Page 43 of Love to Loathe Him

She scoffs, crossing her arms over her chest. “What are you saying? You’re not going to fire me? Why? Because this whole fiasco amuses you?”

I lean back, propping an ankle on my knee as I eye her up. “Oh, it definitely amuses me. But more importantly, I’ve got zero interest in watching you walk out that door for good.”

“I can’t stay. Nothing would make it worth it after . . . this.”

“Now, we both know that’s not true, don’t we? In fact, I’ve got a little proposition for you. You stay on board, and I tack on a nice, fat . . . let’s say fifty percent bump to your current salary. On one key condition.”

Her eyes widen. “Is this some kind of joke?”

“Do I look like I’m hosting a goddamn comedy special here?”

Smartly, she doesn’t answer that particular rhetorical question, just gapes at me in shock.

“What’s the catch then? This condition?”

“You’ve clearly been harboring quite a few thoughts, Gemma. You stay, and you give me that unvarnished honesty. No more filtering, no more dancing around in an effort to appease me. If you have something to say, you say it—directly and without restraint.”

She blinks rapidly. “I’mreallynot following here.”

I sigh, my patience wearing thin. “I told you to sit.”

In slow motion, she stiffly lowers herself onto the leather sofa across from me.

I rise and make my way to the bar. I fix her a whisky-based cocktail, something she can handle while she processes my offer in silence.

“I’m surrounded by yes-men—and women—who only tell me what they think I want to hear,” I explain as I approach her, tumblers in hand. “But buried in between those . . . colorful fantasies of yours about strangling me with my tie, you showed some astute insights. You’re good with people, and right now I need a straight-shooting people person in my corner.”

I press the glass into her hand, watching as she immediately throws back a healthy gulp, wincing at the burn.

“You’re good at these. If this finance thing doesn’t pan out, you could always fall back on bartending,” she quips, her voice rough from the whisky.

“I’m good at many things.”

Her cheeks flush. “Modesty not being one of them.”

“No.” I chuckle. “Modesty has never been my forte.”

She digs a cigarette out of her purse and lights up, taking a deep drag. “I limit myself to one a day,” she says, almost defensively. As if I’m unaware that half my staff indulge in far worse vices. “And this situation definitely calls for it.”

“Just one? I would’ve figured dealing with me daily required at least a pack or two.”

That earns me an almost-smile from her—the first since this little chat began.

Settling back into my chair, I level her with an expectant look. “Well? What’s it gonna be? Will you stay with me?”

“Let me get this straight: you’re really not going to fire me for all the terrible things I wrote about you?” She furrows her brow, like she’s waiting for the other shoe to drop. “Youwantme to talk to you, myboss, like that? Sarcasm, snark, and all?”

“That’s precisely what I want.”

“But I called you . . .” She trails off, looking mortified.

“A tyrannical, control-freak, big swinging dick?” I supply, unable to keep the amusement from my voice. “Among a host of other creative descriptors. I’m aware.”

She exhales a stream of smoke. “You’re never going to forget that one, are you?”

“I’m afraid not. It’s not every day I’m soeloquently insulted.”

“Okay, fine. Maybe that one was a smidge childish. But you know you can be an unreasonable man at times. Are you honestly going to sit there and tell me you disagree with my assessment of your character?”