Page 109 of Love to Loathe Him

All week he’s been barking orders, concentrating on getting the TLS bid over the line. To make matters worse, Vertex have moved into the top two floors of the building next door, just as Alastair promised. Liam’s stomping around the office like a bear with a sore head and a grudge. I’m half expecting him to start interviewing snipers to take Alastair out.

It’s Thursday, a full week since the hallway incident that may or may not have happened, and today’s supposed to be our next scheduled “meet.”

Not that I’m going to remind him. No way in hell.

It’s fine. Great, even. I’ve been up to my eyeballs trying to sniff out our mole on top of my regular job and recruitment duties.

He raps sharply on my door, holding the report I gave him. “Gemma, we’re still ten heads down.” Here to bollock me for the fifth time today. Lucky me.

“I know, but we’ve also recruited six more in this last week alone,” I snap back, not in the mood for his bullshit. “I’m not a miracle worker.”

He narrows his eyes at me. “I want daily updates on progress. This is critical.”

“Fine,” I say, my voice laced with sarcasm. “But just know that you adding more reporting will only slow us down further. I’ll be spending more time writing out emails and less time recruiting.”

“What the hell is with the attitude?”

“I’m just giving it to you straight, boss,” I shoot back. “Isn’t that what you wanted?”

“I didn’t ask for a temper tantrum,” he says, fuming now.

I bristle. Okay, maybe I am being a bit more snappy than usual today.

He shakes his head and strides off. Well, that’s just fan-fucking-tastic. We’re definitely not on for tonight, then.

Good. It’s better this way. I’m not disappointed. Not at all.

I’m walking from the office to the underground when my phone buzzes with a message.

Liam:8pm. I’ll pick you up from yours and we’ll go to mine. I’ll order dinner in.

“What?” I say loudly to no one on the street. My heart thumps in my chest. Surely he can’t be serious?

I blink and reread the message, my brain struggling to process the sudden turn of events. Someone crashes into me from behind, muttering a charming “For fuck’s sake, move it!” as they pass.

Adrenaline rushes through me as I type out a response.

No chance. Not after his moods and rants all week.

Part of me wants to say fuck it and text backyes, yes, yes, but I can’t. I just . . . I can’t handle this. This entire week has been torture, walking into work every day and pretending that incredible night never happened. Spending all my time with CEO Liam, the ruthless, brutal version of him that’s always going to war, ishard. I can’t reconcile that man with the one I see in the bedroom, the one who’s so generous and attentive it’s intoxicating.

His compartmentalization is killing me. Instead of feeling stronger or more confident, I feel fragile, battered, and bruised. Sleeping with him opened up something inside me, something dangerous that I need to shove back into its box.

Me:Sorry, busy. I’m washing my hair.

I hit send with a satisfying flourish, feeling an immature rush of vindication. Take that, McLaren. I’m not just some booty call you can summon at will then treat like mud on his shoe the rest of the time. I’m a strong, independent woman who . . . washes her own hair.

My phone rings, and his name flashes on the screen. Shit. My heart leaps into my throat as I stare at it, frozen. I let it ring out.

Another message pops up, and I nearly drop my phone when I read it.

Liam:You can wash your hair at mine while I fuck you in my rainfall shower.

My knees go weak at the thought, heat pooling low in my belly. I can almost feel the warm water cascading over my skin as he presses me up against the tiles, his body pinning me in place as he—

No. Don’t let him get in your head.

Me:No. See you tomorrow.