Love to Loathe Him: Chapter 2

“What can I do for you, Emily?” I ask, as she settles into the chair across from me.

Emily from marketing is first in the HR clinic today—aka my office. Every Wednesday morning, we have the “drop-in center” for anyone who needs to vent about their work-related woes.

Kind of like that show Embarrassing Bodies, only instead of fungal infections and mystery rashes, I get the festering emotional wounds of the finance world. We cover the full spectrum, from the stressed, needy interns to finance guys who think they’re the second coming of Wolf of Wall Street—London edition.

The HR team is swamped, so I’ve taken it upon myself to run the clinic single-handedly. Probably not the best approach especially since I spent yesterday rearranging the damn all-staff meeting at McLaren’s request. We’re desperately trying to recruit more HR staff, but qualified candidates seem to be in short supply these days.

And the thing is, I enjoy helping people. It’s why I got into HR. So if we didn’t have a ton of other shit to deal with, I might actually look forward to these weekly heart-to-hearts.

Emily clears her throat nervously, shifting in her seat. “I need to disclose a relationship.”

“Okay,” I reply, giving her my full attention. “Usually both parties come to disclose it together, but that’s all right, your partner can come see me later today. You’ll both need to sign the conflict-of-interest forms. Who’s your partner?”

“That’s the thing . . . he’s more senior than me.” She pauses, taking a deep breath. “Daniel Hart.”

I blink. Please tell me I didn’t hear that right. “Daniel Hart?”

“That’s right.”

“Does he know you’re disclosing the relationship?”

“No, he’s being quite casual about the whole thing. But as the junior employee, I feel I need to ensure everything is properly documented, just to be safe.” She smiles nervously, clasping her hands tightly in her lap. “I’ve been so worried about it; I couldn’t sleep last night. So I thought it best to come to you today.”

I frown. “If you don’t mind me asking, how long has this relationship been going on?”

Her face reddens. “Six months.”

Right. I lean forward, giving her a sympathetic look. “I appreciate you bringing this to my attention, Emily. However, I’m afraid there may be a bit of an issue here.”

“Oh?” Her eyes widen. “I thought it was allowed as long as we disclosed it? I know it’s a little late—”

“It’s not that,” I interrupt gently. “Look, I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but it seems Daniel has already registered as being in a relationship. Here. At the company.”

Seriously, why can’t people just keep it in their pants at work? Is that really so much to ask? I’ve always believed in putting career before cock.

Her face goes blank.

“With someone else,” I add, because I get the feeling she’s not willing to let the truth sink in. “So unless you’re in a polyamorous relationship, which I assume you’re not . . .” I trail off, clearing my throat pointedly until the penny drops.

And when it does, oh boy.

“No,” she gasps. “Are you sure? There must be some mistake. Daniel wouldn’t . . .”

“I’m sure,” I say, trying to keep my tone neutral even as I feel a twinge of sympathy for the poor girl. “Unless there’s another Daniel Hart lurking around here that I don’t know about.”

In which case, we’ve got bigger problems than her shattered heart.

Her face crumples. “I don’t believe this . . . Who? Who is he with?”

“I’m sorry, but I can’t disclose that,” I say, giving her a sympathetic smile.

An ear-splitting sob erupts from her mouth with such force, I instinctively lean back to avoid the spray.

I jump up from my desk and rush to her side, plopping down next to her and shoving a box of tissues into her quivering hands.

“I can’t believe it. I thought we had something special,” she wails.

I bite back a sigh. If I had a pound for every time I heard that line, I could buy this company and fire everyone. Starting with Daniel.

“Emily,” I say calmly. “Think about what you want to do with this information. Remember how important this job is. You’ve only been here two years, but you have such a bright future ahead of you, if you handle this tactfully.”

She snatches a tissue and honks into it, her face turning redder. “That wanker. That lying, cheating, scumbag wanker!”

I wince. “It’s probably best if you refrain from calling another employee names in front of me.”

Even if he is a total wanker.

“Sorry,” she splutters, blowing her nose loudly into the tissue. “I just . . . I don’t know what to do. What should I do, Gemma?”

She looks at me with those big, watery Bambi eyes, like I’m some sort of all-knowing relationship guru.

I pause. “As HR, I can’t give you relationship advice. That’s what your girlfriends and a bottle of wine are for. But perhaps ending it cleanly is best, since it’s a workplace relationship. Keep it professional. Leave the emotions at the office door and move on with your head held high.”

She bursts into a fresh round of sobs, then looks up, eyes blazing. “Can I lodge a complaint against him?”

“For what?”

“For cheating!” Like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

If being an asshole were against company policy, we’d have to fire half the men in this place. Starting with McLaren as owner.

I shake my head. “I’m sorry, Emily, but cheating is a personal issue, not a professional one. Unless he’s, I don’t know, cheating on company time or with corporate credit cards, there’s nothing HR can do about it.”

Her shoulders slump, the fight draining out of her. “So that’s it? I just act like nothing happened and carry on like normal?”

I nod, handing her another tissue. “Look, you’re young and talented. Don’t let one bad relationship define you or derail your career. We’ll make sure your work relationship is at an arm’s length going forward.”

She nods and hauls herself out of the chair, sniffling and wiping her nose. “Thanks, Gemma.”

She pauses at the door, hand on the knob. “You won’t tell anyone, right? I can’t handle being office gossip on top of everything else.”

“Of course not,” I reply, slightly offended. “What’s said in this room stays strictly between us.”

And it’s true. I know everyone’s deepest and darkests in this place. Many of which I wish I could bleach from my brain.

I let out a breath as the door closes. It’s not the wildest problem I’ve dealt with here—I’ve had to fire people for turning the cleaner’s closet into their own personal red room, for god’s sake.

But still, I’m holding out hope that the remaining appointments aren’t all scorned lovers and broken hearts. I’m running dangerously low on tissues and patience for that kind of drama.

“Knock knock,” chirps a familiar voice.

“Hi,” I say to Mary, my assistant, though it sounds more like a groan than a greeting.

“Want me to grab some lunch for you?” She hovers in the doorway. “Or are you heading out?”

I almost laugh at the absurdity of me “heading out.” I eye my desk, which looks like a bomb went off in a paper factory, and the aftermath was hit by a tornado of Post-it notes.

“If you could grab me something, that would be amazing. You’re the best.” I flash her a grateful smile and she beams back before scurrying off.

I keep telling myself tomorrow will be the day I step outside for some fresh air and a quick stretch. But tomorrow never comes.

One great perk of Ashbury Thornton is the fancy free lunches they serve up in the downstairs restaurant. Not that I have any friends here to grab lunch with anyway, as my inner voice loves to remind me with a bitter cackle.

As the head of HR, navigating friendships is a delicate tightrope act. I learned that the hard way when McLaren had me personally fire my work bestie, Katie, last year. Talk about a knife to the gut.

Sure, she walked away with a decent severance package, because Ashbury Thornton is nothing if not generous when it comes to paying people to shut the hell up and go away quietly. But that didn’t make watching her pack up her desk any less soul-crushing.

I was a bit of a mess over that, spending nights ugly-crying into a half-empty bottle of Chardonnay, wondering where it all went wrong and how I became the kind of person who could fire her own friend.

Our friendship just wasn’t the same after that. So it wasn’t really a surprise when Katie eventually ghosted me altogether a few months later, deciding that being friends with the woman who canned her wasn’t great for her mental health.

Speaking of the devil responsible for my friendless work existence—I look up to see McLaren in his office, phone glued to his ear, but his laser-focused gaze is locked on me.

I arch a brow, meeting his stare head-on. I’ll be damned if I’m the first to look away, even as I feel that familiar clench low in my belly—ninety-nine percent pure, unadulterated loathing, and a traitorous one percent flutter of something that I absolutely refuse to acknowledge as anything other than loathing.

Finally, he breaks eye contact, barking into the phone. Probably ordering a hit on a competitor.

I honestly don’t have the faintest clue what the guy thinks of me. I’m not sure I want to know. Ignorance is bliss. But I’m eternally grateful that he seems just as clueless about the true depths of my contempt for his arrogant ass. It’s safer that way. If he knew how often I fantasize about throttling him with his tie, I’d probably be out on my ass.

A timid knock jolts me out of my homicidal and slightly kinky thoughts.

I glance up, my eyes widening as I take in the sight of Dennis from accounting standing in my doorway. The rash covering his face is so angry and inflamed, it’s like a neon sign screaming “I’M STRESSED OUT OF MY DAMN MIND!”

“Hey, Dennis,” I choke out.

Please don’t let him be here to talk about the rash.

Deep breath. Time to face the beast.

I knock on McLaren’s door, my stomach flipping. If he’s in one of his trademark foul moods or decides to take a giant dump on the recruitment strategy I’ve spent all day on, it’s back to the drawing board. And given that it’s already seven p.m., the thought of starting over makes me want to curl up in the fetal position under my desk.

“Get in here,” he barks, not even looking at me. Charming as ever.

I slip into his office, greeted by the mouth-watering view of his broad, muscular back, his imposing frame silhouetted against the London skyline. The setting sun is bouncing off the Shard, looking like a giant, sparkling middle finger flipping me off personally.

He turns around and I lose my breath for a second.

He’s buttoning up a crisp white dress shirt, but not fast enough to stop me getting an eyeful of his chest and the trail of dark hair disappearing into his waistband in a way that says Follow me to happy land, sweetheart. I promise it’ll be worth the trip.

I try not to stare at the tattoo scrawled across his right pec. A traditional sailor-style anchor with a thick rope coiled around it and something inscribed on it. Perched on the side of the anchor is a mermaid with long, flowing red hair cascading down her back and over the anchor.

Finance bro meets Popeye the Sailor Man. Must be a nod to his love of sailing. Either that or a drunken Ibiza booze cruise tattoo. Maybe he has a thing for redheads. Redheads like me.

Get a grip, Gemma.

It’s not like I haven’t seen him all dolled up in a tuxedo, but try telling that to my cavewoman ovaries. They’re practically fist-pumping and chanting “Breed!” at the sight of him.

I lock eyes with him, trying desperately not to let my gaze drift south of his collar. “I sent over the new recruitment strategy for your review.”

“Give me the highlights,” he says, buttoning his shirt with agonizing slowness.

He’s not even fazed by the fact that I’m getting an eyeful of his half-naked glory. Just once, I wish something would throw him off-kilter. Make him blush or stammer like a mere mortal. But no, McLaren is infuriatingly comfortable in his own skin, completely at ease with his sex appeal and the power he wields over everyone around him.

And damn him to whatever circle of hell is reserved for impossibly attractive assholes. I’m utterly defenseless against the breed of man who looks like he just stepped off the cover of a mafia romance novel—all brooding intensity and smoldering gazes, with the unspoken promise of Very Bad Things.

It would be so much simpler if he was just . . . hideous.

I clear my throat, trying to dislodge the lump of lust that’s taken up residence there. “Right. So first, I think we need to revamp our sponsorship approach in these countries. It’ll cost more upfront but will let us fast-track the best recruits.” I hand him the list, our fingers brushing for a nanosecond of electric awkwardness. “And if we expand our visa sponsorship programs to include these specific countries”—I motion the bottom of the page—“we should be able to fill those empty seats ASAP.”

His eyes skim the paper before giving a curt nod. “Fine.”

Riding high on not being immediately shot down, I press on. “I also think you should personally take the reins on interviews for our highest-value prospects. Really give them the full Ashbury Thornton Equity pitch.”

His eyes snap to mine as he loops a Dicky bow around his neck. “What’s wrong with Ollie handling them?”

“Nothing at all, sir. Ollie is exceptional in his field. But an interview with the big boss himself is the kind of ego stroke that could really seal the deal, make these hotshots feel like they’re being courted by the best of the best.”

I’m betting that McLaren’s giant hard-on for control will override any knee-jerk instinct to defend his managers.

I watch him grab some cufflinks. Based on the penguin suit, he must have some fancy-schmancy party tonight. Probably drinking champagne out of the hollowed-out skulls of his fallen financial enemies.

“I’ll look it over in the car,” he says, his voice short but not totally dismissive.

I let out a sneaky exhale, feeling tension melt. He didn’t tear my proposal to shreds, so I’ll chalk that up as a win.

“Got big plans tonight?” I ask, instantly regretting this foray into small talk.

“Charity thing,” he grunts, fixing the cufflinks.

I wonder who his arm candy is tonight. I may have done some light cyberstalking, morbidly curious about what type of women the most eligible sociopath in London dates. But it’s hard to tell if he has a type, except for stunning. And probably submissive.

Trying to imagine McLaren being all lovey-dovey—cooing sweet nothings, making goo-goo eyes . . . Does. Not. Compute. The man likely has “Cuddle at Your Own Risk” tattooed across his balls.

“Sounds fun,” I say.

“It won’t be.” He gives the Dicky bow a final, decisive tug with the aggression of a man strangling his last shred of patience. “Enjoy your boxing class.”

How the hell did he know that? I’ve been trying to cram in boxing sessions at the company gym on Wednesday nights to blow off steam. Even if it means taking work home.

“Not tonight, actually. My cat needs me.” Great. Sleep deprivation has completely annihilated my brain-to-mouth filter. “She’s been feeling peaky.”

“Right.” His expression makes it clear he couldn’t give fewer fucks about my Winnie’s digestive dramas. “Was there something else?” His tone heavily implies that there had better not be.

I flash my most dazzling, insincere smile—the one that says “happy to help” and not “I hate you”—and shake my head. “No, sir. Have a fabulous evening.”

May you trip on your own ego and face-plant right into the hors d’oeuvres.

With that, I spin on my heel and stride out.

I’ll say this for McLaren—the man has a real talent for making me feel like I’ve just gone three rounds in the downstairs boxing gym, and he hasn’t even laid a finger on me.