Page 18 of Love to Loathe Him

I’m tempted to fire her on the spot. So fucking tempted.

It doesn’t matter if Gemma likes me or not. I’m not here to win a popularity contest. What matters is that she does her job and does it damn well. And she does. Always has.

But this level of blatant disrespect? I can’t just let that slide. It sets a dangerous precedent.

Then again, maybe there’s another way to handle this. A way that could be far more satisfying than simply replacing her. Maybe I could have a little fun first.

“I reviewed your ‘strategy,’” I murmur. “I must say, it was an intriguing read. Filled with unexpected passion. Not your usual reserved style at all.”

The frown returns to her face, a mix of indignation and confusion. “I put my total commitment and passion into every endeavor for this company.”

“Clearly.” I chuckle darkly, enjoying this game more than I should. “We’ll proceed precisely as you’ve outlined then.”

“Excellent. Boss. Liam.” She affirms with a sharp nod, her features smoothing into that practiced professionalism I’ve come to know so well.

“After all,” I continue, “we want to attract the best and the brightest. Not some guys swinging their dicks like they’re God’s gift to the corporate world. Clogging up the applicant pool with their inflated egos. And the same goes for the lasses, of course.”

Her eyes widen, composure faltering for a delicious moment before she recovers. Oh, this is fun. “Certainly not. This firm has quite enough volatile personalities on staff already without compounding the issue. We already have people trying to put chairs through the windows, as you’re aware.” She pauses, her eyes searching mine. “Is there anything else?”

“That’ll be all. For now.”

She holds my gaze a moment longer, her brow furrowed like she’s trying to decode some hidden message in our loaded conversation, before giving a crisp nod and turning on her heel to leave.

I watch her go, wondering what the hell I’m doing. Anyone else who dared to disrespect me like this would be out on their ass already. But Gemma’s different. Hard-working, resilient, she’s stood her ground against every challenge I’ve thrown at her.

This presents an interesting dilemma. One that requires careful consideration. And Gemma, whether she knows it or not, has just made a very bold, very dangerous move.

CHAPTER 6

Gemma

“Honey, I’m home,” Icall sarcastically, stumbling in with my laptop bag and a bottle of wine. Winnie waddles over, eyeing the grocery bag judgmentally.

“Aw c’mon, don’t give me that look,” I mutter. “I’ll do better tomorrow.”

She meows disapprovingly, as if to say,That’s what you said yesterday, you lush.

“It’s Thursday night, for god’s sake,” I mutter in protest.

At least she’s eaten some of her food today.

But my momentary joy is short-lived as I remember the glamorous task awaiting me tomorrow morning: scooping up a fresh stool sample from Winnie’s litter box and hand-delivering it to the vet. And to make matters worse, I’ve got the all-staff meeting then too. Which means I’ll be schlepping cat stool around all morning before I can finally offload it at the vet’s during my lunch break.

With a heavy thunk, I set the so-called “groceries” down on the counter. By groceries, I mean a bottle of Cabernet and a tube of toothpaste. I was supposed to go to Fresh and Wild to pick up organic ginger and turmeric so I could start making my own smoothies. Instead, I have a fine bottle of organic red. Close enough.

Lizzie’s out auditioning for another off-off-off–West End play. Which means it’s just me, Winnie, and takeout tonight. Living the dream.

I do my usual routine of undressing in the hallway, shedding Gemma the HR manager with each discarded piece. I emerge in an oversized T-shirt and cotton shorts, and pad to the kitchen to pour a healthy glug of that glorious wine.

I take a deep pull, letting out a groan that borders on pornographic.Ooh yeah. That’s the stuff. I down another few mouthfuls, already feeling the day’s stresses start to unwind.

I’m drained. No, scratch that, I’m absolutely soul-shatteringly exhausted.

Little things are slipping through the cracks at work, like forgetting to review a contract or double booking myself for meetings. Sure, they’re tiny balls to drop in the grand scheme of things, but it’s getting harder to juggle the big ones too. Today, I almost forgot to sign off on the monthly expenses. That could have had repercussions.

Am I burnt out at the ripe old age of thirty-three? Surely not . . .

I swirl the wine around in my glass aggressively.