Page 3 of Love to Loathe Him

I spend my days surrounded by a bunch of money-hungry sharks who’d gleefully punt Grandma into oncoming traffic for a Rolex. Actually, that’s not fair—they’d hold out for a Patek Philippe watch before tossing Granny to the wolves. But still, my point stands.

Even my adorable little kitty is a stone-cold bitch.

But the biggest, baddest sociopath of them all?

That would be the owner of those smoldering brown eyes currently trying to incinerate me through the glass walls of his fancy fishbowl office.

Liam “I-make-grown-men-sob-like-babies” McLaren.

London’s most ruthless financial hotshot and the big kahuna at Ashbury Thornton Equity Group. Just whisper his name and even the toughest traders need a fresh pair of tighty-whities.

Oh, and I call himMr.McLaren, like we’re in some ’70s office porno, because he never bothered to correct me during my interview. Never said, “Please, call me Liam.” Then, on my first day, I called him Mr. McLaren, expecting a warm “Call me Liam! Welcome aboard.” But nope, I just got the same brooding glare.

My office, conveniently situated across the chaotic finance floor on level thirty-five, offers me an unobstructed view of his devastatingly handsome face. All. Damn. Day.

Sure, having my own office with a killer view of the Thames is a sweet perk. But when you’re the company’s resident therapist and the bearer of bad news, it’s an absolute necessity.

I heave myself out of my chair, storming through the sea of shouting suits, phone glued to my ear as I verbally flay the incompetent recruiters on the other end.

McLaren’s moody gaze finds me through the glass. He’s sprawled in his leather throne, hands clasped behind his head while Ollie, his senior-level manager, perches on the edge of the desk like a well-trained lapdog.

On autopilot, I flash him mybring it onsmile. Years under McLaren’s rule has hardwired this fearless smirk into my DNA—the only way to survive dealing with guys like him. Never let ’em see you sweat.

Yes, McLaren is unfairly hot—smoldering eyes, chiseled jawline, muscles you could crack nuts on. But that’s just his human suit, the bait he uses to draw in unsuspecting victims before tearing them to pieces. Mother Nature sure is a bitch, making the deadliest creatures the most irresistible—like Venus flytraps or those tiny cute frogs that could kill you with a single lick.

And this fucker is no exception.

Ladies, don’t be fooled.

Underneath that handsome exterior beats the pitch-black heart of a raging See-You-Next-Tuesday.

Watching the female new hires around him is comical. As HR, I get a front-row seat to their faces morphing from “I want to scale that godlike tree” to “holy shit, this terrifying bastard is going to fire me before I’ve had my morning poop” in a single blink.

He jerks his chin, summoning me in like I’m some misbehaving schoolgirl.

I stab the end call button on my phone and smooth my already flawless blazer on reflex. Drawing in a deep breath, I stride into McLaren’s office.

“Take a seat,” he orders, hands still locked behind his head. His shirt strains against his chest, like it’s one deep breath away from sending a rogue button flying straight into my eye. I wonder if he’s physically restraining himself from wringing my neck.

My pulse quickens, and I give myself a stern mental slap. Five years. Five freaking years, and this man still makes me feel like I’ve grabbed a live wire every time he glares at me.

“If it isn’t the lovely Gemma,” Ollie leers.

“Ollie,” I reply curtly as I take a seat.

“Did you have a pleasant holiday, sir?” I ask McLaren. I heard he went on some hardcore, balls-to-the-wall trekking expedition to the North Pole. Knowing him, his idea of a relaxing vacation probably involves wrestling polar bears and chugging his own pee for hydration.

“Yes.” And there goes the small talk, dying a quick death. “Until I returned to this unacceptable recruitment situation, that is.” That Yorkshire accent thickens, turning each word into a verbal spanking. He only slips into fullGame of ThronesNed Stark brogue when he’s nuclear levels of pissed. “So, enlighten me. Thirty new staff members were meant to be on that floor this morning. Andsince basic arithmetic is apparently one of my many talents, I can see that half those desks are still empty, gathering dust. What happened? Did the others get lost?”

I shift in my seat, uncrossing and recrossing my legs. “I’m fully aware of the situation, sir. My team has been working around the clock. We’ve expanded our recruitment efforts globally and are aggressively pursuing top talent.”

Basically, one restraining order away from hiding in their bushes.

“Then poach harder,” he snarls, revealing a mouthful of teeth belonging in a toothpaste ad. “I needed warm bodies filling those seats last week. So unless you’ve somehow cracked the code on time travel, you’re already failing spectacularly.”

I bite back the urge to suggest he dial down his raging hard-on for expansion. There simply aren’t enough soulless financial mercenaries to meet his astronomical demands. But something tells me that excuse won’t fly.

Instead, I flash him a smile that’s equal parts bravado and bullshit. “We’ll have the roles filled soon, I’m certain of it.”