Page 115 of Love to Loathe Him

“Not even close. But I think you’re wrong about one thing—this whole compartmentalization act you’ve got going on. I think your worlds need to be integrated, not kept apart. You can be the big bad CEO and still have a heart. Ruthless when needed, but also caring. Protective of the people who matter.” I say this with all the confidence of someone who’s just buzzed enough to think they’re suddenly a relationship guru.

“You’re assuming I have lots of people who matter,” he says gruffly.

My heart twists at that. It’s not like I have people lining up for me either, but I’ve got a good relationship with my family, evenif I’m an only child. I’m close with my cousins, and I have Lizzie. And despite work getting in the way, I’ve kept in touch with school friends.

“Liam,” I sigh, feeling brave or stupid enough to push. “About the Alastair feud, the TLS takeover . . .You might be happier if you let this stuff go.”

He takes a pull on his beer. “Thought you wanted fisherman Liam this weekend,” he says, his tone a clear warning.

“Fair enough. No more work talk.” I stab another piece of lobster, determined to get some of it into my mouth without making a mess.

As I watch Liam’s jaw clench for the umpteenth time, it hits me. Maybe he’s someone who doesn’t know how to be playful and silly. Maybe he never learned how. He’s a lot of things, but “playful” isn’t anywhere near the top of that list. This is a man who was sent off to boarding school at six, who missed out on so much of his childhood.

The closest Liam comes to relaxation and having fun is going to war with the ocean, pitting himself against something powerful and untamable.

I make an executive decision. This weekend is going to be all about fun. No shop talk, no brooding alpha males stomping around the boat. I’m putting my foot down.

Operation “Make Liam Playful” is officially a go.

“All right, new question,” I say, leaning forward with a grin. “When you’re old and gray, who do you see yourself as? Hugh Hefner, Elon Musk, or Skipper Magee?”

He blinks at me, amused and in disbelief. “Are those really the only three options you’re giving me?”

“Yes,” I say firmly. “Playboy, workaholic, or crusty old sea dog. To reflect all the Liams. Which is it?”

He rolls his eyes but I catch the hint of a smile. “Fine. Skipper Magee.”

“I can see that! But maybe keep washing your feet? The skipper seems to have given up on that front.” I wrinkle my nose, the memory of that smell still haunting.

“Can’t smell anything when you’re out there in the sea air. Just the glorious sea.”

“Bull. Shit. They smelled so bad there should have been a maritime distress signal for any vessels within a ten-nautical-mile radius.”

Liam laughs as I try for another bite of lobster. It skids across my chin, leaving a trail of butter in its wake. I probably look like I’ve been making out with a stick of butter. “Good lord. Between this bib and you cutting up my food, I feel like I’m back in nursery.”

He chuckles, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “For what it’s worth, you look sexy as hell to me. Bib and all.”

I blush and take a hasty sip of wine to cover my sudden bout of bashfulness. “That might be the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me. Should I be worried? Are you feeling okay? Blink if you’re having a stroke.”

“I say plenty of nice things about you, Gemma. I think a lot of nice things, too.”

“Oh yeah. What are you thinking now?”

His gaze turns molten, his voice dropping to a husky murmur. “All the places on my boat where I can fuck you senseless. I’ve been looking forward to this.”

I promptly choke on my wine. “Wow, Liam, warn a girl before you drop a line like that.”

“I’m just being honest. It’s refreshing now we’re both being honest with each other.”

“Yes, it is,” I manage to say, my voice only slightly strangled.

“So . . .” He leans in, his thumb brushing my cheek. For a split second, I think he’s going to kiss me, but then he pulls back, a smear of butter on his finger. My heart does a stutter-step as he licks it clean, eyes never leaving mine. “What will you write in your diary about tonight?”

“That I’m having a really nice date.”And I don’t want it to end. If this is what being a fisherman’s wife is like, sign me up.

But I keep that last part to myself.

Liam manhandles me onto the boat like I’m a sack of potatoes—a drunk, giggly sack of potatoes. A laugh explodes out of me, a chaotic mix of terror, adrenaline, and at least 12 percent rum, give or take.