Love to Loathe Him: A Billionaire Office Romance
Love to Loathe Him: Chapter 37

I knew it. Monday rolls around, and just like that, relentless Liam is back. My easygoing fisherman? Gone.

The next few days are all business, as expected. We’re back in professional mode, and the tension is so high you could cut it with a tie clip. We’re working on the TLS bid, which is not as over the line as the hotshots thought. All week I’ve resisted the urge to gloat. It would be unbecoming. Unprofessional. Ollie is palming off the delays as “business as usual.”

I push open the door with my bag of shopping, the weight of the week already starting to lift from my shoulders. It’s a relief that it’s Thursday, with only one more day left at work before the weekend.

Winnie saunters over.

“Hey, Winnie poo,” I coo, bending down to pet her. “How’s your day been? Long week, right? Wanna relax tonight? Maybe open some wine and gossip about work and Tabby like we’re on ‘Real Housewives of Cat Lady Lane’?”

She meows in response, a sound that could either mean “Yes, absolutely,” or “You’re a disgrace to the human race.” She hops up onto the kitchen island, curling up like a fluffy little loaf.

“You know you’re not supposed to be up there, you rascal,” I scold, wagging a finger at her, but my attention is quickly drawn to something beside her. A parcel, sitting innocently on the table. Lizzie must’ve brought it in while I was out.

“What’s this?” I ask Winnie.

I examine the package, trying to remember if I’ve made any impulsive online purchases lately. It’s got my name on it. Probably a useless contraption I bought after a glass of wine. Maybe something to shape my ass into something resembling Jennifer Lopez’s.

I grab a pair of scissors and cut through the cardboard, unwrapping the mysterious item. Winnie “helps” by pushing her toebeans through the wrapping, her claws snagging on the paper. “Yes, very helpful,” I mutter, gently extracting her paw.

And hold up . . . a wetsuit? Weird. Unless I’ve been sleep-ordering scuba gear, this is not something I remember buying.

I eye Winnie suspiciously. “Did you order this?”

She blinks at me innocently, probably wondering how she ended up with such a dim-witted human who can’t remember her own shopping habits.

I check the delivery details: From Liam. No kiss, no explanation. But it feels oddly sweet, even though I’m still trying to wrap my head around why he’s sending me a wetsuit of all things.

I hold it up against my body, admiring the sleek blue material that’s sure to accentuate every lump and bump. Winnie meows in secondhand embarrassment.

A bubble of excitement starts to fizz in my belly. Over a wetsuit I didn’t know I needed and don’t know what I’m going to do with. I don’t even know why I’m excited. It’s not like he’s sent me a diamond necklace or a bouquet of roses.

The other women get flowers sent by Rosie. Not once has he sent me flowers. No, I get a wetsuit. While other women are arranging bouquets, I’ll be struggling into this rubber second skin. Because nothing says romance like neoprene. I can just picture the Hallmark card: “Roses are red, violets are blue, here’s a wetsuit, it’ll make your bum look good too.”

I grab my phone and dial Liam’s number. “Hey, did you mean to send me a wetsuit, or was it an accident?” I ask when he picks up.

“First of all, I don’t do anything by accident,” he replies, tone dripping with his signature arrogance. “And secondly, if I was going to do something accidentally, it wouldn’t be sending you athletic gear.”

“Okay, Mr. Grumpy,” I tease, rolling my eyes even though he can’t see me. “So why did you deliberately send me a wetsuit?”

“I thought it’d be good for you to have one, so we can actually get into the ocean next time,” he says, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “That’s assuming you can swim, of course.”

I pause, trying to ignore the way my heart skips a beat at the mention of a next time. “I can swim,” I retort, feeling the need to defend my aquatic abilities. “But, ummm, what do you mean, next time?”

He’s quiet for a beat. “Isn’t that the deal?” he finally asks. “That there’ll be a next time?”

A smile tugs at my lips. “I guess,” I say, trying to sound indifferent. “I could probably try to survive another weekend with you.”

“Good,” he says with an amusement in his tone. “How about this weekend?”

“As in tomorrow?” I ask, my voice catching.

“If you’re busy, we can reschedule.”

“No!” I blurt out, way too fast. “No, this weekend is good. I mean, I’ll have to move some things around, but yeah. Totally doable.” I’m rambling, obviously lying, and just making it worse with every word. The only thing I need to move around is Winnie from her spot on the counter.

That excitement swirling in my belly grows into something bigger, something I can’t control.

And I don’t think he can control it any more than I can. He’s feeling this too. I know he is.

“Great. I’ll pick you up at seven o’clock tomorrow night.” And he’s gone, as efficient as ever.

I hang up, turning to Winnie, who’s been silently judging me this whole time. “Don’t give me that look,” I mutter. “It’s fine, I can handle this.”

Friday morning, and I’m counting down the hours until I get to see Liam this evening. Which is ridiculous, considering he’s standing right in front of me in our management meeting.

I mean, I’m waiting until I properly get to see all of him. And I’m not just talking about his dick. I want to see the Liam who exists outside these glass walls. The one who gets excited about boats and doesn’t have his guard up all the time.

He’s wearing that damn vest, and I feel like everyone knows my dirty thoughts. And I really need to concentrate as this topic is close to my heart.

“It’s a trial,” Ollie snaps, his hand raking over his stomach, something he does when he’s agitated.

“Fine,” I say. “We assess it every three months and replan if required.” Agenda item one of our management meeting: finally getting Ollie to relent on my idea to let the new grads have a period under other, nicer managers. The deal I negotiated in the Executive Lounge with Liam.

Maybe they’ll be less traumatized, and their confidence will actually allow them to learn. That’s the issue—we lose the less confident but still equally capable grads because Ollie’s management style is about as nurturing as Saddam Hussein’s.

“It won’t make a difference, this mentorship strategy,” Ollie sneers, his face contorting in disdain. “I guarantee it.”

“Enough,” Liam warns from the head of the table, his voice sharp. “Let’s move on.”

I remind myself that I’m only here for another three to six months, and then Ollie can do whatever he wants with the new grads. That’s still the plan. What’s happening with Liam doesn’t change that.

We move on to the next agenda item—the crucial meeting with Sir Whitmore and his team. I’ll be leading it, handling their post-acquisition HR concerns. No pressure at all.

A message flashes up on my screen from our internal messaging service.

I bite my lip, heat flooding my cheeks. He did not just message me that in the middle of a management meeting. I freeze, trying not to let my face betray the way my heart is doing a little tap dance in my chest.

Subtly, I pull my laptop a bit closer, feigning intense focus on the agenda in front of me. As if I could be paying attention to anything other than the fact that my boss is propositioning me via our internal messaging system. This is hardly professional behavior.

I nod diligently at whatever Carrie is saying, doing my best to look engaged and attentive. For all I know, she could be proposing we replace all the office chairs with inflatable pool floaties.

Unable to resist, I risk a glance in Liam’s direction, and sure enough, his eyes are locked onto me. He quirks one eyebrow in a silent challenge.

I type back furiously:

I don’t dare look at him, but I can hear him typing. Could we be any more obvious?

I squirm uncomfortably in my chair, trying in vain to ignore the way my body is instinctively reacting to his words, the vivid images they’re conjuring up in my mind. This is so beyond messed up—we can’t be sexting each other, for crying out loud.

“I’m sorry, am I boring you, Gemma?” Ollie snaps, glaring at me pointedly. Shit, I vaguely registered him talking in the background, but I was so distracted I hadn’t realized he was addressing me directly. Caught red-handed—or rather, red-faced in this case.

“Sorry, can you repeat that?” I ask.

I cringe inwardly. This is so unprofessional of me. This meeting that we are discussing is important, and I’m the one who will be leading it. I need to get my head back in the game.

He sighs, the sound dripping with disdain. “If you aren’t going to be bothered listening, I don’t know why we have you in these meetings at all. Perhaps you should go back to your little HR clinic instead.”

I glower at him. It was one bloody lapse in focus—as if he’s never zoned out during one of these discussions before.

But before I can defend myself, Liam’s voice cuts through, laced with undisguised wrath. “Watch your fucking mouth,” he snarls at Ollie. “Talk to her like that again and I’ll make damn sure you regret it.”

I freeze, mildly mortified.

The room goes so quiet you could hear a pin drop, everyone clearly stunned by Liam’s outburst. And I can’t blame them. This is so far outside his usual cool, detached demeanor.

“Sorry, boss,” Ollie says, properly cowed.

I glance over at Liam, my eyes drawn to his broad chest moving with his breaths as he glares at Ollie like he’s going to rip his throat out. Memories of his weight on top of me flash through my mind, hot and vivid.

I look away quickly, my face on fire. I can’t be thinking about that right now. Not when Ollie’s eyes are narrowing in suspicion, not when everyone in the room is looking at us.

I feel exposed, like Liam just ripped off a layer of my carefully constructed armor in front of everyone.

“Ollie, you say a lot in these meetings that I could certainly do without hearing,” I mutter, surprising myself with my blunt retort.

I instantly feel a flush creeping up my neck, mortified that I’ve allowed Liam’s uncharacteristic display of protectiveness to throw me off my professional game.

“That was unprofessional,” I mutter, backtracking. “I apologize.”

But the damage is done. The curious glances of my colleagues now dart between Liam and me, no doubt wondering what on earth is going on between us.

This sure doesn’t feel like we’re compartmentalizing anymore. It’s like we’ve forgotten how to act like boss and employee in front of others.

What we’re doing is supposed to be sexual, transactional. Hot, sweaty, and uncomplicated. But while the weekend was explosively passionate, a small part of me—growing bigger by the second—is concerned. Afraid, in fact.

As much as I’d love to convince myself that this is just physical for me, I can no longer deny it. It’s not just sexual. I’m far too caught up in him, his presence far too overpowering. He’s bleeding into every corner of my thoughts, to the point where I find myself daydreaming about his handsome features during important interviews.

And that’s the terrifying part. Liam has always had too much power, but never over this aspect of me. Never over my heart. I never meant to give him that, but somehow, without me noticing, the ruthless bastard’s found a way in.

I trace a figure over the veins of his forearm, enjoying the warmth of his skin against mine. We’re lying together on his bed, the gentle rocking of the waves lulling me into a sense of peaceful relaxation. It’s been a blissfully lazy weekend filled with good seafood, coastal walks, and time out on the open water.

He bought me a wetsuit. What man buys a woman a wetsuit if it doesn’t mean something?

And I got to try it out. It’s almost as bad as the canary yellow sailing trousers. But I’d wear a potato sack if it meant more weekends like this.

Now it’s Sunday afternoon, and the impending Monday looms too quickly. I’m so content here, my head resting on Liam’s chest as it rises and falls with each breath. I run a finger over his nipple and he chuckles, gently grabbing my finger like I’ve tickled him.

I find myself staring at the little mermaid tattoo on his chest, with her long red hair cascading over the anchor.

I prop myself up on one elbow, gazing down at Liam’s handsome features as he reads from a tattered science fiction novel. “Tell me the story of your tattoo,” I murmur.

Liam doesn’t respond right away. Instead, he slowly closes his book, his gaze locking onto mine.

“She’s Rán, a Norse goddess of the sea,” he finally says. “It’s a ridiculous old sailor superstition. Legend says she controls the ocean, catches sailors in her net if they fall overboard. Having her inked on me is supposed to be some kind of protection.”

I raise a playful eyebrow at that. “You? Superstitious? That surprises me. Although you must be if your boat is named after her too.”

A self-deprecating chuckle escapes him. “It was a stupid bet with the sailing club. They thought I wouldn’t go through with it.”

Smiling, I let my fingers trace the vibrant lines of the goddess’s hair, marveling at how it stands out in contrast to the rest of the tattoo. “Her hair . . . it’s so much more vivid than the rest.”

“New ink,” he says. “Got it done a year ago.”

I pause, then state the obvious with a small smile. “She has my hair.”

A flicker of something crosses his face. “Just a coincidence,” he mutters gruffly, his gaze shifting back to his book.

I let my head fall back onto his chest, but I can’t help smiling. He might try to brush it off, but I know better. That vibrant red hair, added just a year ago? That’s no coincidence.

Liam McLaren, you’re not as unreadable as you’d like to think.