Page 142 of Love to Loathe Him

Families are spread out on picnic blankets. A wedding party’s doing a photoshoot by the flowerbeds. Dogs are everywhere, chasing balls, sniffing bums and doing general dog stuff.

People are trying to coax squirrels over, which isn’t exactly a difficult task. The squirrels in London aren’t shy. They’ll eat right out of your hand, or rather, mug you for your sandwich faster than you can say “oh, how cute!” Just like the brazen city pigeons and foxes. Everyone’s hustling in this city, even the wildlife.

Across the way, in a spot in the shade, there’s a yoga class. Imagine doing yoga at lunchtime.

They’re all getting up from their mats now, bowing and doing that namaste stuff to the teacher—some tanned bloke with hair like a Pantene advert. This is the sort of thing I should be doing.

I came here to clear my head, to figure out what the hell I’m supposed to do next. Do I confront Liam in a blaze of righteous fury?

God knows I want to. I want to storm into his office and tell him exactly where he can shove his compartmentalization.

He led me on, told me he didn’t share. What a joke.

I feel the tears welling up again, hot and angry, burning behind my eyes. I’m furious with him, sure, but I’m even more furious with myself. How could I have been so bloody stupid? I’ve known what he’s like for years. And yet, I still slept with him in a whirlwind and let myself believe he had feelings for me.

My chest feels tight.

I want to go back in time and shake some sense into past Gemma. Grab her by the shoulders before she sat down in the Executive Lounge that night. Before she kicked off this chain of events that’s led me here, to this park, crying into my sandwich.

Men are always different when you’re sleeping with them, aren’t they? More charming, less . . . well, less like themselves. Liam’s not stupid—it makes his life easier to be Prince Charming when he’s in your knickers.

And deep down, I think fisherman Liam exists, but as he says, he can compartmentalize. On top of expertly keeping his work separate from his personal life, he can do the same with women. Of course it makes sense. The red flags were all there, waving in my face, and I ignored them. Stupid, stupid Gemma.

I flop down flat on the grass, the blades tickling my bare arms, and look up at the sky. So blue. So peaceful. So unlike what’s going on inside me. I just feel . . . fucking sad.

“Gemma?” a voice asks from the clouds.

I sit up too quickly, feeling lightheaded.

The yoga instructor is smiling down at me. I look at him in confusion. I know him, I just don’t know why. Shit.

“Michael?” I gasp when it finally dawns on me.

He chuckles, lending me a hand to get to my feet.

Michael, our old marketing manager who ran away to the Himalayas to get away from Liam. The one who used to have a panic attack every time Liam so much as looked in his general direction.

“I . . . How are you?” I say, stunned. He looks so different. Muscular. Tanned. Long hair. Kind of like a sexy Jason Momoa. He lookshot.What the hell happened to the pasty, stressed-outbloke I used to know?

“I’m great.” He grins. “I’m just finishing teaching a yoga class here.” I see the mat rolled under his arm. “Bit of a change, huh?”

“Wow.” I’m speechless. “So you’re okay now?”

“Couldn’t be better. Liam firing me was like . . . the universe’s way of giving me a cosmic kick up the ass. At the time it felt like my world was ending, but now? It’s great, the best thing to ever happen me.”

“We heard you went to the Himalayas.”

“I spent a few months in that area. You should go sometime. Got my yoga certification and life’s been pretty good.” His grin widens. “Hey, it’s not all downward dogs and sunshine. I get paid pretty shit now, but it’s all good, you know? I need to start somewhere, and I have some savings from Ashbury Thornton.”

I nod. I can’t believe how good he looks. “You look so . . . healthy.”

He laughs, a sound of pure joy. “Yeah, I look back at photos at Ashbury Thornton and I look bloody sick, like I’m dying.” I can’t argue with that. “How’s things with you, Gemma? You still at Ashbury Thornton?”

“Yes. I’m . . .” I was going to lie, but what’s the point? “I think I need to go to the Himalayas.”

Or maybe just throw myself off them. That’s probably frowned upon in yoga circles, though.

“That bad?”