Love to Loathe Him: A Billionaire Office Romance
Love to Loathe Him: Chapter 12

The elevator doors slide open to Ashbury Thornton’s rooftop bar for the work do, and I’m assaulted by a deafening wall of sound—howling laughter, shouted conversations, and a bassline that makes my fillings vibrate in time.

It’s been a long week and it’s only Thursday. I feel like I’ve worked eighty days in four.

Lizzie’s eyes pop out of her skull. “Holy shit. It’s like Wolf of Wall Street up here. A finance sausage fest!”

I want to tell her she’s exaggerating, but she’s not. This supposedly upscale office party has devolved into debauchery barely an hour in. Guys are popping thousand-pound bottles of premium champagne with wild abandon, oblivious to the fact they’re dousing their equally obscenely priced bespoke suits. It’s a health and safety nightmare.

“Take it easy, Lizzie,” I mutter as we push through the throng. You’d think someone laced the Pimm’s with cocaine, the way these guys are acting. I really hope they didn’t. I could do without any HR violations for one night.

“Hello there, handsome,” she purrs, flashing a smile at an analyst who eye-fucks her right back.

“Cool your jets, horn dog,” I hiss, yanking her back before she can pounce. “Steer clear of the finance guys, yeah? They’re nothing but trouble, trust me.”

“I’m just being friendly, Gem. You can’t just put duct tape on my mouth. Although . . .” She pauses, eyeing a particularly rowdy group of suits who seem to be reenacting a scene from Magic Mike. “Some of these city bankers will be into that.”

I give a small, awkward wave to the few sober members of the finance team. “Right, you can flirt with Dennis from Accounts if you absolutely must get it out of your system.” I nod to poor Dennis sipping his drink shyly in the corner, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else. “But I’ll cut you off after four drinks. Remember, you’re representing HR tonight too. My professional rep is on the line here.”

Lizzie responds by cheekily lifting the hem of her skirt a few inches in time with the music. “Jeez, what do you think I’m gonna do, get up on the bar and strip down to my knickers?”

“It wouldn’t be the first time,” I mutter, having vivid flashbacks to our university days.

“Quit fidgeting with your dress, woman,” Lizzie chides, swatting my hands away as I fruitlessly attempt to coax the clingy material lower over my bare thighs. “You look fabulous. You’re giving me secondhand anxiety here.”

The dress is shorter than I usually wear, with a more plunging neckline that showcases my assets. And trust me, no one could accuse me of being too skinny to fill out a dress.

“I look fat,” I grumble, sucking in my stomach.

“You look like a sexy fairy. The green really brings out your red hair.”

“Great, I’m a ginger Tinkerbell. That’s not the vibe I was going for. My ass is so huge in this, I’ll need to get one of those truck reversing alarms for it,” I moan, envisioning myself backing up with a series of loud beeps.

She lets out a dramatic sigh and pulls me along. “Stop it, will you? You’re a total hottie.”

I swipe a couple of champagne flutes from a passing waiter and shove one into Lizzie’s hand as I spot Robbie, one of the few decent finance guys, chatting with a group of his brethren.

“Come on.” I nudge Lizzie. “Let’s go say hi to Robbie.”

His eyes go wide when he sees me, a grin spreading across his face. “Holy shit, Gemma, I hardly recognized you without your power suits.”

Lizzie preens beside me. “You’re welcome,” she whispers smugly.

I grimace, tugging self-consciously at the hem of my dress yet again. Maybe Lizzie has a point. I do wear an awful lot of them. “Thanks,” I say dryly. “This is Lizzie. Lizzie, Robbie.”

“Nice to meet you, Lizzie.” He shakes her hand, grinning.

One of the group, a smarmy prick named Brad, decides to chime in with a lecherous wolf whistle. “Damn, Miss Jones. You’re looking fine as fuck tonight. Who knew you were hiding all that under those frumpy blazers?”

I arch a brow, unimpressed. “Why are you calling me Miss Jones? I’m not your schoolteacher.”

His leer doesn’t falter. “Nah, but you can teach me a thing or two anytime.”

I level him with my most withering HR death glare, usually reserved for the Submitting False Receipts Is No Joke chat. “As flattered as I am by your charming offer, Brad, I think I’ll pass. I prefer my students to have a modicum of intelligence and respect for women.”

The gaggle of finance bros let out a collective “Ooh” at the sick burn, and even Brad has the decency to look chagrined. Good.

Robbie smirks, raising his glass in a salute to me.

“Guess the fun’s over now that HR’s here,” Brad’s wingman mutters.

“I’m pretty sure that’s never stopped you before,” I say to him coolly, arching a brow. “But do try to keep your fun from being a fireable offense, yeah? It’s not rocket science, boys.”

He rolls his eyes, grumbling something that sounds suspiciously like “killjoy.” I choose to ignore it, because honestly, I don’t have the patience to deal with his manchild bullshit tonight. Not when I’m too busy trying not to flash the entire party in this dress.

Robbie smiles at me, his eyes warm. “Ignore them. It’s great to see you out at one of these.”

“The way some people act around HR, you’d think we just busted up a drug den,” I mutter, taking a swig of champagne.

He laughs then turns to Lizzie. “Are you in HR too?”

“God, no!” She shudders dramatically. “Seeing the stress Gem’s under? No thanks. I’m in theater.”

“Nice! Anything I might’ve seen?”

Lizzie’s eyes light up. “I was in Cats in the West End last year.”

Robbie looks suitably impressed. “Wow, really? That’s a huge deal.”

“Well.” Her grin turns a bit sheepish. “I was more of a . . . background cat.” She wrinkles her nose. “Okay, fine. I was the cat behind the trash can. But damn if I wasn’t the most committed trash cat that stage has ever seen.”

Robbie chuckles, clearly charmed by her antics. “I don’t doubt it for a second.”

One of the account managers swoops in, clapping a hand on Robbie’s shoulder. “Sorry, ladies, need to borrow this one for a minute.”

“Of course,” I say breezily, even as my heart sinks. There goes my only ally.

Lizzie grabs my arm, her nails digging into my skin. “Holy fuck, Gem. Who is that absolute smokeshow over there?”

I follow her line of sight, my eyes landing on a tall, dark figure across the rowdy bar.

I swallow hard, like I’m trying to choke down a grapefruit. There it is. The vest. That motherfucking piece of clothing that should be banned for how sinfully good it makes him look.

He’s holding court with a bunch of senior execs, looking every inch the big swinging dick in charge.

“That’s McLaren,” I mutter, my voice strained. “Stop eye-fucking him, for the love of god.”

“That’s McLaren?” she squeaks, her eyes nearly bugging out of her head. “That’s the monster boss you’re always bitching about? I can’t believe it. The man is bloody gorgeous.”

“Would you keep your voice down?” I hiss, elbowing her in the ribs.

“Gemma, the way you go on about him, I thought he’d be some middle-aged ogre with a face like a smacked ass.”

“He is middle aged. He’s forty.”

She lets out a long breath, fanning herself dramatically. “Such a shame. That kind of beauty wasted on a jerk.”

I chance a glance in his direction and instantly regret it. Because he’s looking right at us.

For a second, I swear I see a flicker of surprise dance across his face as he takes in my outfit. But it’s gone just as quickly, replaced by that infuriatingly blank mask of his.

I give a slight nod of acknowledgement before tearing my eyes away, my traitorous cheeks growing warm. The last thing I need is for my boss to catch me ogling him at a company party. Especially after the whole cat shit debacle.

“He’s looking over here!” Lizzie squeals.

Oh, for god’s sake.

I try to steer Lizzie in the opposite direction, but it’s too late. I can feel McLaren’s eyes boring into me.

He takes a slow, deliberate pull from his beer, his throat bobbing as he swallows. And then, with a look that makes my skin prickle and my nipples tighten against the fabric of my dress, he crooks a finger, beckoning me over with an unmistakable air of entitled command, like he’s the fucking king of the world and I’m his loyal subject.

“Shit,” I hiss under my breath. “McLaren’s summoning me.”

“Take me with you.” Lizzie latches on to my arm. “I’ll be on my best behavior; I swear to god.”

“Not a chance, mate.” I grimace as Lizzie pouts. “Trust me, whatever he wants, it’s strictly business.”

Thank goodness Robbie is headed back our way.

“Robbie,” I trill. “Be a love and keep Lizzie company for a bit, would you? Boss man beckons.”

He grins. “Sure thing.”

I shoot him a grateful look before squaring my shoulders and striding toward McLaren.

“Gemma,” he greets curtly.

“Liam, hi. Having a good time?”

“It has its moments.” His eyes flicker over the rowdy crowd before settling back on me. “And you? You don’t seem to be fully embracing the party spirit.”

I aim for a casual shrug, but it feels stiff. “I’m having a splendid time, thanks.”

The corner of his mouth quirks up. “Splendid? Come now, Gemma. You’re allowed to let loose a little outside the office. I won’t hold it against you.”

“I’ll be sure to keep that in mind,” I retort, unsettled by this newfound playfulness.

He jerks his chin toward the private bar area. “Join me in the Executive Lounge for a drink.”

I glance back at Lizzie and Robbie, silently begging the latter to somehow keep the former in check if I leave them unsupervised.

When I turn back, Liam’s gaze is fixed on me, his patience visibly waning.

“Unless you’d prefer not to?” His tone makes it clear that it’s less a question and more a thinly veiled demand wrapped in a flimsy veneer of choice.

The Executive Lounge is the pretentiously named private bar reserved strictly for the executive team and their hand-picked guests. I’ve only been summoned a handful of times before, always for work stuff. Never alone with Liam.

“Of course I’ll join you,” I say, bracing myself for another thrilling lecture on the many ways I’m screwing up the recruitment campaign. “Is there a work matter you wanted to discuss?”

Liam regards me for a long moment, his expression giving nothing away. It’s like trying to read a brick wall. A very attractive, very imposing brick wall.

“Can’t I simply enjoy a drink with my brilliant head of HR?”

I blink. “With all due respect, I don’t know whether you’re being serious or sarcastic right now.”

“I assure you, I’m serious. I’d very much like for you to join me for a drink.”

“Okay.” I pause, glancing at Lizzie, who’s subtly excavating her thong from the depths of her ass crack, and sigh. “Sure.”

He pivots on his heel and stalks toward the private bar, not even bothering to check if I’m following.

I hover awkwardly for a moment, giving Janet from Legal a weird smile-and-nod, then doing the same for that hot guy from IT whose name I can never remember. After what feels like an eternity, I finally move, trailing after Liam. Not like I have much of a choice.

As I head in, the bartender slips out of the bar, giving me a quick nod. I swallow hard. Did Liam ask him to leave?

The Executive Lounge is empty except for us. The room is all moody lighting, plush couches, and the faint, lingering scent of cigars. Sultry jazz oozes from the speakers, like it’s trying to seduce me.

It’s not like I’ve never been alone with him before. We’ve had countless one-on-one meetings. But there’s something about this clandestine bar vibe and the distinct lack of a desk or conference table between us that has me jittery. I feel like I’ve forgotten how to perform basic human functions like standing or breathing.

To my shock, Liam strides behind the bar, rolling up his sleeves with practiced ease. “What’s your poison?” he asks, his eyes roving over the top-shelf booze.

“You moonlighting as a bartender now?” I quip, trying to mask my sudden nervousness.

He’s already lining up an impressive array of spirits. “Picked up a trick or two in my pre-finance days.”

“Surprise me then.”

“All right. A fan of whisky, are you?”

“Only if it’s the good stuff.”

He chuckles. “I assure you, my taste is impeccable.”

“I never doubted that for a second.”

What in the ever-loving fuck is happening right now?

“Why don’t you get comfortable?” He nods toward a sleek leather sofa.

Comfortable might be a tad optimistic, but I perch myself on the very edge of it, trying to project an air of unflappable poise while Liam busies himself behind the impressively stocked bar.

He sets two tumblers down with a decisive clink. “This was voted the best whisky in the world last year. Hails from a distillery on the Isle of Skye.”

“Thanks.” I raise the glass for an experimental sip, needing the liquid fortification. Then immediately choke and splutter like I’ve just been punched in the throat by a fist made of pure ethanol. “That’s strong!”

“All right there?”

I nod frantically, trying to blink away the reflexive tears stinging my eyes. “Fine, I’m fine. I’m just not much of a whisky connoisseur. I couldn’t tell you if that was good or bad, but I know it’s burning me.”

He chuckles. “Give it a moment. Let it breathe. You’ll detect notes of crisp apple.”

“I can’t taste anything now my esophagus is melting.”

“I won’t tell my brother that. This particular malt is the pride and joy of his distillery.” He settles back against the sofa, his large thighs spreading in a relaxed sprawl as he takes a slow, maddeningly refined sip of his own drink.

I vaguely know about his younger brother by three years, Patrick McLaren, who owns a few hotels in the UK. Only because I went down a McLaren rabbithole one evening.

Turns out, Lucifer does have family. Obscenely attractive family, at that.

“Patrick’s opening a hotel on the Isle of Skye, right?”

Patrick McLaren is bloody gorgeous. The Scottish Isle of Skye has approximately twelve thousand people despite being the size of Manhattan. I guarantee every single woman on that island is conveniently waiting for that hotel to open. Practicing their “Oh, I just happened to be walking by” faces in the mirror.

“He is. Construction is nearing completion.”

“Have you been? I’ve always wanted to travel around Scotland.”

“I have and it’s breathtaking. Maybe you should take a holiday soon. See for yourself.” His statement seems weirdly loaded. For the thousandth time, I wonder what his angle is here.

I shift in my seat, trying to find a comfortable position on the soft leather. I take another sip of the whisky, chasing those elusive apples, and try not to grimace as it sears a fiery path down my throat.

“Relax, Gemma,” he rumbles. “You seem tense. Almost as if you’re not enjoying my company.”

I stiffen at his mocking tone. “Of course I enjoy your company.”

“Do you now?” That shark-like smile again, all gleaming teeth and predatory intent. He leans in closer, his cologne surrounding me. “Are you quite certain about that, Miss Jones?”

I blink rapidly, stalling with another burning sip of my drink as my heart kicks up a nervous gallop. “What’s this about?”

His smirk widens as he settles back. “Funny thing, that. Your diary tells a rather different story about your feelings toward me.”

Icy tendrils of fear slither up my spine. “What?” I croak out.

What diary? What feelings? What fresh hell is this?

“You didn’t realize you’d shared it with me?” He tsks, shaking his head in mock disappointment. “I must say, I’m shocked at such a glaring oversight. Especially from you.”

Terror clogs my throat. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“The diary, Gemma. Where you chronicle all your precious thoughts about the company.” His eyes narrow to slits, glinting dangerously in the low light. “And about me. What was it you called me again?”

I swallow hard, trying to get my voice back. “A . . . visionary leader?”

He lets out a harsh, humorless chuckle. “No, try again. It was something a bit more colorful.” He pauses, clearly enjoying this. “Ah, yes. A ‘tyrannical, control-freak, big swinging dick,’ I believe.”

His gaze drops pointedly to his tie, then back up to brand me with its intensity. “Tell me, is this the tie you imagined strangling me with?”

I gape at him, frozen. Not breathing. Not blinking. Is this what a stroke feels like? An aneurysm? Surely my head can’t contain this level of horror without exploding.

“I . . . I don’t understand,” I finally rasp. “No. I couldn’t have . . .”

That slow smile of his is the cruelest thing I’ve ever seen. “And yet, here we are.”

With trembling hands, I dig through my bag for my work phone, navigating to the shared folders with numb fingers. The harsh, choked sound that is ripped from me as I see it there, glaring back at me, is barely human.

“That was a mistake!” I blurt out. “It was just . . . a joke!”

“A joke?” He arches a brow. “For my amusement, I assume? Did you intend for me to find it funny?”

I swallow hard, fighting back the urge to be violently ill right here. There’s no coming back from this career-annihilating disaster. “No, no, a private joke. For myself. I thought I’d saved it locally. I must have uploaded it to the remote server by mistake. Just a stupid IT blunder!”

He regards me through narrowed eyes. “Ah, I see. A simple mix-up, was it, Gemma? Just like the cat feces you so thoughtfully left on my desk?”

“Y-yeah, let’s go with that,” I squeak, hating how pathetic I sound. Fuck my life, this is it. My worst nightmare playing out in real-time, just like Lizzie and I were talking about the other day.

In a desperate attempt to salvage the situation, I hear myself say, “Some might consider ‘big swinging dick’ a compliment.”

“I’m touched. Truly,” Liam drawls, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “Although somehow I don’t think you were trying to compliment the size and swing of my cock when you typed out that little gem.”

I didn’t think it possible for my face to flame any hotter, but here we are.

He studies me intently, his dark eyes boring into mine, seeing straight through me. Into me. Like he knows all my filthy secrets.

Because he fucking does.

I think I might break down and sob, right here, in front of Liam McLaren. My boss and the unwitting star of my most scathing diary entries.

“Did you bring me in here to fire me, then?” I whisper, my voice cracking. Might as well rip the Band-Aid off and get this over with.

“Oh, I should absolutely fire your ass.”

In that moment, I know everything I’ve worked for—my professional reputation, my tireless work ethic—has been demolished. Obliterated by my own careless mistake.

I’m fired. I’m so fucking fired.

“Or, at the very least punish you.”

A shiver races down my spine at his implied threat as he continues. “Perhaps I’m feeling generous today. Or maybe I’m just too entertained by this glimpse into your depraved psyche to cut you loose. Either way, I’m not going to give you the axe. Not tonight, at least.”

Not tonight. The unspoken implication hangs heavy in the air between us.

But it doesn’t matter. Fired or not, I can’t live with this. It’s too mortifying. I’ll have to resign immediately.

I squirm in my seat, palms slick with sweat as a sudden, gut-churning realization bitch-slaps me across the face. One of my entries this week . . . oh . . . god . . .

I would rather he fire me right here, right now, than have him read that particular passage. Because there’s no way I can ever look him in the eye again. Not after that. I’ll have to flee to the Himalayas with the ex-marketing head, where no one has ever heard of Liam McLaren or Gemma Jones.

“Did you . . .” I swallow convulsively. “Did you read all of the entries?”

Liam’s grin is positively wolfish. “I did.”

“Oh god,” I moan, burying my face in my hands as I rock back and forth, wishing the plush leather would open up and swallow me whole. “Oh god oh god oh god.” I legitimately think I might vomit, faint, or shit myself. Right here, in the Executive Lounge.

McLaren has read every single sordid, cringeworthy detail about me furiously rubbing one out while fantasizing about him.

About HIM.

I want to evaporate into a cloud of mortified vapor. My career at Ashbury Thornton is utterly shagged, the coffin nail well and truly battered in.

“You knew it was personal,” I blurt out, anger momentarily overriding the dread churning in my gut. “You knew that entry was shared by mistake. But you didn’t tell me, didn’t flag it. You just kept reading, letting me embarrass myself in the most unprofessional way imaginable. How could you do that?”

He arches a brow. “Are you seriously trying to take the moral high ground here, Gemma? Are you actually attempting to scold me right now?”

I jut my chin out. “What you did was unethical. Continuing to read my private thoughts, then toying with me like this.”

“Is that so?” he drawls, his eyes sparking with that dangerous glint I know all too well. The one that says he’s seconds away from snapping his leash and going full-on alpha wolf.

But I don’t even care anymore. I’m beyond caring.

I’m exhausted. Barely sleeping, hardly eating, thanks to his never-ending demands. I’ve been dancing like a monkey for McLaren’s approval for years now.

Finally, it’s over. And I feel sweet, easy relief.

“You know what?” My voice is remarkably steady as I set my glass down. “Screw you. I quit.” I shove upright. “Enjoy the rest of your party, Mr. McLaren. I’m clearing out my desk.”