Love to Loathe Him: A Billionaire Office Romance
Love to Loathe Him: Chapter 44

The rocking of my sailboat doesn’t even come close to matching the storm inside me.

I glare at the laptop screen, Gemma’s “dear diary” entry taunting me with every word. Talk about a parting gift. I almost preferred the cat shit on my desk.

The rain’s coming down like god’s own personal shower, pissing all over me. Even with its top-of-the-line waterproof cover, the laptop’s got minutes before it’s as fucked as my mood.

I should go inside. But I don’t. I’m soaked to the bone, my clothes clinging to me, and I barely feel it. Hell, part of me likes it. It feels good to let the rain beat me.

Water drips from my hair, plastering it to my forehead. I can taste the salt on my lips.

Despite myself, a harsh laugh tears from my throat at her parting shot. Cheers, and go fuck yourself. That’s my Gemma, all right, always with the razor-sharp tongue. Even when she’s gutting me, she does it with style. I’d applaud if I wasn’t too busy rotting in my own bad mood.

I read her words again and with each line, my irritation grows.

I never lied to her. I might be a bastard in a dozen other ways—a hard-ass, demanding, always pushing for perfection—but I’m no liar. I don’t make promises I can’t keep. From day one, I was straight with her, no bullshit.

Well, almost. There was one lie. I told her the coffee carts were getting an upgrade when, really, Jimmy had slipped up and was back in rehab—the reason he got involved in the charity in the first place. I handled it. Paid for the best rehab money could buy, made sure he was taken care of because I knew she cared about him. Maybe I should’ve come clean, told her what was really going on, but I didn’t want her carrying that weight at work. So yeah, I bent the truth, but it wasn’t about deceiving her. It was about protecting her. I would have told her eventually but in a safer place for her.

Now she claims she was falling in love with me. Is she trying to fuck with my head? Because in my world, you don’t betray the people you love. I’ve had enough backstabbing to last a lifetime. I don’t need another knife in my back.

The truth? I was the one falling for her. Hard. Harder than I’ve ever fallen for anyone. And look where that got me.

I tried to do right by her. I met her challenge; I found a way to keep the charities going. But it still wasn’t enough.

My fist slams into the deck before I can stop myself, the same deck I spent hours meticulously scrubbing this morning. Pain rockets up my arm, sharp and biting, but I welcome it. I fucking embrace it. Physical pain is a hell of a lot easier to deal with than the emotional shitstorm raging inside me.

This is why I don’t do relationships. Because the moment you let someone past your defenses, the second you show a hint of vulnerability, they use it against you. They drive the knife in deep and then walk away, leaving you to bleed out on the deck of your own damn yacht.

Mum shipping us off to boarding school the minute that bastard snapped his fingers. Alastair, always scheming, looking for ways to knock me down. Whitmore, making me jump through hoops like some trained monkey, only to walk away in the end.

And Gemma . . .

They tell you you’re a piece of shit when you’re poor, that you’re not good enough, not worthy of their time or attention. Then you go and make something of yourself, and they hate you for that, too. Can’t win for losing.

“Fuck!” The word tears out of me, loud enough to cut through the rain. Some girl on the dock jumps like a startled deer. “Sorry,” I grunt, not really caring if she hears me.

I’ve got to get out on the water, burn off this rage before it consumes me. The rain’s pelting down, but I don’t care. If anything, I wish it’d hit me harder.

The Solent Coastguard issued a storm warning this morning—something about a system coming in off the North Atlantic. The smart move would be to wait it out, but right now, I’m not feeling particularly smart.

As I prep the boat, my mind keeps circling back to that one line in her letter: I’m going to Costa Rica for a very long time.

What the hell does that even mean? How long is “very long”? And why Costa Rica? It’s not the usual tax haven my retirees choose. Cayman Islands, sure. But Costa Rica?

Is she moving there permanently? Is she running away from me?

She’s left me. She fucking left me. Just up and left after I trusted her, let her in. And now, she’s gone.

I yank on the halyard with enough force to hear Skipper Magee’s voice in my head, chewing me out. The mainsail unfurls with a satisfying snap. The familiar motions ground me, give me something to focus on other than the clusterfuck in my head.

VHF radio? Check. Jib sheets? Secured. Halyards? Clear. Everything’s shipshape, as the old man would say.

I grab the skipper’s ratty hat, the one with the faded albatross emblem that’s seen better days. Jamming it on my head, I let out a humorless chuckle. Maybe some of the hat’s supposed luck will rub off on me, like he always claimed it would. Not that I believe in that superstitious bullshit.

The engine roars to life under my hand, the vibrations surging up my arm and straight into my chest. As I steer out of the marina, I can feel the chop in the water—waves slapping against the hull, more aggressive than usual. The wind’s picking up too, whipping my hair into my eyes.

But I don’t give a damn. Let the sea rage.

Once I’m clear of the harbor, I kill the engine and let the wind take over. The sails fill, and the boat heels over, the raw power of the elements coursing through me. This is what I need. This wildness, this unpredictability.

Out of nowhere, an image of Gemma on this boat just a few weeks ago hits me. Laughing as her beautiful red hair flew about. Now that hair is probably swaying in the Costa Rican breeze, mocking me from across the ocean.

The memory sends a fresh wave of pain through me. I grit my teeth, focusing instead on the task at hand.

I need to adjust the sails before we’re blown halfway to the Channel Islands. As I move across the pitching deck, a vicious wave crashes over the bow, the icy water hitting me like a full-body slap. For a split second, I think about turning back. The storm’s building faster than I anticipated, and this is getting dangerous.

I finish reefing the sail and make my way back to the helm. The wind’s a beast now, the waves crashing like they’re trying to take me down. It’s exhilarating and terrifying all at once.

Just like falling in love with Gemma was.

That thought blindsides me, and I nearly lose my grip on the wheel. Love? Is that what this is? Yeah, it’s love, all right. That’s why it hurts like hell—why it feels like she carved out my still-beating heart and took it with her to fucking Costa fucking Rica.

The boat lurches violently, and this time, I lose my footing. I slam hard into the side of the cockpit, pain exploding in my shoulder as something pops with a sickening crack. The damn hat—the one I swore would bring me luck—flies off my head. I’ve already fished it out of the sea once. As it rolls around the cockpit, I lean over to grab it and slip.

“You asshole,” I groan, the words torn away by the wind as soon as they leave my lips.

Then everything goes black.