Page 121 of Love to Loathe Him

My world narrows to just this moment, just us. On this boat.

Mine, my caveman brain roars. Mine. She’s fucking mine.

“Damn.” I breathe heavy against her cheek, my heart pounding like I’ve swum the Channel. That was more than a workout. That was . . . something else entirely.

But when I look at her, basking in our shared release, she looks almost mournful.

“I wish you were a real fisherman,” she says softly, still wrapped around me, her words catching me off guard.

I don’t answer her. I can’t. Because I’m not a real fisherman. I never will be. And for a moment, I resent her for making me want something I can never have.

“Tomorrow,” she sighs, “we go back to being HR Gemma and CEO Liam.”

“We do,” I agree, my voice rougher than I intend as I pull out of her.

And I probably need it. Another day on this boat with Gemma and I might just forget who I really am.

CHAPTER 37

Gemma

I knew it. Mondayrolls 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 arearranging 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.”