Love to Loathe Him: A Billionaire Office Romance
Love to Loathe Him: Chapter 8

An email flashes up on my screen, the dreaded signature making my stomach twist—McLaren. I simply do not have the bandwidth to deal with any more of his last-minute whims right now. The all-staff meeting is set to start in ten minutes.

I can’t believe I was nearly late this morning, all because my darling feline companion decided that for the first time in her pampered life, taking her morning poo wasn’t at the top of her priority list.

From: Liam McLaren

To: Gemma Jones

Subject: Late night?

Gemma,

Couldn’t help but notice you were burning the midnight oil last night. I hope you weren’t working too hard. Wouldn’t want you wearing yourself out before the big meeting today.

I know how dedicated you are to giving 110%, but remember, pacing is key. Can’t have you failing to finish off those critical tasks.

Liam

What critical tasks did I leave unfinished?

I glance over at the boardroom where he’s holding court with his merry band of Armani-clad vultures. This message is straight-up odd. And a whole bunch of other adjectives that I can’t quite put my finger on.

I stare at the email again, scanning it over slowly. The tone—it’s all off. Disarmingly casual for him, with his famously terse emails. Like he’s trying to banter with me. But that can’t be right. Liam McLaren doesn’t banter. He barks orders and makes grown men cry, usually at the same time.

It’s unsettling, to say the least.

Burning the midnight oil. I swallow hard.

My god, what if he somehow found out that I flicked the bean to his headshot last night? Does he have some sort of spy software installed on my laptop, monitoring my every move?

Okay, now you’re just being ridiculous.

I take a deep breath, my fingers hovering over the keyboard. Then I start to type.

From: Gemma Jones

To: Liam McLaren

Subject: re: Late night?

If your concern is whether preparations are on track for the all-staff, allow me to reassure you: the main conference room is ready, the refreshments are laid out, and your employees are already gathering to await your presence.

I can also assure you that I am more than capable of managing my own workload. Pacing has never been an issue for me.

Could you be more specific as to which important tasks you are concerned I’m not finishing?

I look forward to seeing you at the meeting. Rest assured I will be there ready to dazzle you with my usual 110%.

Best,

Gemma

There. Professional, to the point, and with only a hint of “fuck you” undertones. Exactly the kind of response he deserves.

I hit send before I can second-guess myself. I try not to look over toward the boardroom again, but it’s a losing battle. I sneak a glance and catch Liam smirking at his laptop.

As if he knows I’m watching him, his eyes meet mine through the glass. That smirk widens a fraction.

Oh shit, he’s typing.

I look away, swallowing hard.

A new email slides into my inbox.

From: Liam McLaren

To: Gemma Jones

Subject: re: re: Late night?

Gemma,

Thank you for your outstanding efforts in ensuring today’s all-staff meeting runs smoothly, despite the last-minute scheduling changes. It’s reassuring to have such a loyal, committed professional like yourself overseeing these crucial operations. One who I know truly respects my authority.

I’m glad you feel able to finish everything you’ve started, no matter how strenuous the task may seem. Nobody wants to be the reason their esteemed head of HR is losing sleep at night, completely ravaged by exhaustion. And frustration.

By the way, please have the quarterly HR reports printed and on my desk for my next meeting.

Liam

Shit!

The reports—the ones I spent all night marking up with my brilliant insights—are still sitting on my kitchen table.

I suck in a sharp breath and spring to my feet. At this point, I’m going to need to invest in a separate tote bag just for lugging around all these dropped balls.

I don’t have time to ponder the many questions swirling about that email. I’d need a year. And a team of psychologists. And probably several bottles of wine.

I glance at the huge clock on the wall, its multiple faces telling us the time in every corner of the globe. It gleefully informs me that we’re down to a mere two minutes until the quarterly all-staff. Dammit, the execs are already wrapping up their alpha huddle in the boardroom.

In a last-ditch effort to salvage the situation, I call Lizzie.

“Heya!” she singsongs when she answers. “I’m just on my way to the vet.”

“Reverse. Fucking reverse. I left some important documents at home.”

“But . . . Winnie’s poo . . .” she starts.

“Please, just go back and grab them and drop everything off here first before going to the vet? It’s the blue folder on the table.”

“Yes, ma’am! Consider it done,” she chirps.

“Lizzie,” I add sternly, memories of past organizational disasters flashing through my mind, “don’t leave the files lying around, okay? This is important.”

“As if I would, Gem!”

But she does sometimes. I love the girl to bits, but she’s disorganized. She loses her phone about once a month.

Is there ever a morning where I don’t feel like I’m teetering on the brink of cardiac arrest, or is that just my natural resting state now?

I stride into the main conference hall.

Liam’s up first.

He approaches the podium with the effortless swagger of a man who was born to dominate any room. It’s infuriating how criminally photogenic the bastard manages to look under these harsh fluorescent lights. No wonder he made the “UK’s Most Eligible Bachelors” list last year.

As he launches into the company financials, rattling off obscene figures and even more obscene projections, the rowdy trader crowd goes apeshit—whooping and hollering like a pack of hooligans at a World Cup final rather than a corporate event.

As much as it makes my teeth grind to admit it, the man’s disturbingly intelligent when he’s up there spewing pure data and numbers with that blazing intensity. There’s something primal, something . . . dangerously magnetic about it. Damn him straight to hell for it.

“Over seventy-five percent of this room shattered the million-pound bonus mark this year,” he growls, his chiseled features clenched. “We didn’t just hit targets—we grabbed those marks by the throat and annihilated them.”

The deafening roar that erupts is nothing short of feral. These money-hungry sharks can practically taste the blood in the water.

“We haven’t just beaten the competition—we’ve systematically dismantled every last one of them.” He stops, leaning forward, gripping the podium like he’s about to rip it apart. “And we’ll keep doing it. Again. And again. And again.”

His upper lip curls in a disdainful sneer that somehow only makes him look even more attractive. “Vertex Capital believes they can enter our market and appropriate our clients and deals? Fuck that. We own this market, and we’ll defend it like a pack of wolves protecting their territory. If any competitor tries to fuck with what’s ours, they’ll quickly learn the true meaning of regret.”

I can’t help but shift nervously. I’ve never seen Liam this aggressive before. Savage is the word that springs to mind. He doesn’t even usually curse up there.

Vertex Capital are big in the States, but in the past six months they’ve slid into the market here because the owner—Alastair Charles Harrington—moved back to the UK. And as if that wasn’t enough to ruffle feathers, they’ve now positioned themselves as our main rival in the bid for TLS. I’ve met Alastair once or twice and the man seems pleasant. A far cry from the snarling beast currently occupying our stage, looking like he’s about to rip someone’s face off with that perfect jaw of his.

There’s clearly a deeper story behind his evident rage toward Vertex and their attempted move into the UK. I’ve no clue what it is, but I’ve worked with McLaren long enough to see it’s a raw nerve. Whatever went down between the two CEOs, it’s obviously not something the almighty McLaren is willing to forgive or forget anytime soon.

Men and their perpetual pissing contests. It’s not like there isn’t enough wealth in London for them both. I’d like to think that if two leading female CEOs found themselves in a similar situation, they’d be more inclined to lift each other up, maybe grab a coffee and swap war stories about the joys of navigating workplaces filled with testosterone-fueled egos.

The crowd lose their collective shit as the bonus figures get announced. Chair-throwing Brandon looks livid when he realizes he hasn’t got his Lambo. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t basking in a teeny rush of satisfaction over that one. I explicitly advised against rewarding his hostile behavior, but naturally assumed Liam would bypass my recommendation. After all, who listens to the pesky HR rep when it comes to rewarding one of his prized alpha ape finance bros?

Brandon makes a move to storm out, but Liam’s voice cracks like a whip. “Sit. Down,” he commands. Brandon slinks back into his seat. I bite back a smirk. Serves him right.

Suddenly, Liam’s gaze locks on to me, and my spine straightens. A wave of unease crashes over me.

“I’d like to take a moment to acknowledge our HR team’s tireless efforts in organizing this event,” he says, his voice like honey and just as deceptive. “Particularly, our head of HR, Gemma Jones.”

Oh shit. I swallow hard as Liam angles his entire body to directly face me from the stage.

Then, shockingly . . . he smiles. A real, honest-to-god smile that crinkles the corners of those penetrating eyes. Alarm bells start clanging in my head like Big Ben’s bongs.

“Let’s have a warm round of applause for Gemma’s unwavering leadership and steadfast commitment to our people,” he continues in that dangerously smooth baritone. “She’s truly an inspiration.”

I force a smile as applause erupts, my cheeks burning with a mix of suspicion and embarrassment.

Liam McLaren does not smile. Liam McLaren does not give compliments. And Liam McLaren certainly does not direct any of those things at me.

As he steps off the stage, he shoots me a wink that sends my heart racing as if he’s just brushed his lips against mine in a stolen moment of intimacy.

A wink. Like we’re sharing some kind of inside joke, some secret that only the two of us are privy to.

While the recognition is as flattering as it is unexpected, I can’t shake the feeling that there’s something more at play here. Something sinister lurking beneath Liam’s uncharacteristic display of appreciation.