Love to Loathe Him: A Billionaire Office Romance
Love to Loathe Him: Chapter 19

It’s been a week since I introduced Liam’s jaw to my fist—a moment I’ll cherish forever. Sure, HR frowns upon violence in the workplace, but come on, the man had it coming.

Since then, all week, I’ve been buried up to my eyeballs in work, helping the team with the acquisition bid. And surprisingly, despite the extra workload, I’ve been enjoying it. Two new hires joined the HR team this week, which has been a big help.

Some of my HR skills are proving useful here. I’ve been reviewing TLS’s current HR practices, policies, and procedures to identify areas that may need alignment with Ashbury Thornton’s HR framework post-acquisition. I’ve also been assisting with the organizational restructuring plans, which were major concerns for Sir Whitmore’s team.

So, all in all, telling my boss he’s an insufferable prick and confessing that I occasionally diddle myself to his corporate headshot has its perks.

And I’m so, so close to bringing Kim Hye-jin on the team. She’s practically in, just giving the paperwork one last look-over. She’s going to be an incredible addition to our group. It wasn’t easy in the lead-up to the interview—there were late-night video calls, a lot of persuasion, and the promise of a corner office with a view—but she finally saw the light.

I’m especially proud of this one. She started out firm, insisting she was content at her current job and would never relocate. But here we are.

And now on this bright and ungodly early Saturday morning, we’ve got the TLS charity weekend regatta. Part of my grand scheme to make Liam look less like Satan’s favorite son in Sir Whitmore’s eyes. I’m flying by the seat of my pants here. I don’t know how it’s going to go.

The port is already bustling with people who look like they’ve just stepped out of a sailing fashion magazine as Robbie and I make our way across the docks.

“Please let this be fun and not weird,” I groan to Robbie as we near the bobbing boats.

Fifty vessels are lined up to race from Southampton to the Isle of Wight, and three of them belong to Ashbury Thornton. I can already feel the competitive tension in the air.

Robbie grins that infuriatingly calm grin of his. “What could possibly go wrong?”

“Umm, someone ‘accidentally’ pushes a colleague overboard?”

“Relax.” Robbie slings a reassuring arm around my shoulders, giving me a squeeze. “No one’s going overboard. Look at those beefy guys—we’re in good hands.”

I glance around, and holy hell, we really are in good hands. And arms. Abs too, by the looks of it. Everywhere I look there are tanned, toned guys doing manly things with ropes and rigging.

Maybe I can kill two birds with one stone here. Maybe we can charm the Whitmores, and I’ll meet a hot guy who can teach me a thing or two about knots. The thought never crossed my mind before, but as I ogle these prime specimens of manhood, I realize I’ve been missing out on a whole world of non-finance totty . . . a world of saucy seamen on the English southeast coast.

Lizzie would be having a field day down here. But she’s at home with Winnie and I pray they’re both behaving themselves.

And of course, there are a few more weathered ones who look like they’ve been around the block a few times.

“Close your mouth there, you’re drooling.” Robbie elbows me not-so-gently in the ribs to break me out of my lustful sailorman reverie.

“I’m simply observing their techniques,” I say haughtily, but I can’t hide my smile. Not that I can do anything but look . . . I’m still HR. Technically I’m working.

“Do you have any sailing experience?” I ask Robbie.

“Oh yeah, loads,” he deadpans. “I went on a boozy catamaran cruise in Ibiza. I plan to put all that vast nautical expertise to good use today. As in, ten a.m. is prime day-drinking time on a boat, yeah?”

I laugh, slightly nervous. Liam always makes sure our team wins this stupid annual race, which is why jokers like Robbie weren’t allowed to join before. I’m not sure how he’ll react if we don’t come first again this year . . .

The laughter dies in my throat as I spot Liam talking intently to an old sailor who looks like he personally witnessed the Titanic sinking. The guy’s got a cigarette dangling precariously from his mouth, ash threatening to drop onto his weathered gear at any moment.

Liam, on the other hand, is rocking a navy tee that clings to his muscular torso, paired with eye-scorchingly bright yellow sailing pants that should look ridiculous but somehow just . . . work on him. It’s a far cry from his usual sharp suits.

As he gestures toward the boat, the muscles in his shoulders and arms ripple and flex beneath the casual fabric. The whole rugged, nautical look is doing dangerously tingly things to my lady bits that I’m not entirely comfortable with. Those forearms with their bulging veins and taut muscles are too much.

I recognize the two other guys with him—they do contract work for us but aren’t officially on Ashbury Thornton’s payroll. They’re serious sailors. One of them even tackled Cape Horn a few months ago, which is apparently a big deal in the sailing world. This is why Ashbury Thornton always wins these regattas.

As I stroll past a sleek-looking boat, I spot Alastair on board, looking every inch the dashing high society sailor in his crisp white polo shirt and shorts. He waves, and I flash a big smile, waving back. I knew he’d show up in person.

I spot Sir Whitmore emerging from a harborside hut, accompanied by a younger guy. Brilliant timing.

“Back in a sec, Robbie,” I mutter as I stride over to him before anyone else can swoop in.

“Good morning, Sir.” I beam with probably too much forced enthusiasm.

Sir Whitmore looks at me for a moment, his brow furrowed in confusion, before recognition dawns on his face. “Ah, Gemma. How lovely to see you again. You’re sailing today?”

“I am.” I nod enthusiastically. “Are you?”

Sir Whitmore chuckles indulgently. “I’m afraid I’ll be leaving the sailing to you sprightly young folks. I’ll be taking a speedboat over to the other side to await your triumphant arrival.”

“At least one of us will make it there alive. Can I do that instead?”

He chuckles again but I’m not really joking.

He gestures to the fresh-faced lad beside him, who looks like he’s barely old enough to shave. “Allow me to introduce my grandson, Maximilian.”

“I see the handsome family resemblance,” I gush, reveling in how both their eyes crease in delight at the transparent flattery. A well-aimed ego stroke is the fastest way to a man’s heart, no matter his age.

Shifting my weight awkwardly from foot to foot, I add, “Look, I wanted to say thank you. I feel awful about what I said at the coffee cart. I’m so embarrassed.”

He puts a hand lightly on my arm. “It’s fine. It gave me quite a laugh when I got over the shock.”

“Liam would not be happy if he knew. You really were a gentleman not ratting me out.”

“It’s our secret, Gemma. And between us, you’re not wrong about the coffee. It’s just we need to keep costs down.”

I smile sympathetically, the tension easing from my shoulders. Sir Whitmore’s eyes twinkle as he asks, “Tell me, have you participated in one of our sailing soirées before?”

“Nope. I’m an absolute novice,” I admit with a self-deprecating laugh. “I’ve never so much as set foot on a real sailing vessel before today. How seriously do we need to take all this, Sir?”

“I simply want you all to have fun and enjoy yourselves,” he assures me. “Perhaps make some new acquaintances, learn a bit more about our charitable initiatives, that sort of thing.”

“Oh, thank goodness.” I’m flooded with genuine relief. “That I can do. In my head I was picturing this event as more of a hair-blowing-in-the-breeze shampoo commercial. You know, with me lounging about on the deck.”

Both Sir Whitmore and Maximilian laugh, and I mentally high-five myself. “But now that I’m here,” I continue cheerfully. “With everyone yelling and scurrying to get the boats ready, ropes and nautical doodahs flying everywhere, I’m really nervous.”

“You’ll be fine, my dear,” Sir Whitmore assures me, still chuckling. “All the captains are seasoned professionals. It’s about team building and raising money for charity. Try to have some fun.” His wrinkled smile takes on a slightly tense edge. “Although I don’t doubt your dedicated boss will be aiming to win yet again.”

“Liam is certainly . . . passionate about his pursuits,” I reply carefully.

“He’s very nearly a professional-level sailor himself these days, from what I’ve seen.” Sir Whitmore’s smile tightens. “And he always has his boat crewed by near-professionals as well.”

It’s obvious from his tone it isn’t a compliment. He thinks Liam’s a giant asshole for stacking the deck to ensure Ashbury Thornton’s victory every year. But credit where credit’s due. It does show Liam’s tenacity.

And my heart skips a beat at that truth because Liam is going to be pissed if I fuck this up for him and cost him his precious winning streak.

“As you said, Sir, this isn’t about winning,” I say quickly, trying to steer the conversation back to safer waters. Bad pun intended. “These top companies win at life every single day. This is about supporting an incredible charity.”

“Young Maximilian here did a spot of work experience at one of the carts last week,” Sir Whitmore boasts, clapping his now bored-looking grandson on the shoulder.

“That’s fantastic.” I beam at Maximilian. An idea pops into my head. “Hey, if you ever fancy getting some work experience at a private equity firm, you just give me a ring. We’d be delighted to have you.”

Sir Whitmore coughs awkwardly. Clearly, the idea of his grandson rubbing elbows with the capitalist sharks at Ashbury Thornton isn’t going down well.

“Are you sailing today, Maximilian?” I ask, sensing it’s time to change the subject yet again. Every time I veer near Liam or his company the vein in Sir Whitmore’s forehead seems to pump more blood.

“Yeah,” the teenager says, nodding eagerly.

Sir Whitmore squeezes his grandson’s shoulder, his face softening with affection. “I want Max to have the full experience, to really understand what this event is all about.”

Another idea pops into my head, and before I can think better of it, the words are tumbling out of my mouth. “He can join our boat! You can keep me company, Max.”

The fresh-faced teen visibly perks up at that. I think he might have a bit of a crush. Either that, or he’s just really excited about the prospect of hanging out with someone under the age of seventy.

“Which is yours?” Sir Whitmore asks, his brow furrowing slightly.

“Liam’s,” I say breezily.

Lies. Liam did not put me on his winning boat. I’m supposed to be on the boat with the normal people. The non-sailing, non-competitive, non-Liam-approved people like Robbie. “I’ll look after him, Sir. I promise.”

Sir Whitmore scoffs, his bushy eyebrows rising. “I doubt your esteemed boss would agree to have an inexperienced lad aboard his competitive crew.”

Maximilian’s face falls.

“No! Liam would love to have Max with us,” I insist, my voice a little too loud, a little too eager. “He’s a big believer in mentorship.”

Maximilian eyes me, a hopeful glint in his eye. “I’ll go on your boat,” he says, and he blushes.

Oh lord.

Sir Whitmore looks torn, shooting me an assessing glance. “Skipper Magee is an excellent sailor, as is Liam. He’ll ensure nothing untoward happens to you while you’re aboard, at the very least.”

Sir Whitmore thinks Liam’s a prick, but not a murderer. Too bad Liam might kill me for this stunt.

“Great! We’ll see you on the other side.”

I approach Liam with Max in tow, trying not to drool as he stands beside the yacht holding a crate of water bottles, looking like he just stepped off the cover of “Rugged Sea Daddy Monthly.”

“Give me a sec,” I murmur to Max before turning my attention to Liam. “Morning. Great weather for sailing, right?”

Not that I have a clue.

“The conditions are ideal,” he agrees, surveying the bobbing fleet with a critical eye. “Though the winds are a bit more aggressive than we’d prefer.” He jerks his chin toward the old guy next to him. “Allow me to introduce Skipper Magee—he’ll be captaining my boat today.”

He says the man’s name with a reverence that I’ve never witnessed Liam give anyone before. To my shock, he even flashes the guy a boyish grin, as though they’re old pals.

Skipper Magee grunts what I assume is a greeting, seemingly unfazed by the ashes drifting from his cigarette onto his clothing.

“You’re not the captain then?” I can’t help but smirk at Liam. Not that I know the sailing pecking order. “Does that make you the subordinate for a change?”

“That’s right. I’m just the lowly second mate.” He gives Skipper Magee a friendly slap on the back that shakes more ashes loose onto the skipper’s already stained clothes. The old guy doesn’t even flinch, evidently used to being covered in all sorts of sea debris.

“I never thought I’d see the day you willingly take orders from someone else,” I tease, my voice dripping with mock disbelief. “It must be painful for you.”

“Just because I demand a certain level of respect in the office doesn’t mean I can’t recognize when it’s time to defer to someone else’s expertise,” he counters dryly.

“Well, it’s great you’re in that mindset today. Because there’s been a change of plan.” I nod over to Max, who’s chatting animatedly with a new arrival, looking like an overexcited puppy. “Max and I are hitching a ride on your boat. You can swap out two of your other crew members.”

“What? Who is this kid?”

“Sir Whitmore’s grandson.”

“The kid looks like he can’t wipe his own ass, never mind handle a sailboat,” Liam scoffs, his lip curling in disdain, eyes raking over Max. “Not a chance.”

“It’s his grandson, Liam. He’s coming with us. This is a good opportunity to show your charming side.” I give him my most winning smile, batting my lashes for good measure.

“I don’t need to show my charming side to some privileged rich kid who has no business being out on the water with us,” Liam growls, his eyes flashing with annoyance. “He’s got nothing to do with these negotiations.”

“His grandfather loves him. And his grandfather is the one we’re trying to win over.”

Liam growls again, actually growls, like a feral animal.

“I know you hate losing—”

“I won’t fucking lose.” He exhales harshly, his nostrils flaring as he eyes the grandson.

“It’s just a friendly race for charity, remember? Not the Oxford-Cambridge Boat Race,” I say, name-dropping the one race I know.

“For fuck’s sake.”

“Is that a yes?” I ask, holding my breath.

“Do I have a choice?”

“Not really, no,” I say, my voice sweet. “And if things go completely sideways out there, you can always just toss me overboard instead?”

He stares at me for a long, tense moment. “Don’t tempt me, Gemma.”

Shit. He’s not kidding. He looks like he’s about two seconds away from hoisting me over his shoulder and dunking me into the sea.

Eyes bouncing to the hefty crate Liam is cradling like it weighs nothing, I make a feeble attempt to be useful. “Is there anything I should be doing to help? I could take one of those to the boats?”

He glances down at me, then at the bottles that must weigh a good thirty pounds each, trying not to smirk. “I think I’ve got it covered, thanks.”

I huff out a self-deprecating laugh. “Okay, maybe not.” Am I going to be dead weight on this whole trip?

“Just go get changed,” he grumbles, already turning away. “And tell the kid to hurry up. We haven’t got all bloody day to be pissing about.”

“Aye aye, captain,” I mutter under my breath.

Alarm flashes through my head. My hips do not suit big yellow trousers.

Fifteen minutes later, I emerge from the changing rooms looking like Big Bird’s cousin in my bright yellow trousers.

I hoist my overnight bag onto my shoulder and grab Max, who’s practically vibrating with excitement. “You ready?”

He nods eagerly, following after me to the boats.

I spot Liam’s boat, a sleek beauty called Rán. I can’t help but wonder if it’s named after an actual woman, but that would require Liam to have emotions beyond “angry” and “absolutely fuming.”

“So, uh . . . how exactly do we get onto our boats?” I frown, squinting at the bobbing vessels and trying to spot a ramp or gangway that doesn’t require acrobatic skills.

“We walk across the other boats,” Max says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

My eyes bug out of my head. “Is that . . . safe? Some of those gaps look wide.”

He shrugs, already stepping onto the first boat. “I guess so.”

I watch as Max hops from boat to boat, navigating the gaps with ease.

Taking a deep breath, I step onto the neighboring boat, my legs only slightly wobbly as I find my footing on the rocking deck. So far, so good.

The next boat step feels more precarious, but still doable. Maybe this won’t be so bad after—

Famous last words.

Just as I’m starting to feel a flicker of confidence, some asshole jumps onto one of the boats I’m straddling, making the vessel lurch beneath my feet. I let out a high-pitched yelp, windmilling my arms as I struggle to regain my balance. My overnight bag slips off my shoulder, threatening to take a swim.

This is it. This is how I die. My lady bits torn apart as I straddle two boats like some kind of demented sea cowgirl. Right in front of my colleagues.

“You okay, Gemma?” Max calls back, even though I’m clearly as far from okay as humanly possible. He turns to come back to me, rocking the boat even more.

“Don’t you dare come near me!” I yell, flapping my arms. I’m going in, and I’m causing a major scene in the process.

Liam glances up from his boat, about six vessels away, his brow furrowed.

Before I can process what’s happening, he’s striding across the boats like some kind of seafaring Terminator, his movements fluid and graceful.

In one smooth motion, he scoops me up by the legs and carries me across the remaining boats, depositing me onto Rán with a mere grunt of exertion.

I land in a heap, mortified, as the rest of the crew—the two deckhands from Accounts, Max, and even Skipper Magee—all turn to watch the spectacle. Even Max is smirking, the teenage shit.

“Thanks,” I mutter, smoothing down my hideous yellow trousers, trying to salvage some shred of dignity from this embarrassing ordeal.

Skipper Magee looks at me like I’m a useless piece of seaweed that’s washed up on his deck. Which he’s not entirely wrong about.

“Sorry for shouting, Max.” I let out a tight laugh.

He grins. “No worries.”

“Listen up!” Skipper Magee shouts around the cigarette dangling from his mouth. “I’m in command of this boat and responsible for the crew. You do as I say at all times, no questions asked. Liam is my second-in-command. He takes charge if I’m unavailable.”

“When would you be unavailable?” I ask.

“In the event I die,” he says without missing a beat.

I blink, waiting for the punchline, but he doesn’t laugh. Okay then.

“You’ll all be supporting each other, you hear?” he continues, his raspy voice booming over the sound of the boat’s engine. “I don’t tolerate any freeloaders on my boats. You’ll be rotating through the jobs, and you’ll be working hard—no slacking on my watch.” He jabs a gnarled finger in our direction. “You’ll stay alert and keep your wits about you at all times.”

For the next twenty minutes, he barks sailing jargon at us. All with the same cigarette dangling from his mouth. If it hadn’t already gone out, I’d half expect him to put it out on someone’s forehead for not paying attention.

I swallow hard, my palms starting to sweat. I feel like I’m in the bloody Navy here. “This is pretty technical,” I say to Liam.

He looks down at me, his eyes hard and unreadable. “You’re the one who wanted to play sailor for a day. Time to see if you can hack it.”

I gulp. Bring it on, sailor boy.