Page 16 of Love to Loathe Him

This must be a mistake. There’s no way . . .

I double-check the folder. This is our private folder. Just me and her. Christ, is she having a breakdown?

Five long years this woman has worked for me, and I’m pretty sure I’ve never even heard her utter a “darn” or “heck,” let alone the colorful profanities she’s typed up here.

Gemma Jones, the poster girl for workplace propriety.

With a few aggressive taps, I pull up my calendar and send off an invite, summoning her to my office at the crack of dawn.

Miss Jones has committed the ultimate workplace sin tonight. This isn’t your run-of-the-mill workplace rebellion—a missed deadline, or a chair thrown in a moment of passion. No, this is flat-out mutiny of the highest order. The professional equivalent of pissing in my morning protein shake.

Gemma has disrespected me on a level I can barely comprehend. Some might even go so far as to say she utterly roasted me in that deranged rant of hers.

Unfortunately for her, I’m not just a “tyrannical, control-freak, big swinging dick.”

I’m the tyrannical, control-freak, big swinging dick who can make or break her career.

Sweet dreams, Miss Jones. Enjoy them while you can.

CHAPTER 5

Liam

I’m ashamed to admitI spent half the night tossing and turning, replaying every filthy fucking word my redheaded HR manager typed about me.

I’m even more ashamed to confess that I came so hard in the shower this morning that I nearly slipped and cracked my skull open. All because I couldn’t stop imagining Gemma’s fierce green eyes glaring at me as she rode me hard, telling me what an asshole I am.

Getting my rocks off to fantasies about a direct report—something I’ve never stooped to before.

I’d have to be dead not to appreciate the way Gemma fills out those tight pencil skirts, the fabric stretched taut over her ass. Or how her blouses pull a fraction too snugly across her ample breasts with each breath. But I’ve always been able to exert control.

There’s supposed to be an ethical wall between me and Gemma. A clear separation of church and state. She’s the shoulder for employees to cry on when big bad Liam hurts their feelings or expects them to do their damn jobs. I can’t be caught with my hand up her skirt.

I made sure that wall was built high and strong from day one. I remember the pretty redhead walking into the interview, allpolished and eager to please. She nailed every question. It was obvious she was the type of good girl to prepare obsessively, diligent to a fault.

Her wide eyes kept darting to mine, searching for a sign of approval, of warmth. I could see it plain as day—she wanted me to drop the act, to flash her a smile and insist she call me Liam. To welcome her with an easy familiarity.

But I had to keep my distance from that green-eyed beauty.

Now Miss Prim-and-Proper just lit a match and tossed it into a pool of gasoline with that hate-letter she blasted out last night. The one where she chokes me with my own tie while telling me where to shove my demands.

Now she’s late. After that stunt, she has the audacity to make me wait? If I didn’t know better, I’d think she was trying to get fired.

I scratch my jaw, feeling my blood pressure spike as I reread Gemma’s email.

My deepest apologies, sir, I have a personal appointment that means I’m running approx. two hours late today.

Maybe sheistrying to get fired. But she’s HR; she knows I could fire her on the spot over this breach of conduct with no lavish payout. It makes zero sense. If she wanted out, she’d do it the smart way—milk that “stress leave” for all it’s worth. She wrote the employee handbook, for Christ’s sake. She knows every loophole like the back of her hand.

So what’s her angle here? What kind of game is she playing?

Damned if I know.

All I know is, I’ve spent the last hour pacing my office like a caged animal, unable to focus on anything but the thought of her walking through that door.

A sharp knock shatters the tension, and I bark out a “Come in,” not even trying to hide the growl in my voice.

The door swings open and in strolls Gemma, wearing that pencil skirt I imagined in the shower this morning. God, give me strength.