Love to Loathe Him: Chapter 23

I stare down at the text again, my heart hammering in my throat.

“Bloody hell,” Robbie groans beside me as Andy takes the tiny stage and proceeds to massacre “What’s New Pussycat?”

We’re still dressed from the awards gala, looking like a bunch of penguins in a pub where everyone else is wearing jeans.

Liam bailed right after dinner, leaving us to our own devices with a stern warning not to get too sloshed, lest we face his unholy wrath on the journey back tomorrow.

So why is he texting me now asking to meet up? My thumb hovers over the message as I swallow hard.

He probably just wants to debrief after the event, away from the rest of the team.

I check the location again, my stomach doing a flip when I realize Seafarer’s Haven is off the beaten path, tucked away from the main street where all the regatta teams are hanging out.

“Hey, Robbie?” I nudge his arm to get his attention over Andy’s awful karaoke. “I think I’m gonna call it a night and head back to the hotel.”

“Want me to walk you back?” he asks.

“No!” I yelp a little too forcefully. “Thanks, I’m good. The hotel’s just around the corner, I’ll be fine.”

I don’t give Robbie a chance to argue, just make my exit as casually as possible while Andy’s still hollering. The brisk night air is a welcome slap to my flushed cheeks as I navigate the quaint cobblestone streets toward the pub.

I’m nervous, which is ridiculous. I’ve had countless intense encounters with Liam before. This is nothing new, just another stern chat with the bossman.

So why does it feel so different this time?

The heavy wooden door to the Seafarer’s Haven swings open with a loud creak, a stark contrast to the rowdy sports bar I just left. Gone are the loud crowds and terrible karaoke. This place is all dark wood and nautical knickknacks, like an old pirate ship was turned into a pub.

A few grizzled guys are quietly nursing their beers, probably contemplating their life choices. This is a real sailor’s bar, the kind of place where you wouldn’t be surprised to see a peg leg propped up against the counter.

And apparently, it’s also the kind of place where Liam McLaren summons his employees for meetings in the middle of the night. Because that’s not strange at all.

I immediately feel overdressed in my red cocktail dress. A few of the guys give me an obvious once-over, blatantly staring.

I scan the dimly lit bar area, but Liam’s nowhere to be seen. Did he seriously change his mind at the last minute and ditch me without a word?

My restless gaze lands on the lone, broad-shouldered figure seated at the far end of the battered old bar with his back to me—a guy in a casual blue T-shirt and baseball cap, casually sipping his pint while watching the television overhead.

Something about the easy, powerful confidence radiating from his lounging posture makes my pulse quicken. I was expecting buttoned-up, tuxedo-clad Liam, not . . . this.

Squaring my shoulders, I toss my hair back and saunter over. I slide onto the vacant stool beside him, trying to look nonchalant and not like I’m about to jump out of my skin with nerves.

“Excuse me,” I say, keeping my tone controlled. “I’m looking for someone. A fisherman named Liam? I don’t suppose you know him?”

He slowly swivels around on his stool to face me head-on. Even with the brim of his cap shading his eyes, there’s absolutely no mistaking the harsh, achingly familiar angles of that chiseled jawline . . . or those brooding dark eyes pinning me in place.

Fuck me with an oar and call me a mermaid. Fisherman Liam is stupidly, ridiculously, ruin-your-panties hot.

Our eyes lock, and a small smirk curves his lips. “And just who might you be?”

Delighted tingles race through me as I realize we’ve slipped into a role-play. Time to break out my saucy alter-ego. “Ginger,” I purr, trying to inject some Jessica Rabbit sultriness into my voice

“Ginger,” he repeats in a low tone that seems to touch every one of my senses, making my knees weak. “Can I convince you to have a drink with me, Ginger?”

“Whisky, neat. Only the good stuff. I’m a lady with discerning tastes.”

“Clearly. I’ll do my best.” Liam signals the bartender over and orders my drink, then turns that searing gaze back to me. “You seem lost, darlin’. Surely a pretty lady like yourself doesn’t belong in a place like this.” He tries to hide his smirk but fails miserably. “Why are you after fisherman Liam?”

“He’s my arrogant boss,” I say, warming to my role. “He summoned me here, probably for some unreasonable request. He drives me crazy.”

Liam makes a soft tsking sound in the back of his throat. “Your boss sounds like he doesn’t appreciate you at all, darlin’. What a shame.”

The bartender slides over my whisky and I take a sip, trying not to choke on the burn. Note to self: fake-me needs to work on her whisky tolerance.

“Oh, you have no idea,” I breathe out. “He’s a nightmare, a right piece of work on his best days. He’s captain of a fishing boat. He’s mean as an old shark, drives the crew nuts.” I pause, enjoying myself maybe a bit too much. “They say his heart is covered in barnacles and his soul is made of seaweed.”

“Uh-huh.” His eyes crinkle at the corners. “And what do you do for this mean old captain, Ginger?”

“I’m his . . .” I flounder for a moment, trying to think of what a fishing boat captain might need. A deck hand? “His secretary,” I blurt out, going for broke. “It’s a terribly tough job, you know.” I flutter my lashes at him, laying it on thick. “Lots of . . . filing. And . . . fish-related paperwork.”

His eyes spark with heated amusement, his lips twitching. “I can only imagine. Well, you’ve got my undivided attention now, unlike your prick of a boss.”

Heat licks down my spine at his words, pooling low in my belly.

“I don’t know what his problem is,” I murmur. “You’d think he’d appreciate having a hardworking gal like me around.”

“Maybe he’s frustrated. I can imagine working with you all day, being so close but not able to touch you . . . It would certainly test any man’s patience.”

I nearly choke on my whisky. “I never thought of it that way,” I stammer. “You think that’s why he’s so grumpy all the time?”

“Darlin’, if I had a secretary who looked like you, I’d be feeling tortured myself. I bet he goes home every night and takes out his frustrations on his poor, abused fishing rod, if you know what I mean.”

This time I nearly snort whisky out of my nose at the mental image of Liam furiously masturbating over . . . Ginger.

Everything suddenly feels overheated—from the tips of my embarrassingly flushed ears all the way down to my . . . other highly sensitive areas currently throbbing in time with my racing pulse.

“I guess in your . . . line of work, you don’t get to, uh . . . see too many women?” I ask, my voice emerging in a rasp that has me mentally facepalming. Real smooth, Ginger.

“That’s right. I spend most of my time out on the open water. I’m only in town for one night, then I’ll be shipping back out to sea tomorrow.”

He’s slipping so seamlessly into character, into this rugged, lonely fisherman persona. I half expect him to start speaking in a thick, incomprehensible accent and regaling me with tales of his adventures on the high seas.

I press my thighs together beneath the bar. An image soars through my mind—the two of us in the dingy pub bathroom, my dress hiked up, his pants around his ankles as he takes me hard and fast against the wall . . .

Bad Gemma. Bad, bad Gemma.

“Don’t you have a nice girlfriend waiting for you back on shore or anything?” I ask with false innocence.

Liam shakes his head, jaw tightening ever so slightly. “I work too hard at this job to commit to a proper relationship.”

“It must get pretty lonely out there though, all by yourself on that boat for weeks at a time.”

“It does,” he agrees, his voice dropping to a low, suggestive rumble. “And as it happens, I’m alone on my boat tonight. I’ve been working damn hard these last few weeks, pushing myself to the limit on every charter. Could really use some company to help me unwind properly before heading back out tomorrow.”

The unmistakable innuendo laced through his gravelly tone sends a delicious shiver skittering down my spine, making my toes curl in my shoes.

Oh, he’s good at this game—too good.

“You’ve been working hard, huh?” I hum and take his big, manly hand in mine, tracing my fingers over his palm. He has beautiful hands, a few prominent veins snaking across the backs of them.

“I can tell,” I murmur, my voice coming out all breathy and bedroom-y without my permission. “These hands have seen more than their fair share of . . . vigorous action. All that rope handling and knot work and such, I’d wager.”

I’m half on the verge of giggling, half on the verge of moaning, caught up in the bizarre eroticism of our little scene.

I manage to hold Liam’s heated stare for all of three seconds before nervously snort-laughing.

Liam’s mouth twitches but he doesn’t laugh.

When I finally drop his hand, it casually falls onto my leg, his warm, heavy palm resting on my bare skin. Butterflies explode in my belly at the contact.

He looks at me for a second, his gaze questioning, as if checking to make sure I’m okay with this. When I don’t protest, he lets his hand linger, his thumb softly stroking my thigh in a way that has me doing an involuntary Kegel clench.

Fuck. I want him to move his hand higher, to slip it under the hem of my dress and . . .

“Do you want to come back to my boat, Ginger?”

“I . . .” Oh god. HR manager Gemma is screaming at me right now, waving the company handbook around.

Even Winnie’s judgmental face pops into my head, her indignant meow calling me a total slag.

But Ginger, the naughty minx that she is, has Lizzie on her side, egging her on to throw caution to the wind and just go for it. And caution has blown halfway to France at this stage.

“No pressure,” Liam says, his thumb still tracing maddening circles on my skin.

“You have calloused hands,” I say, looking down at them. “It must be from all the rope work.”

“These hands know how to handle delicate things too,” he murmurs, his eyes never leaving mine. “I can be gentle. Or not, depending on what you prefer.”

I almost flop off the chair.

“You seem like a nice, down-to-earth fisherman,” I manage to say, even though the words could be considered farcical since he’s a ruthless finance mogul. “But I don’t make a habit of going back to strange men’s boats.”

“Fair enough. But just so you know, what happens on the island stays on the island.”

I so badly want to have sex with him and he’s already read my embarrassing diary. And it’s not like I’m planning to stick around Ashbury Thornton long-term now anyway. A few more months and I’ll have enough to buy me time when I try to become an independent consultant.

Plus, fisherman Liam is just so fucking irresistible, with his rugged charm and his rough hands . . .

“It’s okay.” He downs the rest of his drink in one smooth swallow. “Let me walk you back to your hotel.”

Crap. He’s made the decision for me. A part of me is relieved, but a bigger part aches with disappointment.

The walk back to the hotel is quiet, the silence between us heavy. I’m terrified that at any moment I’m going to blurt out how horny I am and try to attack his face.

Liam, as if sensing my inner turmoil, points out various facts about the Isle of Wight as we stroll along the quaint streets.

“Did you know,” he says, his voice low in the stillness of the night, “that the Isle of Wight hosts an annual garlic festival? You can even get garlic ice cream there.”

Garlic isn’t the sexiest topic of conversation, but somehow, coming from fisherman Liam’s mouth, it sounds like pure filth.

With every step, I become more convinced that I should have said yes.

But I can’t very well invite him up to my room. Not with the rest of the team staying here and the risk of someone seeing us together.

We linger outside my hotel. I shuffle from foot to foot. “Thanks for walking me back.”

“It’s a great view from this hotel. I hope you can see the sea from your room,” Liam says, and then he does something that knocks me off balance. He smiles. Not his usual smirk or that loaded grin from the all-staff meeting. No, this is something different, something . . . genuine.

It’s a casual, sexy smile that I’ve never seen before, and it’s directed solely at me. My heart does a little flip, and I look away, suddenly flustered.

I glance at the dark sea, waves crashing in a rhythmic, hypnotic dance. It’s beautiful. Romantic. Dangerous.

“It is,” I say softly. I look back at Liam, who seems lost in thought, staring out at the water. “What are you thinking about?”

“Sorry,” he says, turning his attention back to me. “Being near the water always makes me more contemplative.” His smile is tinged with melancholy. “Thinking about what life would be like as a fisherman.”

I swallow hard, taking in his handsome face. I feel like I’m seeing a glimpse of the original Liam. The Liam before the money and everything that comes with it. “Simpler?” I ask.

He steps closer. Gently, he reaches out and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “Simpler,” he echoes, his voice softer than I’ve ever heard it. “Good night, Ginger. Sweet dreams.”

And then he’s turning and walking away, his broad frame disappearing back to the port, leaving me standing there with my heart pounding and my thighs squeezed together so tightly I’m legitimately worried I’ll break my vagina.

Two hours later, I’m lying in bed, staring at the ceiling. There is positively no chance of me falling asleep anytime soon.

My brain is running on overdrive, replaying every moment with fisherman Liam in excruciating detail.

I turn in the bed and shove the pillow over my head, groaning into the fluffy depths. Why couldn’t I have just said fuck it and gone back to Liam’s boat for a night of wild sex?

Oh, right. Because I’m an idiot. An idiot with a reputation to uphold.

I grab my phone from the nightstand, desperate for a distraction before I start humping my pillow.

And because I have zero self-control, I find myself scrolling through my contacts until I land on Liam’s name.

My pulse quickens. He was online just twenty minutes ago. Which means he’s still awake.

Before I can talk myself out of it, I’m out of bed and rummaging through my backpack like a woman possessed. I yank on a pair of jeans and a T-shirt, sling my hair into a ponytail, and I’m halfway out the door before my brain catches up with my body.

Holy shit. I’m really going to do this. I’m really going to march my ass down to the docks in the middle of the night and throw myself at Liam McLaren.

I should not do this.

But I already am. The HR manager can clean up this mess on Monday.