Love to Loathe Him: Chapter 38

“I can’t believe I let you talk me into this,” I whisper to Lizzie, keeping my voice down so the cat lady at the front doesn’t hear me.

We’re crammed into a community center in Brixton, surrounded by what feels like fifty cat-obsessed lunatics attending a “Getting to Know Your Cat” seminar. I half expect someone to start chanting and sacrificing mice. The “cat whisperer” is droning on about spiritual connections with your cat. I’m pretty sure Winnie’s idea of a spiritual connection is me filling her food bowl on time.

Lizzie, on the other hand, is eating this up. She furiously scribbles notes, hanging on every word like she’s at a bloody TED Talk.

As for me, I’m sitting here grinning like an idiot, my mind a million miles away. Or more accurately, about 100 miles south, on a sailing boat with fisherman Liam and his . . . big rod. It’s been a few days since our last weekend getaway, but that man is still squatting in my brain rent-free.

I can’t seem to wipe the goofy smile off my face.

Three weekends now we’ve escaped to the coast. And with fisherman Liam, it’s fun. Simple. Easy-going. Last weekend we slept on the boat at Cowes at the Isle of Wight on Saturday then got up and did another hike the other side of the island. Liam even turned off his phone for about three hours so no one could reach him. A modern-day miracle.

Now billionaire banker Liam is back, barking orders like a drill sergeant. But I swear on Winnie’s favorite toy, there’s a permanent little smirk playing on his lips. The tiniest of smirks that wasn’t there before. The man looks . . . dare I say it? Happy.

“And now,” Cat Lady chirps, snapping me back to reality, “let’s explore the transformative power of mirror play.”

I shoot Lizzie a death glare. When she said I needed to get out more, I was thinking cocktails and dancing. Not this.

We’ve already suffered through twenty minutes of “slow blinking” at your cat to show affection. Then there was the bit about mimicking cat noises to “speak their language.” I draw the line at getting on all fours and meowing like a lunatic. And don’t even get me started on the suggestion of wearing clothing with your cat’s scent to help them feel comforted. Nothing says crazy cat lady like rubbing your pet all over your clothes before leaving the house.

Two blessed cocktails later, we’re finally home, and Lizzie is keen to try out some of our new “techniques.”

I watch, arms crossed and eyebrow raised, as Lizzie stretches out on the floor, waving a makeup mirror in front of Winnie’s face. And meowing. Fucking meowing.

Winnie just stares at her reflection, looking about as impressed as I feel. Her tail twitches as she meows loudly, which only makes Lizzie more excited and meow louder. It’s full-on feline karaoke here.

“She doesn’t like it, Lizzie.” I frown, watching Winnie’s pupils dilate. “I don’t think she’s digging the whole mirror-mirror-on-the-floor thing.”

Too late. Winnie’s paw lashes out, smacking the mirror clean out of Lizzie’s hand. It clatters to the floor and Winnie bolts, disappearing into Lizzie’s bedroom. Probably to take a revenge dump in her shoes.

Lizzie pops up from the floor, looking bewildered. “Does she think she’s ugly?” she asks, dead serious. “She’s really pretty.”

I snort. “I don’t think she cares. Cats don’t have body image issues. They’re not scrolling through Instagram at two a.m. wondering why they don’t look like Nala from The Lion King. She probably just thinks you’re possessed by some kind of cat demon.”

“Hmm. I must not have explained to her properly what we were doing.”

I chuckle. “Yeah, that’s the problem. I’m sure if you just meow louder, she’ll totally understand.”

My phone beeps as I go to find Winnie.

I smile reading it, my pulse skyrocketing at his words, as it always seems to these days. Silk Table is a three-Michelin-star restaurant. Oh, this is exciting.

Come on, say pleasure.

Yes. I grin to myself, my cheeks flushing.

I check under Lizzie’s bed for Winnie, but there’s no sign of her furry ass. I start typing out a response to Liam, something witty and flirtatious. But before I can hit send, another message comes through.

I’m grinning so hard my face hurts. Cheeky bastard. Did he just command me to go commando at a Michelin-starred restaurant? Not that it matters. I think my knickers just spontaneously combusted at his message anyway.

I squeeze my thighs together, a delicious shiver running through me. Part of me wants to sass back about not taking orders from anyone, even ridiculously handsome CEOs with a domineering streak.

But the other part . . . the part already picturing myself across from Liam in that little blue number, feeling decidedly bare underneath . . . well, let’s just say that part’s winning by a landslide.

I’ve barely hit send when another message pops up, and I nearly drop my phone again.

Oh, this man . . . I swallow hard, my trembling fingers hovering over the keys.

Good girl. Those two words shouldn’t affect me as much as they do, but fuck me, that’s hot.

I toss my phone aside as I resume my search for Winnie. It’s going to be a torturous few days until Thursday.

Winnie is nowhere to be found. I search my bedroom, bathroom, even the iron cupboard.

“Lizzie, did you see where she went?” I call out, the words echoing in the wardrobe as I shove aside hangers and boxes, hoping to find a furry stowaway.

“No,” she shouts back.

Okay, starting to get a little freaked out now.

“Is she hiding somewhere?” I ask, trying to keep the worry out of my voice as I walk back into the hallway.

Lizzie pops her head out of the kitchen, toast hanging from her mouth. “She’s not here?” she mumbles, spraying crumbs everywhere. “It’s because I tried the mirror work, isn’t it? I’ve traumatized her with my shitty cat communication skills!”

“I hardly think that’s the reason,” I say, but there’s a nagging doubt in the back of my mind. Winnie did look pretty disturbed by Lizzie’s mirror antics.

This is weird. Winnie’s not exactly the adventurous type. I search the flat top to bottom, calling her name with increasing desperation. “Winnie! Come on, baby. Where are you? Mummy’s sorry for letting Auntie Lizzie terrorize you with a makeup mirror.”

Nothing. Not a meow, not a purr, not even a judgmental flick of her tail. This isn’t good.

Winnie’s an indoor cat. She’s never ventured beyond the garden. Something’s wrong, I feel it in my gut.

“She can’t have gone far,” Lizzie says, trying to calm me down but looking equally freaked out. “Let’s go have a look around the streets.”

We knock on the next-door neighbor’s—the one with the Tabby who’s always leading Winnie astray.

But Winnie’s not there.

We spend an hour walking around the neighborhood, me calling Winnie’s name like a deranged cat lady while Lizzie meows at every bush we pass.

But there’s no Winnie. No Winnie in the bushes, no Winnie up the trees, no Winnie lurking in the shadows, ready to pounce on some unsuspecting pigeon.

When we finally drag ourselves back to the flat, there’s still no sign of her. No furry little body lounging on the sofa, no judgmental eyes staring at us like we’re the biggest idiots on the planet.

Where the hell could she be?

I search the house again, now in tears. And then, through the kitchen window, I spot it—the loose fence paling in the garden. How did I not see it before? Winnie must have squeezed through.

“Cats go missing sometimes,” I say, more to convince myself than Lizzie. “She’ll be back.”

But the hours tick by with no sign of her, and the panic creeps up my throat.

No. No, it’s fine. It’s only been a few hours. She’ll come back when she wants to sleep. She hasn’t had her supper yet.

Winnie’s a smart cat. Probably smarter than me and Lizzie put together. She knows her way home. She has to.

I google how long cats usually go missing for before coming home, desperate for some kind of reassurance.

But still I post on every Facebook group I can think of, my hands shaking as I type out a description of my baby. “Missing: one British Shorthair cat, answers to Winnie. Please, if you see her . . .”

I hit post, watching Winnie’s face stare back at me from the screen.

“Cats go missing for a few days then come home,” Lizzie tries to assure me as we’re getting ready for bed at one a.m., both of us exhausted and emotionally drained.

“I know.” I sniffle. “I don’t know whether I’m overreacting.”

I don’t sleep a wink that night, tossing and turning, straining my ears for the sound of the cat-flap.

But there’s nothing. Just silence. Deafening, terrifying silence.

Please, Winnie. Please come back. I’ll never let Lizzie near you with a mirror again, I swear. I’ll buy you the fanciest cat food on the market. I’ll even let you sleep on my face and smother me with your fluffy butt.

The next morning, I stumble out of bed, groggy and disoriented and more upset than ever.

No jingle of Winnie’s collar, no soft padding of paws around the flat. The silence is suffocating.

She needs her specially formulated digestive care food. What if her gastritis flares up? What if she’s out there somewhere, in pain, and I can’t help her?

I knock on Lizzie’s door, my heart in my throat. She grunts in response and I peek in, hoping against hope to see Winnie curled up on her bed.

But it’s just Lizzie, blinking at me with bleary eyes, her expression slowly morphing from confusion to concern as she takes in my trembling lip.

“No Winnie?” she asks, her voice rough with sleep.

I shake my head, not trusting myself to speak.

“Oh, babe.” She sits up, running a hand through her tangled hair. “I don’t have any temp work today. I’ll help you look for her, okay? We’ll find her, Gem. We will.”

I don’t know what to do.

I have that important meeting today. The one where Sir Whitmore and his team are coming into the office to negotiate. The one Liam’s been harping on about for weeks, the one he’ll kill me if I miss.

Liam’s not going to understand. Not over a cat.

I’m halfway to the underground when I realize I just can’t do it. I can’t go into the office and pretend everything’s fine. I can’t go into work knowing Winnie is missing.

I pull out my phone and shoot off an email, my heart racing as I hit send.

Something has come up, I won’t be able to come into the office today. Apologies for the short notice.

I call the NSPCA, the local vets, anyone who might be able to help.

But nothing.

I glare down at Gemma’s email. Is this a joke?

“Ollie, out. Now,” I bark.

“Yes, boss,” he mutters, scurrying out like a scolded puppy.

I slam my office door shut, the sound echoing my mounting frustration. What the fuck is Gemma playing at? This meeting is fucking crucial.

She’s meant to be presenting on Whitmore’s post-acquisition HR concerns. I’ve got a team of ten from TLS coming in, including the old man himself, and Gemma decides to go AWOL? Unacceptable.

I dial her number, each unanswered ring cranking my jaw tighter. Just as I’m about to hurl my phone back on the desk, Rosie knocks.

“Sir, shall I escort them to the boardroom?”

“Yes,” I growl, barely containing my rage. “Tell them I’ll be there in a minute.”

I try Gemma again, and this time she picks up. “What the hell is going on?”

“I’m so sorry. Winnie’s missing,” she stammers.

“What? Since when?” I grit out.

“Last night.”

I feel my blood pressure skyrocket. “Gemma, cats leave home for days. You’re blowing off this important meeting because your cat decided to take a stroll? It hasn’t even been twelve hours.”

“I’m sorry, I’m just worried.”

“Think about this rationally. The cat’s not even away a day. This is beyond unprofessional,” I seethe, my voice low. “I need you at this meeting. You are presenting, goddammit. Do you understand the magnitude of what’s at stake here?”

“I know. I know it’s unprofessional. And I’m sorry,” she says, her voice small.

“Gemma, I have ten people from TLS in there waiting for you to dazzle them. Get your ass to this office right now.”

I hang up before she can respond, my patience completely obliterated.

My staff don’t let me down last minute. Not for something like this. Not ever. That’s not how this works.

I went out on a limb here. I made her vital to this meeting because I see her value. This is the meeting about people, and she is meant to be driving it. I stuck my neck out to put her in that position because she’s not technically meant to be in such a strategic role. And now she’s not bothering to show up.

This is my issue. She’s unable to control her feelings to see the bigger picture. Same way when she’s pushing back on the charities. Throwing out a huge meeting because her cat has been missing for twelve hours? Are you fucking kidding me?

I get it. She’s attached to her cat, but she also needs to grow up. She can’t throw responsibility out the door the minute her cat decides to go on a little adventure.

What the hell does she expect me to do? Walk into that boardroom and tell ten of the top execs in TLS, “Sorry, folks, show’s over. Gemma’s cat decided to take a walkabout, so you all need to go home. Sorry for dragging you in here. Anyone want to join the search party?”

If there is one thing I hate, it’s being embarrassed. Shit like this tarnishes the Ashbury Thornton name. Gemma should know that.

Asshole. I blink back tears as I walk in the door.

I look at Lizzie and she shakes her head, her expression grim. No joy. No Winnie. And now, no support from the man I thought might actually give a damn. That was stupid of me.

“Do you think I’m overreacting?” I ask her. “I know it hasn’t been twenty-four hours yet.”

“No, babe. It’s natural that you’re worried,” Lizzie says softly, pulling me into a tight hug.

“I’m going to knock on doors and put up posters,” I say. “Can you stay here in case she comes back?”

She nods and hugs me again.

Maybe Liam’s right, though. Maybe I am overreacting. But unless you’ve had a furry companion, you can’t understand what it feels like. The panic, the fear, the twisting dread in the pit of your stomach . . .

I’m screwing Liam over by not being there, but yeah, maybe a small part of me thought that sleeping with him would make him a little softer toward me. He’s met Winnie. He’s seen how much she means to me. I stupidly believed my distress would matter to him.

I can’t reconcile these two different parts of him—Liam my fisherman, the man who jumped into the sea to get a hat for me, and Liam the asshole who only cares about his precious TLS deal.

I know how this looks. I know it’s unprofessional as hell. These are the sticking points for Sir Whitmore—the people, how they’ll be treated, what will happen to them. And Liam was using me to convince him, to smooth the way and make everything all neat and tidy so he could land this deal.

But you know what? Winnie matters to me above all else. I’ve worked my ass off to help him get this far—and he won’t give an inch when I need something in return.

Fuck Liam. Fuck the job. Fuck everything.

Winnie is all that matters now.

Thirty minutes later, I’m a blubbering, snotty disaster as I staple poster after poster to every available pole. Pretty sure this is illegal but screw it. I’ll gladly pay the fine if it means bringing Winnie home. I’d staple them to people’s heads if it would help find her.

Winnie’s judgy little face stares back at me from each flyer, and it’s like a punch to the gut every time. Telling me what a shitty cat mum I am for letting her escape.

My phone rings and I fumble to answer it, nearly dropping the damn thing and all my flyers in the process.

“Lizzie? Is she back? Did you find her?” I practically yell into the phone, my heart lodged in my throat.

“No, babe, I’m sorry. But there are people here . . . they say they’re pet detectives?”

Pet detectives? What, like Ace Ventura? Is this some kind of sick joke?

“Lizzie, don’t let them in yet,” I warn. “They probably saw the Facebook group posts and are trying to scam us. The nerve of some people, preying on desperate pet owners like this . . .”

“They say they’re from Animal Rescue England,” Lizzie explains, sounding equally skeptical.

Never heard of them. But then again, I’ve never lost a pet before. Never had to navigate the pet detective world.

“I’m on my way back.” I stuff the remaining posters into my bag and take off on a run. If this is a scam, I swear to god I’ll rip their heads off. I’m not in the mood for any bullshit right now.

As I race down the road toward the house, I’m greeted by the sight of four black SUVs parked outside my flat, as if MI5 decided to make a pit stop in Putney. Six people, all dressed in matching gear, are clustered around Lizzie at the front gate. One of them even has a tracking hound.

“You must be Gemma,” one of them says as I reach them. “I’m Sam Douglas, and these are my colleagues from Animal Rescue. We’re here to help find your cat.”

Is he fucking with me right now? I narrow my eyes. “I don’t understand, I didn’t call you.”

He looks down at a clipboard. “We’ve been hired for the advanced search service for a missing ‘Winnie,’” he says, his tone so professional it feels like I’m about to be briefed on a top-secret government mission.

I frown, my brain trying to process the absurdity of the situation. Advanced search and rescue service? Like some kind of cat-finding SWAT team?

He shows me a badge, as if that’s supposed to mean something to me.

“We aren’t usually hired until the animal is missing for a few days,” he says, his voice way too cheery for the situation at hand. “People usually wait because of the cost.”

And there it is. The scam. I knew it was coming. “Oh yeah?” I say, crossing my arms “How much does it cost?”

When they drop the price bomb, Lizzie and I look at each other in shock, our jaws practically hitting the floor.

“How dare you!” I explode. “Get off my property. Shame on you for scamming people. And six of you? Come on, mate, this is ridiculous. What, did you bring a cat psychic too?”

Sam looks at me like I’ve just accused him of murder. “This isn’t a scam, madam,” he says, drawing himself up to his full height, which isn’t much taller than me. “We are a legitimate, reputable agency. The top animal search agency in England.” He puffs out his chest, which makes the Animal Rescue England logo on his polo shirt stretch comically. “We’ve rescued everything from parrots to pythons.” He taps his clipboard for emphasis. “Besides, it’s already paid for.”

I blink, my anger momentarily derailed. “What?”

He glances down at his clipboard. “Erm . . . by a Mr. Liam McLaren?” He pauses, looking at me with uncertainty. “Do you want to cancel the service? You won’t get a refund at this stage, I’m afraid.”

My heart stops. Like, completely stops. Cardiac arrest, right on my doorstep.

Liam paid for a pet detective service?

“Ohhhh,” Lizzie swoons.

“We’ve already deployed the drones,” Sam says.

Oh my god. There are actual drones scouring the skies for my cat. I’m living in an episode of Black Mirror.

I feel a sudden rush of emotion, a wave of gratitude and relief and something else, something warm and fluttery that I don’t want to put a name to.

Liam. He did this for me. Despite everything, despite the meeting and the deal.

He cares. He can say what he wants, but he cares about me. The man deployed a fucking army to find my cat. I feel like crying all over again, but this time it’s not because of Winnie.

I send him a text, a simple thank-you with a kiss, just as the pet detectives step into my flat.

I eye the hound warily, taking in her massive size and muscular build. She looks like a German Shepherd on steroids, the kind of dog you’d expect to see chasing down criminals in a gritty cop drama, not sniffing out a slightly overweight house cat. “Winnie’s not going to like her,” I say.

“Don’t worry, she’s on her leash and very friendly,” Pet Detective #3 says, giving the dog a pat on her meaty head.

I nod, not entirely convinced. “What’s her name?” I ask, morbidly curious.

“Fluffy,” he says, completely straight-faced.

An hour later, I’m wearing a path into the living room carpet with all my pacing, while Lizzie sits stiffly on the couch, her eyes flicking to the window as if Winnie might suddenly appear with a suitcase and a What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas T-shirt.

The pet detectives gave us strict instructions to stay put, just in case Winnie decides to stroll back home like nothing ever happened.

Outside, my front garden looks like it’s been taken over by a full-on command center, complete with laptops, antennas, and a bunch of serious-looking people. The neighbors must think there’s a drug bust going down. Or worse, they’re filming a reality show about middle-aged women and their unhealthy obsession with cats.

“Try to relax, Gem,” Lizzie says softly.

I let out a shaky laugh and pause my pacing for a moment. “Yeah, at least we’ve got the best in the business on the case. Better than us wandering the streets aimlessly, calling Winnie’s name like a couple of idiots. These guys have an actual strategy.”

We catch each other’s eyes, and despite the knot of worry tightening in my chest, we both manage to laugh.

“Hey,” Lizzie suddenly says, her gaze shifting past me to the window. A smirk tugs at her lips. “There’s a new pet detective on the scene. And he’s hot.”

I turn, ready to tell her that now is not the time to be ogling random men, when my heart practically leaps out of my chest. Because there, on the street, talking to the cat SWAT team, is none other than Liam.

I’m shuffling on my shoes and out the door before Lizzie can even finish her wolf whistle.

But when I get to the front gate, he’s already vanished. Like some kind of brooding, billionaire Batman.

“What did Liam want?” I ask one of the guys, my voice breathless. “Is he gone?”

“Yup,” one replies, his eyes remaining glued to his laptop screen. “Mr. McLaren was just checking in.”

“Checking in?” I repeat.

The guy finally looks up, not amused. “Yes, ma’am. Making sure we’re doing our jobs well.”

Oh. My. God. I swallow hard. Liam came in person. He didn’t knock on my door, didn’t try to apologize or seek gratitude. He just showed up, did what needed to be done, all with that infuriatingly solution-driven focus. In his own emotionally constipated way, he’s showing me he cares.

Four hours, three cups of tea, and approximately 20,000 anxious paces around my living room later according to my fitness watch, the walkie-talkie on Pet Detective #2’s belt crackles to life.

“Base. We’ve got a visual on the target.”

Winnie has been found in an old lady’s garden three streets away. Apparently, the sweet octogenarian tried to beat our heroic pet detectives with her cane when they asked for Winnie back. Then Fluffy got involved.

But Winnie is on her way home.

“I’m looking to go up to Liam McLaren’s flat,” I say to the doormen at reception, pumping my voice with confidence. No biggie, just casually asking to get into a billionaire’s penthouse apartment.

Liam’s apartment block is more protected than 10 Downing Street. I try not to gawk at the ostentatious reception, with its gleaming marble floors and walls. This place is something else. I can’t imagine living here. The smallest apartment is over five million and it’s only a studio.

Mr. Security #1 raises an eyebrow. “Name and ID.”

“ID?” I blink, momentarily thrown. “Umm. Gemma Jones. I don’t have ID with me. I have a credit card if that’s any good?”

He scans his list, his frown deepening. “You’re not on here.”

I shift awkwardly, suddenly not so sure of my grand plan to romantically ambush Liam. It seemed like a brilliant idea after a glass of wine with Lizzie and Winnie in the garden. Now? Not so much. Especially since Liam didn’t even respond to my thank-you message. What if he’s still pissed at me about missing the meeting, despite his grand gesture?

“Want me to call him?” Mr. Security #2 asks.

I nod, suddenly mute.

“Sir, there’s a Gemma Jones here . . . You weren’t expecting her?” His frown deepens, and I feel my stomach drop. This was a terrible idea. Liam’s not the type you can just pop in on. He even has his tea times scheduled to the millisecond. “Right. I see. Uh-huh. I see.”

The doorman comes off the phone, looking at me like I’m a particularly troublesome stain he needs to scrub off the marble. “Wait there, miss.”

I stand awkwardly admiring the water fountain display that must be worth a million quid.

Is Liam pissed that I turned up at his flat unannounced? Is he going to have me escorted out by these goons in suits? This was a mistake. I should’ve just sent a fruit basket or something.

“Gemma.”

That voice. Deep, rich, and heart-stoppingly familiar. I whirl around and there’s Liam, looking like a god in jeans and a T-shirt.

My body moves before my brain can catch up. I’m flying across the lobby, launching myself at him.

He catches me—just—and we stumble back a step, my arms locked around his neck, my face buried in the crook of his shoulder.

“Thank you,” I whisper into his chest, likely smearing mascara and snot all over his white shirt. “You’re my hero.”

“That’s okay,” he says gruffly, sounding about as comfortable with emotions as Winnie.

I pull back, suddenly aware that I’m clinging to him like a koala in the middle of his swanky lobby. “Sorry for ambushing you,” I mumble, feeling my face heat up. “I just . . . I needed to thank you in person.”

“It’s fine,” he says, his tone clipped and unreadable.

“How did the meeting go?” I ask.

His jaw tightens. “Badly.”

Shit. Of course it did. Because I wasn’t there. Because I was too busy being a hysterical mess over my missing cat to do my job.

“Sorry,” I mumble, untangling myself from him and taking a step back.

He’s annoyed. It’s written all over his handsome face, in the clench of his jaw and the furrow of his brow. And I get it, I do. No matter how much he enjoys our arrangement, no matter how much he wanted to help find Winnie and is relieved she’s safe, work is always going to be his top priority. And here I am, the flaky employee who blew off the most important meeting to go on a wild cat chase.

Before I can move away, he grabs my face and kisses me. Hard.

I lean up on my tiptoes, pressing myself against him like I’m trying to fuse our bodies together. His lips are firm but soft, his stubble a delicious burn against my skin that I know I’ll feel for days. His tongue sweeps into my mouth, passionate and demanding, and I’m lost. Thoroughly, deliciously lost.

My hands fist in his shirt, pulling him closer, probably stretching the expensive fabric beyond repair. But I can’t bring myself to care, not when he’s kissing me like this.

One of his hands tangles in my hair, tugging just enough to send shivers down my spine, to make me gasp into his mouth. The other slides down to grip my hip, his fingers digging in possessively, like he’s trying to leave his mark on me.

When we finally break apart, we’re both breathing hard.

This means something. I know it does. It has to. Because you don’t kiss someone like that unless you feel something.

I glance at the doormen, who are doing a piss-poor job of pretending not to gawk at us.

“Coming up?” Liam asks. He takes my hand, lacing his fingers through mine, and I swear to god my ovaries explode.

Every cell in my body screams yes, begging me to follow him up to his penthouse. But I shake my head. “As much as I want to—and trust me, I really, really want to—I can’t. Winnie’s welcome home party awaits.”

He chuckles, the sound doing crazy things to my already jelly-like knees. “I’m glad she’s home safe. Give her a belly rub for me.”

“Me too,” I whisper, feeling the waterworks threatening to make a comeback. I’m a mess. A happy, grateful, emotional train wreck of a mess.

“Hey, do you want to join us? For the party?” I ask, smiling up at him.

He hesitates. “I can’t. I’m going to be working all night.”

I pout, giving him my best puppy-dog eyes. “Come on, take a break. Even big-shot CEOs need to let loose sometimes.”

He runs a hand through his hair, hesitating. “Look, I didn’t want to tell you until it was a done deal, but . . . I’ve found a way to keep more of the charity open. I need to do more work on it.”

I push back to look at him, my eyes wide. “Wait, what? Are you serious?”

His expression remains stern, like he’s trying to keep me grounded. “It’s just a proposal,” he says. “But I think it’ll go through. The charity’s going to partner with a developer who’s offering reduced rent as part of some corporate social responsibility thing. They get a massive tax break for it.”

I blink at him, my mouth falling open. He’s telling me this so casually, not like he just pulled off a miracle.

“This isn’t a joke, right?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.

“No, Gemma. It’s not a joke. But you can’t repeat this to anyone, okay? It’s not a done deal yet. Only the exec team knows.”

“So let me get this straight. You saved my cat and the charity, all in one day?”

He smirks. “I need to find a way to keep you and Whitmore sweet, somehow.”

“Liam.” I’m going to cry again. I can feel it. “You should be so proud of yourself.”

He shrugs. “I couldn’t have you complaining I was lazy.”

“Trust me, lazy is the last thing I’m thinking about you right now.” I shake my head, a laugh bubbling up in my throat. “Seriously, I’m so incredibly proud of you.”

“It’s my job, Gemma,” he says gruffly.

“No, it’s not,” I whisper, feeling suddenly vulnerable. “You are an amazing man, Liam. Thank you for taking away my tears, on Winnie, on the charity. You have no idea how much it means to me.”

He stares down at me, clearly caught off guard. “It was nothing,” he says, then plants a kiss on my forehead so awkwardly it’s like he’s never done it before.

“Good night, Liam.” I force myself to walk toward the reception door, hyper-aware of his gaze burning into my back the whole way.

I can’t help myself. I glance back when I reach the door, and there he is, standing by the elevator bay, staring at me. Like he’s trying to understand the strange thing that’s growing between us. Join the club, mate. I’ve been trying to figure us out for weeks.

I’m falling in love with you, I say in my head before I walk back outside.

This is so bad for me. So, so bad.

Maybe I’ve always been a little in love with Liam. A tiny spark buried deep enough I could pretend it didn’t exist. Under all the anger and frustration at his arrogance, there was . . . well, more anger and frustration. But also feelings. I just never had the guts to admit it. But it’s always been there, simmering beneath the surface.

And I’m really, really scared.