Page 28 of Love to Loathe Him

“Please, just go back and grab them and drop everything off here first before going to the vet? It’s the blue folder on the table.”

“Yes, ma’am! Consider it done,” she chirps.

“Lizzie,” I add sternly, memories of past organizational disasters flashing through my mind, “don’t leave the files lying around, okay? This is important.”

“As if I would, Gem!”

But she does sometimes. I love the girl to bits, but she’s disorganized. She loses her phone about once a month.

Is there ever a morning where I don’t feel like I’m teetering on the brink of cardiac arrest, or is that just my natural resting state now?

I stride into the main conference hall.

Liam’s up first.

He approaches the podium with the effortless swagger of a man who was born to dominate any room. It’s infuriating how criminally photogenic the bastard manages to look under these harsh fluorescent lights. No wonder he made the “UK’s Most Eligible Bachelors” list last year.

As he launches into the company financials, rattling off obscene figures and even more obscene projections, the rowdy trader crowd goes apeshit—whooping and hollering like a pack of hooligans at a World Cup final rather than a corporate event.

As much as it makes my teeth grind to admit it, the man’s disturbingly intelligent when he’s up there spewing pure data and numbers with that blazing intensity. There’s something primal, something . . . dangerously magnetic about it. Damn him straight to hell for it.

“Over seventy-five percent of this room shattered the million-pound bonus mark this year,” he growls, his chiseled features clenched. “We didn’t just hit targets—we grabbed those marks by the throat and annihilated them.”

The deafening roar that erupts is nothing short of feral. These money-hungry sharks can practically taste the blood in the water.

“We haven’t just beaten the competition—we’ve systematically dismantled every last one of them.” He stops, leaning forward, gripping the podium like he’s about to rip it apart. “And we’ll keep doing it. Again. And again. And again.”

His upper lip curls in a disdainful sneer that somehow only makes him look even more attractive. “Vertex Capital believesthey can enter our market and appropriate our clients and deals? Fuck that. We own this market, and we’ll defend it like a pack of wolves protecting their territory. If any competitor tries to fuck with what’s ours, they’ll quickly learn the true meaning of regret.”

I can’t help but shift nervously. I’ve never seen Liam this aggressive before. Savage is the word that springs to mind. He doesn’t even usually curse up there.

Vertex Capital are big in the States, but in the past six months they’ve slid into the market here because the owner—Alastair Charles Harrington—moved back to the UK. And as if that wasn’t enough to ruffle feathers, they’ve now positioned themselves as our main rival in the bid for TLS. I’ve met Alastair once or twice and the man seems pleasant. A far cry from the snarling beast currently occupying our stage, looking like he’s about to rip someone’s face off with that perfect jaw of his.

There’s clearly a deeper story behind his evident rage toward Vertex and their attempted move into the UK. I’ve no clue what it is, but I’ve worked with McLaren long enough to see it’s a raw nerve. Whatever went down between the two CEOs, it’s obviously not something the almighty McLaren is willing to forgive or forget anytime soon.

Men and their perpetual pissing contests. It’s not like there isn’t enough wealth in London for them both. I’d like to think that if two leading female CEOs found themselves in a similar situation, they’d be more inclined to lift each other up, maybe grab a coffee and swap war stories about the joys of navigating workplaces filled with testosterone-fueled egos.

The crowd lose their collective shit as the bonus figures get announced. Chair-throwing Brandon looks livid when he realizes he hasn’t got his Lambo. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t basking in a teeny rush of satisfaction over that one. I explicitly advised againstrewarding his hostile behavior, but naturally assumed Liam would bypass my recommendation. After all, who listens to the pesky HR rep when it comes to rewarding one of his prized alpha ape finance bros?

Brandon makes a move to storm out, but Liam’s voice cracks like a whip. “Sit. Down,” he commands. Brandon slinks back into his seat. I bite back a smirk. Serves him right.

Suddenly, Liam’s gaze locks on to me, and my spine straightens. A wave of unease crashes over me.

“I’d like to take a moment to acknowledge our HR team’s tireless efforts in organizing this event,” he says, his voice like honey and just as deceptive. “Particularly, our head of HR, Gemma Jones.”

Oh shit. I swallow hard as Liam angles his entire body to directly face me from the stage.

Then, shockingly . . . he smiles. A real, honest-to-god smile that crinkles the corners of those penetrating eyes. Alarm bells start clanging in my head like Big Ben’s bongs.

“Let’s have a warm round of applause for Gemma’s unwavering leadership and steadfast commitment to our people,” he continues in that dangerously smooth baritone. “She’s truly an inspiration.”

I force a smile as applause erupts, my cheeks burning with a mix of suspicion and embarrassment.

Liam McLaren does not smile. Liam McLaren does not give compliments. And Liam McLaren certainly does not direct any of those things at me.

As he steps off the stage, he shoots me a wink that sends my heart racing as if he’s just brushed his lips against mine in a stolen moment of intimacy.

A wink. Like we’re sharing some kind of inside joke, some secret that only the two of us are privy to.