Love to Loathe Him: Chapter 21

“What’ll you have, Gemma?” Robbie asks as we queue at the bar.

“Chardonnay,” I say. “Just a small one, though. I’m still technically on the clock tonight, and after today’s adventures, I have a feeling I’ll be tipsy on nothing.”

The team’s crammed into this cozy pub overlooking the harbor in Cowes. It’s my first time on the Isle of Wight and I’ve got to say, I’m digging the vibe. Real summer holiday feel to it with the bustling port and quaint town. Almost makes you forget we’re not actually on vacation.

A drink is the least I deserve after the day I’ve had. My limbs feel like they’ve been put through a meat grinder from all that rigging and trimming nonsense. Pretending to be a sailor is tougher than it looks.

We all go up to our hotels after the race to check in and make ourselves presentable for society again. The awards ceremony kicks off in an hour, and the pub is packed to the gills with finance types moonlighting as sailors. It’s all a bit of a ruse to get these companies to shell out double the cash for a fancy dinner and some booze, but it’s for a good cause. And let’s be real, these companies can afford it.

I hate to admit it, but I can’t help feeling a twinge of disappointment that Liam didn’t join us for this post-race shindig. As the boss, he should be here connecting with the team, building morale.

My cheeks flush as I replay his loaded words in my head. Be very, very careful what you wish for, Gemma.

I adjust the strap of my red sundress nervously, making sure I’m not showing too much boobage.

Did he mean that in a dirty way? I swear there was some filthy innuendo but with him, who knows. The man delivers everything in the same stoic, unreadable tone, whether he’s ordering coffee or threatening to toss me overboard. I wish Lizzie were here to overanalyze every detail with me.

Maybe he’s being suggestive because we’re stuck on this island together with limited options. I bet Liam’s the kind of guy who needs his regular . . . releases. I’m sure he has a ridiculous sex drive.

Although, he did say that night in the Executive Lounge that he’d never mess around with an employee. Not that I would ever go there, obviously.

But that doesn’t stop my mind from conjuring up an image of him, on the boat, taking matters into his own hands to relieve some of that pent-up tension. I picture those strong fingers wrapped around his . . .

I swallow hard and take a gulp of the wine Robbie hands me, downing it faster than is probably wise.

“You look like you’ve got a bit of sun there.”

I blink at him, my face flushing even hotter. “Hm? Oh, no, just . . . windburn. From having my ponytail whipping me in the face all day.” I must be radiating my horniness through my cheeks. Might as well have sexually frustrated written across my forehead.

“Did you manage to have a relaxing time out there?” I tease him. “I saw your boat strolling into the dock last.”

He grins, unapologetic. “What can I say? I was too busy soaking in the scenery to care about silly things like winning.”

“Robbie can go hurl over the side of the party barge and leave the sailing to us grown-ups from now on, the lazy shit,” Andy, one of our team, butts in.

I flash Andy my sweetest smile. “Remember, Andy, this is supposed to be a friendly competition. We all have the same goal here.”

“Like hell,” Andy growls. “Robbie tanked the race for us. Too busy ogling the women from the Vertex boat to pay attention to where he was steering.”

Robbie leans in, his grin widening as he slings an arm around Andy’s shoulders. “Oh, Andy, you know I only have eyes for you. I just like to wind you up, mate. It made the cruise so much more enjoyable, watching that vein in your forehead throb.”

“Can you two behave?” I sigh, rolling my eyes at them. “Do you have any idea how much paperwork I’ll have to fill out if you two kill each other on this trip?”

“I can’t believe Ashbury Thornton didn’t win this year,” Andy mutters. “McLaren must be livid.”

I flinch, remembering the thunderous expression on his face as we crossed the finish line in second place. “He’s fine,” I mutter, taking a gulp of my wine.

“I’m sure he’ll find a way to console himself,” Andy says with a smirk. “Probably by firing half the company and making the rest of us work weekends for the next six months.”

“Speaking of firings . . .” Robbie interjects with a broad grin, rubbing his hands together with exaggerated glee. “Who’s up for a game of darts? Andy, try not to aim for my head this time.”

As the two of them bicker back and forth amiably, already lining up their first sloppy rounds of darts, I feel a flicker of warmth in my chest. For the first time since I started this job, I don’t feel like the HR fun police. I feel like part of the team.

As I rear back and launch what can only be described as the worst dart toss in human history, nearly taking out poor Robbie’s left eye in the process, the door to the pub swings open.

Alastair strides inside, looking like he just stepped out of a Ralph Lauren sailor ad in his crisp shirt and flashy suit.

He catches my eye and smiles, all perfect teeth, as he jokes and chats with his team.

Abandoning Andy and Robbie to their dart game, I meander over toward the group of fresh-faced victors.

“Gemma,” Alastair greets me with a grin, his posh accent crisp as ever.

“Congratulations on the win today.” I smile.

“It was a close call,” he replies, his blue eyes twinkling. “Though I suspect Liam essentially handed us the victory by letting young Max take the helm at the end there.” He punctuates his statement with a conspiratorial wink.

I smile. “Liam simply felt bad for taking the win year after year. He thought it was only fair to give the rest of you a fighting chance this time around.”

Alastair chuckles, not buying my blatant bullshit for a second. “Is that so? I did notice your formidable boss was still lingering aboard his boat. He looked . . . displeased, let’s say.”

“I’m sure he’ll be making an appearance at the awards ceremony later,” I deflect breezily. “He’s probably just tying up some loose ends first.”

“You know, Gemma”—Alastair’s voice takes on a low tone—“my offer from the other week still stands. Why don’t you come by my office sometime for an informal chat? No pressure or anything.”

“I haven’t forgotten. I just need some more time to think it over.”

Alastair smiles, but there’s a glint of something harder in his eyes. “Of course. Take all the time you need. I’ll be here waiting patiently when you inevitably realize it’s the right choice for your career.”

He gets slapped on the back by some eager guy, and I take that as my cue to bail. I say my goodbyes and walk toward the pub’s broad front windows overlooking the moonlit marina beyond.

Sure enough, there’s a solitary light burning on Liam’s boat—the man himself nowhere to be seen. He’s probably down there alone, brooding over today’s events. The thought creates a strange tightness in my chest I don’t want to examine too closely.

Indigestion from chugging my wine too fast. That’s got to be it.

Definitely not a case of caring whether Liam is dealing with his frustrations in a healthy way. It must be a lonely life, needing to exert total control and dominance over every aspect of your world.

Against my better judgment, I find myself scanning the docks again, my heart doing a little flip-flop in my chest as I imagine Liam down there. Maybe I should . . . I don’t know, check on him or something equally ridiculous. Make sure he’s not putting a hole through that sailboat. Besides, he should be up here with the team, networking, maybe even trying to play nice with Alastair.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I slip out of the pub. I totter down the cobbled stones toward the port, my heels clicking. This is what Liam’s paying me for, after all—to help humanize him, to show his face and win some favor with the TLS guys.

With a deep exhale, I hoist myself over the railing of Liam’s boat, silently cursing as the tight fabric of my dress restricts my movements. This was so much easier in those hideous yellow trousers and clunky sailing shoes. And without wine sloshing around in my belly.

And fuck me, there he is. At the top of the boat. With his naked back to me.

Liam, stripped to the waist, vigorously sanding something on the deck.

His arm and shoulder muscles flex and stretch hypnotically with each rough push and pull of the noisy power sander, his skin shimmering with a sheen of sweat that I swear I can smell from here. A heady mix of testosterone and ocean.

Wait a second . . . is he . . . is he seriously whistling a fucking sea shanty under his breath? It’s working for me. Like, really working for me.

I can’t tear my eyes away from the mesmerizing play of muscles in his back, the way they bunch and release with each movement. So many muscles in that back, sweaty like he’s been oiled up for a photoshoot. Is it wrong that I want to lick the sweat off them?

Liam in a suit is hot, but fisherman Liam? That’s a whole different level of sexy.

I tilt my head slightly to the side, transfixed. I could watch him like this all night, my ovaries munching down on popcorn at the show.

I swallow hard, trying to ignore the way my body is reacting to his presence. It’s just physical attraction, right? A harmless office crush, nothing more.

As if sensing the weight of my horny stare boring into his back, Liam turns to face me head-on. Our eyes meet and lock, and I swear I feel a jolt of heat straight to my clit.

“What are you doing here?” He frowns. “You shouldn’t be wearing those on the boat.”

“What?” I say, my brain still stuck on the fact that Liam’s shirtless torso is even more glorious from the front. I saw his chest when I was pummeling it in the boxing ring, but I think it’s managed to get sexier since then.

“No heels on the boat,” he snaps gruffly, stalking toward me. “Take them off. Now.”

Startled, I reach down to take one of my heels off, tottering precariously on the rocking deck, a nervous giggle bubbling up from my throat.

“For fuck’s sake.” Liam closes the distance between us in two long strides, bending down and lifting one of my legs. With a deftness that shouldn’t be possible for a man with such large hands, he removes the strappy sandal from my foot.

I feel like saying “While you’re down there, love . . .” but I manage to keep that particular thought to myself, instead placing a hand on his bare shoulder to steady myself.

“Did you work in a shoe shop in a past life?” I tease, then choke down a breathy chuckle. “You sure know your way around a sandal. Oh wait, you’re probably used to taking off women’s shoes, aren’t you?”

He stops what he’s doing and looks up at me, his eyes intense. “You’ve had a bit to drink.”

“Just a little,” I admit, shrugging one shoulder. “We’re supposed to be enjoying ourselves, aren’t we?”

“You’re supposed to be winning Sir Whitmore over,” he counters, his jaw clenching.

“We’re supposed to be winning him over. And we will, at the awards ceremony.”

He sets my bare foot down on the cool deck, sending a shiver up my spine, before moving on to my second stiletto. “That’s cold!”

“The last thing I need is a drunk employee slipping and going overboard on my watch,” he growls, his fingers brushing against my ankle. “Why are you here?” he asks, his tone impatient.

“I am not drunk! Anyway, I’m here to convince you to come to the pub and spend some quality time with us. Network. The real deals happen at the bar, not in the boardroom, you know.” I smirk, pleased with myself.

“I’ll be at the awards ceremony,” he says, his expression stony.

“You mean when you absolutely have to be? The bare minimum face time?”

“You guys are more than capable of having fun without me.”

“Maybe we want to have fun with you,” I counter, the wine making me bold, or stupid. “I thought hot fisherman Liam might be more enjoyable company than billionaire banker Liam.”

“He’s not. And for the record, fisherman Liam doesn’t put up with women who don’t follow the damn boat rules. Rule number one? No one’s walking on board in ridiculous heels.”

My eyes drift down to where he’s kneeling at my feet, his strong hands still wrapped around my ankle. “I much prefer fisherman Liam, even if he is grumpy. On his knees.” My hand shoots up to cover my mouth. Who the hell am I out here? The words just slipped out naturally, like my tongue had a mind of its own.

Liam’s head snaps up, his eyes burning into mine in question. Slowly, deliberately, he rises to his full height, towering over me. “You prefer me on my knees, do you?”

Oh god. “I . . . I didn’t mean . . .”

Abort.

Abort.

“Why don’t you come up to the pub and celebrate with us?” I rush out. “Then I won’t have to write in my diary about you being a wet blanket.” I need to get off this boat.

“Is that what you’re going to write about me?” he murmurs. His eyes flicker down to my dress, lingering on the curves of my body, then back up to meet mine. His jaw clenches tight.

Oh, sweet Jesus.

“No,” I breathe, my voice barely above a whisper. My pulse is thundering in my ears, my heart pounding so hard I feel dizzy. I’m close enough that his bare chest is nearly touching mine, the heat radiating off his skin despite us being in a cool British dock. “I’ll write about how I have a thing for tatted fishermen with abs.”

He groans, a deep, guttural sound that sends a bolt of pure lust straight to my core. His hand finds my hip, his grip possessive. And it hits me that this might be the first time I’ve seen him out of control. Besides the cat poo fiasco.

My breath comes out in shallow, unsteady gasps, my chest heaving with each inhale.

Do it, I silently beg. Pull me close, crush me against you.

I’m so close I can see the small scar on his jaw, a remnant of a past fight maybe, the stubble growing unevenly around it. The slight bump in his Roman nose hints that it’s been broken before and set imperfectly.

He’s going to kiss me, and it’s not going to be a gentle, tentative thing. The heat in his gaze is unmistakable. He’s going to do a lot more than kiss me.

He’s going to fucking destroy me, wreck me so thoroughly that I’ll never be the same again. And I want him to. Need him to.

I want Liam. I want his hands on me, his mouth devouring mine. I want him to strip away every last shred of my control, my professionalism, until all that remains is a primal need for him.

A sudden eruption of drunken cheers and laughter from a group of guys on the dock makes me nearly jump out of my skin.

Something seems to snap in Liam, his eyes hardening instantly. The charged moment between us shatters. I see it in his eyes, the ice water that douses the flames.

He’s not just some random sailor, and I’m not the sultry siren who’s accidentally stumbled onto his boat. We’re boss and employee about to do something neither of us can come back from.

“Gemma,” he rasps out, his voice husky. “Go back to the pub. Now.”

“No,” I whisper, trying to put my hand on his chest, to feel the pounding of his heart. But he stops me, his fingers wrapping around my wrist in an iron grip.

“Now,” he says in an even harder tone.

In one fluid motion, he hauls me up into his arms, his chest flush against my aching breasts. For a heart-stopping moment, I think he’s going to throw me down on the deck and have his way with me, audience be damned.

Instead, he lifts me easily and sets me down gently on the dock. He places my heels beside me, a silent, pointed message.

I stare up at him, my chest heaving.

Without a word, he turns on his heel and heads to the bow of the boat, picking up his discarded sander and resuming his work.