Page 15 of Love to Loathe Him

Fishing a cigar from my jacket pocket, I light up and take a deep, steadying pull, savoring the burn in my lungs. If there was ever anight to indulge in a vice or two, this is it. Fucking Alastair, still getting under my skin. Pathetic.

Leaning against the balcony railing, I exhale a thick cloud of smoke and attempt to collect my rage into something approximating calm detachment. The distant hum of traffic makes for decent white noise.

Blowing out another plume of smoke, I turn my attention back to the street below. Only to be interrupted by the insistent buzz of my phone with an email notification.

I take out my phone. I’m half tempted to ignore it, to wallow in my scotch and nicotine haze without interruption. But the filename that pops up—“Gemma’s Therapy Diary”—catches my eye.

What the hell is this?

The first few lines hit me like a sledgehammer to the balls. I choke on my cigar, coughing out a cloud of smoke.

Dear Diary,

Most people don’t have to purge all the reasons their boss pisses them off. And they certainly don’t rack up new reasons to do so every fucking day. There’s something seriously wrong with this picture.

You know what would make me feel better?

Wrapping McLaren’s stupid tie around his thick, muscular neck and squeezing until that infuriatingly smug mouth of his is begging me for mercy.

“What the hell?” I mutter, my cigar nearly tumbling over the railing as I do a mental double-take. I blink, half convinced that I must be seeing shit. There’s no way those words are on my screen right now. No way in hell.

This must be some kind of prank. A majorly inappropriate prank, but a prank nonetheless.

Because there’s no way, in this universe or any other, that my prim-and-proper HR manager would ever let such filthy insults spill from those tightly pursed lips of hers—let alone put that shit in writing about me.

Not in a million years.

. . .a tyrannical, control-freak, big swinging dick. . .

I’d applaud her creativity if I wasn’t the target of her literary venom. And she’s not entirely wrong on some of those points.

All night, it’s been the same old bullshit: people lining up to kiss my ass, telling me what a great man I am for throwing money at their pet causes, nodding at every word out of my mouth.

And now, amidst all the fake smiles and hollow praise, I finally get a dose of unfiltered truth. From Gemma Jones, of all people. Now I’m trying to decide if I enjoy this novelty. I’m certainly not accustomed to it, that’s for sure.

Gemma has never gone out of her way to kiss my ass before, but she’s always been rigidly professional and respectful to my face. These blistering insults read like they were written by a completely different person. Her angry, evil twin.

. . .swans off to his fancy event. . .

I find myself yanking at my bowtie, maybe the same damn tie Gemma’s been daydreaming about using to choke the life out of me in disturbingly vivid detail. Just who does this woman think she is to disrespect me like this?

Has she forgotten that I’m the one signing her paychecks? The one whose deadlines and demands aren’t polite suggestions, but the bloody law to be followed to the letter, without question or pushback of any kind.

She must have been blackout drunk when she saved this scorching manifesto to our shared folder. There’s no other explanation for this level of career suicide from my straightlaced HR Manager.

I’d march right up to him, look him dead in those brooding eyes, and say, “Listen up, McLaren. I’ve got a team of Isle of Wight farmers slaving away over a hot stove to create the most pretentious finger foods known to man. So you can take your ‘reschedule the meeting’ and shove it right up your perfectly toned, Armani-clad ass.

Fuck me. I can’t figure out whether I’m amused or enraged. Or something else entirely.

I push off the railing as a scorching image blazes through my mind.

Gemma Jones. My buttoned-up, by-the-book HR manager. Only now she’s anything but professional. She’s a force of nature, shoving me back into my chair with a strength that makes my cock hard. This Gemma has claws.

Straddling my lap, green eyes blazing with unholy fury as that prim mouth of hers, the one that’s always spouting rules and regulations, now spews the filthiest words I’ve ever heard. Those tiny hands wrapping around my throat, nails digging into my skin as she hisses exactly what she thinks of my “bullshit” demands . . .

And fuck me if I don’t kind of like it.

I swallow hard, appalled at the flare of heat licking through my veins. That mental image has no right being as effective as it is.