Love to Loathe Him: Chapter 6

“Honey, I’m home,” I call sarcastically, stumbling in with my laptop bag and a bottle of wine. Winnie waddles over, eyeing the grocery bag judgmentally.

“Aw c’mon, don’t give me that look,” I mutter. “I’ll do better tomorrow.”

She meows disapprovingly, as if to say, That’s what you said yesterday, you lush.

“It’s Thursday night, for god’s sake,” I mutter in protest.

At least she’s eaten some of her food today.

But my momentary joy is short-lived as I remember the glamorous task awaiting me tomorrow morning: scooping up a fresh stool sample from Winnie’s litter box and hand-delivering it to the vet. And to make matters worse, I’ve got the all-staff meeting then too. Which means I’ll be schlepping cat stool around all morning before I can finally offload it at the vet’s during my lunch break.

With a heavy thunk, I set the so-called “groceries” down on the counter. By groceries, I mean a bottle of Cabernet and a tube of toothpaste. I was supposed to go to Fresh and Wild to pick up organic ginger and turmeric so I could start making my own smoothies. Instead, I have a fine bottle of organic red. Close enough.

Lizzie’s out auditioning for another off-off-off–West End play. Which means it’s just me, Winnie, and takeout tonight. Living the dream.

I do my usual routine of undressing in the hallway, shedding Gemma the HR manager with each discarded piece. I emerge in an oversized T-shirt and cotton shorts, and pad to the kitchen to pour a healthy glug of that glorious wine.

I take a deep pull, letting out a groan that borders on pornographic. Ooh yeah. That’s the stuff. I down another few mouthfuls, already feeling the day’s stresses start to unwind.

I’m drained. No, scratch that, I’m absolutely soul-shatteringly exhausted.

Little things are slipping through the cracks at work, like forgetting to review a contract or double booking myself for meetings. Sure, they’re tiny balls to drop in the grand scheme of things, but it’s getting harder to juggle the big ones too. Today, I almost forgot to sign off on the monthly expenses. That could have had repercussions.

Am I burnt out at the ripe old age of thirty-three? Surely not . . .

I swirl the wine around in my glass aggressively.

To make matters worse, Liam was a real piece of work today. First, he jumps down my throat for being late once—once!—then he’s tearing into my recruitment strategy only to pull a complete 180 and green-light the whole thing. And some of his weird comments . . .

Make it make sense, man.

I hate this hot-and-cold bullshit. It’s like he gets off on jerking me around. Maybe it’s some kind of twisted power play, a way to assert his dominance and remind me who’s boss. Well, newsflash, asshole, I know you’re the boss. No need to mindfuck me to prove it.

I grab my wine and head into the living room, Winnie hot on my heels.

Maybe I should book some time off. But who am I kidding? I’d probably end up on some overpriced beach, one eye glued to my work phone as it buzzes with endless “Hey Gemma, sorry to bother you on holiday, buuuut . . .” messages. And they’re never really sorry, are they?

With a groan, I flip open my laptop and dive into the tech team’s latest intranet updates, which, of course, include yet another round of workplace policy changes for me to review. Another ball dropped.

I’m skimming through page after page when McLaren’s face pops up. Even in his sterile company headshot, he’s not smiling. His lips are twitching like someone tried to teach him the concept of joy, but it looks more like he’s in physical pain.

He’s wearing that vest. That vest that clings to his muscles, like it was specifically designed to make ovaries release eggs on sight.

All right, I’ll confess. Fantasizing about McLaren is my guilty pleasure.

If that headshot was a Tinder profile, I’d swipe right so hard I’d get thumb burn.

Not that I’d ever breathe a word of this to another living soul. I’d sooner streak through Oxford Street on a Primark sale day than admit to anyone that Liam McLaren stars in my personal spank bank material. I absolutely loathe myself for it.

I must be ovulating. My cursor hovers over “next,” but I can’t click. My traitorous body is responding to his digital presence like he’s right here in the room with me, those piercing eyes burning into me.

I side-eye Winnie, who’s giving me a judgmental stare right back. She knows. She fucking knows.

I have work to power through here. But . . . maybe it’s time for some self-care first. A little “me time” to take the edge off. God knows I’ve earned it after the day I’ve had.

“Winnie, I need some private time for about . . . seven minutes,” I announce, shooing her judgy ass into the kitchen and closing her in. “Then we’ll cuddle up and watch whatever you want. Even that David Attenborough mouse documentary you’re obsessed with.” That cat has a weird fascination with watching her prey in high definition. It’s like she’s studying up on their habits.

She lets out an indignant meow that sounds suspiciously like “you disgust me.” I ignore it. She’s just jealous because she’s been spayed and can’t get her rocks off anymore.

I head straight for my bedside drawer, rummaging through the graveyard of tangled chargers and those useless under-eye oil rollers that promise miracles but deliver disappointment until my fingers close around my new vibrator.

“Hello, friend. Ready to escort me to Pound Town once again?”

The vibrator, being an inanimate object, doesn’t respond. But I like to think it’s just playing hard to get.

I return to the living room. Yes. I should be masturbating in my bedroom, but the sofa is really comfortable.

I sink back into the couch cushions, flicking on EastEnders and cranking the volume up loud enough to drown out any unseemly noises that may ensue. The last thing I need is a noise complaint from the neighbors. “Yes, hello, police? I’d like to report a woman having a very aggressive wank next door. It’s disturbing my peace.”

As the raucous tones of angry cockneys shouting at each other and beating each other up fill the air, I close my eyes and let my mind drift to deliciously panty-dampening places as I switch on my special toy.

I apply it precisely where I know it needs to go, because I’m all about efficiency. Though in my current worked-up state, I may have overestimated with that seven-minute timeline for Winnie—this could be a five-minute job. Three, if I really put my back into it.

I turn it on to the first setting, and yes, that’s the sweet spot right there.

I picture McLaren—no, Liam, looming over me in that glorious vest, his muscles tugging against the fabric.

He’s got this nose that’s all kinds of wrong but so very right—that sexy bump giving it some rugged, masculine edge. Maybe it’s been broken once or twice, and he probably deserved it.

And those full, lush lips look made for wrapping around a girl’s clit. Throw in those brooding features—the heavy brows, the piercing eyes, the shadowy stubble perpetually dusting that chiseled jaw—and you’ve got a man’s man if I ever saw one.

Fantasy Liam rips open his vest and shirt like some kind of superhero, too wild with desire to care about his custom-made suit. I greedily take in the dark hair that trails down, down, down to the promised land.

His eyes dark with desire, his voice all Northern guttural growls as he pushes up my pencil skirt and stretches me over his desk and . . .

Oh. Ohhh yesss.

No doubt, he’d be an absolute animal in the sack, just manhandling me roughly against the nearest photocopier. He must have a huge cock too; he looks the type with his prominent Adam’s apple.

Oh . . . oh yes, that’s good. I ramp up the vibration speed.

“Gemma,” Fantasy Liam grunts. “You feel so—”

“Meow!” comes the indignant cry from behind the living room door, followed by incessant scratching. Oh, for fuck’s sake, she can’t even let me have five minutes of me-time without pitching a fit.

“Give me a minute!” I shout at her, feeling a twinge of guilt.

Oh yes, right there. Stars are flashing behind my eyelids.

The scratching continues unabated. Ugh, it’s no use, she’s not going to let this go.

With a defeated groan, I pry myself off the sofa, vibrator still awkwardly tenting my underwear, and shuffle over to let the furry cockblocker in. Not finishing, or just caving and letting her in—I’m damned either way at this point.

Winnie eyes me in disgust as she struts into the living room. I can practically hear her thinking “I always knew you were a pervert, but this is a new low.”

I waddle my way back to the couch, my vibrator still buzzing away in my underwear, and try to wrap this up quickly.

I zoom in on McLaren’s corporate headshot, his eyes boring into me with an intensity that makes it feel like he’s sitting in his multimillion-pound penthouse apartment—the one that definitely has a view of the Thames and probably a sex dungeon—watching and knowing exactly what I’m doing right now.

Winnie jumps up onto the coffee table right beside my laptop, her eyes fused to mine. You have got to be fucking kidding me.

Talk about performance anxiety.

But I’m too far gone at this point to stop. I’m committed now, I’ve reached the point of no return. I feel abysmal about it, but she’s the one who demanded to be let in. This is on her fluffy head.

Still, this is bad.

Stop it, Gemma. Bad Gemma. Very bad Gemma.

I’m literally going to town on myself in front of my own cat. Is this considered some form of pet abuse?

I wonder what’s going through Winnie’s head as she watches me, her eyes wide and unblinking. She probably thinks I’m having a kind of seizure.

But . . . ohhhh yes, right there.

I’m really picking up steam now, my hips bucking against my vibrator. The Victorian molding on the ceiling blurs and distorts before my eyes, transforming into a vast, blazing galaxy of stars.

I can practically smell McLaren’s manly cologne surrounding me. He’s right here on this sofa, pinning me down with the delicious weight of his powerful thighs. The scratch of his stubbled jaw grazing along my arm is visceral, electrifying.

Wait, what? Along my arm?

I open my eyes and nearly scream. Winnie is brushing up against that very arm, her rough tongue lapping at my skin like she’s trying to groom me.

“Can you not touch me right now?” I pant out breathily. “A little privacy here would be appreciated.” Winnie just purrs, rubbing her face against my elbow like she’s trying to get in on the action.

I’m so close, teetering right on the edge of sweet release. Just a little more, just a little—

“GROSS!” I yelp, jerking upright, the vibrator still buzzing angrily against my clit.

My nose instinctively scrunches in utter disgust. I think I’m going to be sick. The smell is so pungent it cuts right through the haze of my arousal.

I glare daggers at the furry offender. “Did you just fart? That is not sexy at all, you brat!”

Cat farts are the worst. And I know she did this on purpose, too. This was a calculated attack. She’s probably been holding this one in all day, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

“Thanks very much,” I growl at her, my arousal shriveling up. “Really appreciate the mood killer there.”

I hear a second disdainful purr, and suddenly Tabby, the next-door-neighbor cat comes waltzing into my living room.

Oh, for god’s sake. She must have caught a whiff of my hormonally charged pheromones mixing with Winnie’s foul cat farts, and decided to prance on over for the free show.

“Can you please leave?” I glare at her, trying to maintain some semblance of dignity as I sit there with my vibrator still lodged in my underwear. “You don’t live here. This is not an open invitation.”

I really wish those damn cat flaps only worked for their intended owners. But no, they’re essentially the feline equivalent of pet promiscuity—allowing any Tom, Dick or horny alley cat to sashay right on in at their leisure for a casual home invasion.

“Didn’t your owner ever teach you to mind your own business?”

I might as well just resign myself to finishing up some work, since my libido has now shriveled up.

“Well, I hope you’re both happy now,” I mutter.

I have a lot to add to my journal.

I’m absolutely appalled with myself. This is all wrong. I should be masturbating about a sweet, wholesome type. Like a George Knightley type from Jane Austin’s Emma. The kind of guy who would court me with poetry, not angrily bend me over a boardroom table. The mere idea of finding Liam McLaren, Mr. Egotistical Prick himself, even remotely attractive makes my stomach churn in self-loathing.

“What in the hell is wrong with me?” I lament to Winnie, who’s far too preoccupied getting her backend attended to by Tabby to offer any wisdom.

Lizzie breezes back in just after eleven, bringing the smells of the pub with her.

“You’re late,” I observe, trying not to sound as accusatory as I feel.

“I stopped off for a little drinky-poo or two with one of the other guys auditioning.”

“How did this one go?”

“Need to get the tits out if I want the part,” she tosses out breezily.

I blink. “Are you okay with that?”

She waves a careless hand. “It’s art.” Those glassy eyes zero in on me. “And you’d better not still be working, you madwoman.”

I reluctantly close my laptop. “Just finished up.”

“You need to learn to relax more.” She leans over and gives me an unsolicited shoulder rub that I absolutely did not ask for.

“I’m perfectly relaxed,” I insist, trying to shrug her off.

“Your muscles feel like concrete!” she gasps, kneading my poor shoulders with excessive force. “How are you not snapping like a twig under all this tension?”

“I’m literally lying on the couch with a glass of wine,” I grit out through clenched teeth. “How is that not the picture of relaxation? Should I be levitating or something?”

“Oh, Gem.” She takes an exaggeratedly deep breath, and releases it slowly, the stench of tequila washing over me. “It’s all about being in the right state of mind. Leaning into the beautiful uncertainty of it all.”

She’s drunk.

“I don’t have time to lean into anything.” I launch into my itinerary of doom, ticking off each fresh hell on my fingers. “Tomorrow morning I have to get up at the butt-crack of dawn, make sure I procure a warm, fragrant sample from Winnie’s litter tray, get to the office early—with the poo—for some huge, mandatory all-staff ‘team building’ meet, then somehow sneak away during my laughably short lunch ‘break’ to drop the lovely biohazard off at the vet’s before racing back to the office to conduct back-to-back interviews until god knows when.”

Lizzie raises an eyebrow at me. “Bloody hell, there’s not a single part of your day that sounds even remotely fun, is there?”

I shrug. That’s something we can both agree on. But no-one ever advertises private equity firms as fun, do they? It’s not something I’d approve on the recruitment ad copy.

Her face softens as she studies me. “You look exhausted. Let me at least take Winnie’s poo to the vet for you in the morning, yeah?”

I blink at her. “You sure?”

“No worries, I got it covered. And let me know if you need anything else taken care of.”

I exhale slowly. “Cheers. At least that’s one thing off my plate.”

Lizzie beams at me, clearly pleased with herself for being so helpful. If only she channeled that eagerness into more productive endeavors—like not leaving her knickers on the living room floor.

Just as I’m about to launch into a lecture on the importance of proper storage solutions, and why bras don’t belong draped over lampshades, Lizzie’s phone buzzes loudly.

“Ooh, unknown number!” she squeals, practically diving for her phone. “It could be the director I’m waiting on. Oh my god.” She sucks in a dramatic breath, then purrs a breathy, “Hello?”

But just as quickly as the excitement appeared, it drains from her face. “Oh, hi,” she says, her voice now flat.

There’s a pause as the person on the other end speaks. I vaguely make out a man’s voice.

“Yeah, sorry, I’ve just been so crazy busy lately.” Another pause as Male Voice responds. “Hmm, actually, my friend just . . . died. So it’s really not a good time right now. Maybe we can revisit things in a few weeks?”

I stare at her, my eyebrows shooting up.

“Yes, the friend I live with,” Lizzie continues, ignoring my incredulous expression. “Taken from us in the prime of her life. It’s just so tragic and sad.” She lets out an exaggerated sigh.

What the actual fuck? I mouth at her.

She waves me off with a dismissive flick of her wrist.

“Yeah, it was a horrific car crash. Absolutely devastating, I’m just . . . an utter wreck over it all, as you can imagine.”

Out of nowhere, she starts grinding the phone against the couch cushion, like she’s trying to start a fire with the damn thing.

Winnie, deeply offended by this mistreatment of her favorite napping spot, meows furiously and swats at Lizzie’s hand—to no avail.

After a few seconds of this bizarre behavior, she brings the phone back to her ear. “Hello?” she whimpers. “Are you still there?” More vigorous cushion rubbing ensues. “So weird, I’m getting crazy static on the line. You’re cutting out.” Rub rub rub. “I think we’re losing the connection here.”

She shoots me a grin. “Oops, sorry, I’m going through a tunnel,” she says, even though the only tunnel she’s going through is the one leading straight to Looneytown.

With one final rub, she stabs the end call button.

I gape at her. “I’m sorry, did you just murder me to avoid a bad date?”

She sighs. “It was that guy from last week. You know, the one who kept rubbing my cheek like a creepy uncle?”

I nod slowly, pieces clicking into place. “The one you thought looked like Prince William with all his hair?”

“Yeah.” She grimaces. “I got a teeny bit tipsy, thought he was an absolute dreamboat, and shagged him in a moment of very poor judgment. But it was just the Pinot Grigio talking. I woke up the next morning, and I’m sorry, I’m shallow, okay? I realized he wasn’t the same guy as the night before. His face was all wrong, like someone had tried to sculpt Prince William out of Play-Doh and gave up halfway through. And his voice, oh god his voice. It was squeakier than Winnie’s mouse toy.”

She shudders, like the memory physically pains her. “I was so embarrassingly into him that night, practically ready to have his royal babies. I just can’t let him down gently now without looking like a complete hypocrite.”

I stare at her, hand on my hip. “So, naturally, the most logical and mature solution was to fake your roommate’s death and then pretend you’re in a tunnel on the Underground, rather than just telling him you’re not interested like an adult.”

“I panicked, okay? I’m not good under pressure. I was going to write him this long, beautiful message to let him down easy. Real Nicholas Sparks–like shit. But then he ambushed me with a withheld number! Talk about playing dirty, the sneaky fucker.”

Face-planting into her hands, she lets out a groan so pitiful I almost feel bad for her.

“I’m a shitty human. I knew about three seconds into the sex that I’d made a mistake. You know when you go for a massage and the masseuse is being really delicate? And they keep asking ‘is that pressure okay?’ And you’re like, ‘No, Marie, can you please just use your damn hands and not just your pinky finger? But then they only press a teeny bit harder. They’re barely grazing your skin until you’re so frustrated you’re ready to scream into the face hole. So for the whole massage, you’re just lying there, unsatisfied, wondering why you bothered to take your clothes off in the first place?”

I nod. “I see where this is heading.”

“Exactly what fucking this guy was like. He kept talking to me during the act, but not in a sexy, dominating ‘on your knees, you filthy slut’ kind of way. No, it was more ‘is this angle okay for you? Do you need another pillow? Are you hydrated enough?’ I mean, for fuck’s sake, just grab me by the hair and rail me like you mean it, you know?”

I nod in commiseration, a small smile tugging at my lips. “I’ve had a few of those types.”

It’s been so long I might even be okay with one of those types now.

Lizzie sighs, flopping back against the couch cushions. “I’m no delicate porcelain doll. I need a man who isn’t scared to dislocate a shoulder. Flip me around a little.”

I chuckle. “Yeah, I think I work with a few of those types.”

Her eyes light up. “I really must tag along to your next office happy hour. Share the sausage, Gemma. No-one likes a sausage hog.”

I roll my eyes. “Okay, first of all, I’m not ‘partaking’ in any office sausage, thank you very much.” I shudder. “HR are the last people who should be having office affairs. We’re supposed to be the ones preventing that shit, not enabling it. And second of all, the bankers look down on HR. They think we’re glorified assistants at best, and completely redundant at worst. To them, we’re just there to clean up their messes and make sure they don’t get sued for sexual harassment every other week.”

“You’re such a goody-two-shoes,” she teases. “If I had your job, I’d probably be fired within a week for banging half the office. Aren’t you ever tempted to mix business with pleasure?”

I pause, my traitorous mind immediately conjuring up an image of McLaren throwing me over his desk and having his wicked way with me. My cheeks heat.

“I’m not even sure what type of guy I want anymore,” I confess, shaking my head to clear the disturbing mental images. “I’m surrounded by all these alpha male banker types day in and day out. Maybe what I really need is a guy with a softer side, you know? Like a teacher or something.”

She laughs. “Boring. I stopped fancying teachers when I was seventeen.” She sits up, eyes wide. “Okay, I need you to do me a little favor. I want to check if the static thing was believable. Can you go in the other room, and I’ll call you and do the phone rubbing thing again?”

“You know, most well-adjusted women in their thirties send a polite ‘thanks but no thanks’ text.”

“Please, Gem?” she begs, giving me the puppy-dog eyes.

“Fine,” I grumble, snatching up my phone and stalking into the bedroom.

A minute later, my phone rings. “Hello?”

“Hey, it’s Lizzie,” Lizzie says, her voice tinny through the speaker.

“I know it’s you, you fool.”

“Can you hear me okay?”

“I can hear you. In fact I can hear two of you. You’re in the next room, not Wales.”

“Okay, great. Now I’m going to start the cushion rubbing bit, and you tell me if it sounds convincingly like I’m losing signal, yeah?”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. “Fine.”

I listen as Lizzie reenacts her one-woman show, complete with vigorous sofa rubbing sound effects. In the background, I can hear Winnie’s offended meows.

When she’s finished, I hang up and come back into the living room.

“Well?” She looks up at me, slightly breathless. “Believable? Like I was in the underground?”

I roll my eyes. “No, Lizzie. You sounded like you were shagging my poor couch cushions. But don’t worry, love, I’m quite confident your little performance was more than enough to convince him that you’re a complete and utter nutter. I’m pretty sure he won’t want to date you after that.”

She beams. “That’s a relief. Thanks, Gem. You’re the best fake dead friend a girl could ask for. I owe you big time.”

I snort, shaking my head in amused disbelief. “Yeah, yeah, just add it to the ever-growing list of favors you owe me.”

This whole ludicrous situation perfectly captures the glaring contrast between my two drastically different worlds.