoy your night.”

“Gentlemen,” Liam rumbles, unfazed as the Whitmore men stride off. How does he do that? I feel like I’m about to spontaneously combust.

I blow out a long breath, deflating slightly. Dealing with that level of open hostility is draining. I risk a glance at Liam, bracing myself for him to tear me a new one after my little stunt.

But he’s quiet.

“They really don’t like you, do they?” I ask, stating the bleeding obvious.

“No, they hate my guts.” His response is matter-of-fact.

“I’m sorry, I wasn’t trying to throw you under the bus back there. I just thought, instead of arguing about what they don’t like about you, maybe we could give them something they do like.”

He looks at me for a long moment. “You did well. But word of warning for next time, I’m not a fan of sharing my background.”

“Everything I said is already on the internet,” I point out, feeling defensive.

“Even so. It’s got nothing to do with this acquisition.”

“It does with Sir Whitmore, apparently. Or he would have agreed to your proposal already.”

His lips tighten into a line. “I guess I can’t argue with that.”

“Do you ever get used to people like that being so openly hostile toward you?” I ask, genuinely curious.

He quirks an eyebrow. “You saying no one likes me, Gemma?”

“Oh, there are a few people here who like you just fine,” I say pointedly, letting my gaze drift across the room. It’s not like I haven’t noticed the heated stares and open ogling directed at my boss all evening. Even the older lady-of-the-manor types are shooting him unmistakable I want to sit on your face looks while clutching their pearls.

Liam turns that full, undivided intensity on me, his eyes glittering with a predatory amusement. “But not you, I take it?”

There’s a subtle undercurrent of challenge in his tone that has me swallowing hard, wondering when the hell this conversation took a flirtatious detour.

“I get the privilege of experiencing the tyrannical, control-freak, big swinging dick version of you,” I shoot back, desperately trying to ignore the way he’s smirking at me. Hating that I’ve mentioned his dick yet again. Why couldn’t I have picked a less erotic insult for him? “I’m sure these ladies only ever encounter the charming version.”

He chuckles. “You get the unfiltered me. No charming masks or deception required. Just me.”

Shit. Are we actively flirting right now? Because this feels dangerously close to foreplay. Not that I’ve done much of that lately, for all I know it has changed.

Unwelcome heat unfurls low in my core as Liam studies me with undisguised amusement, like he’s enjoying watching me squirm. He’s playing me, just like he plays everyone.

“Lucky me,” I croak out, aiming for biting sarcasm but landing somewhere between breathless and aroused.

“Indeed,” he murmurs. He reaches out, fingers grazing my cheek as he tucks a stray lock of hair behind my ear. The casual intimacy of the gesture short-circuits my brain. Does he even realize what he’s doing, or is this muscle memory from all his socialite arm candy?

Then he stiffens, his hand dropping away.

“I’m just going to pop to the loo,” I blurt out, my voice high and strangled. My hands smooth over the fabric of my dress, searching for something to do. “Meet you back here in a few?”

I don’t wait for his response. I’m already spinning on my heel, fleeing toward the restrooms like my ass is on fire. I can’t get away quick enough.