Page 65 of Love to Loathe Him

“I am.” I nod enthusiastically. “Are you?”

Sir Whitmore chuckles indulgently. “I’m afraid I’ll be leaving the sailing to you sprightly young folks. I’ll be taking a speedboat over to the other side to await your triumphant arrival.”

“At least one of us will make it there alive. Can I do that instead?”

He chuckles again but I’m not really joking.

He gestures to the fresh-faced lad beside him, who looks like he’s barely old enough to shave. “Allow me to introduce my grandson, Maximilian.”

“I see the handsome family resemblance,” I gush, reveling in how both their eyes crease in delight at the transparent flattery. A well-aimed ego stroke is the fastest way to a man’s heart, no matter his age.

Shifting my weight awkwardly from foot to foot, I add, “Look, I wanted to say thank you. I feel awful about what I said at the coffee cart. I’m so embarrassed.”

He puts a hand lightly on my arm. “It’s fine. It gave me quite a laugh when I got over the shock.”

“Liam would not be happy if he knew. You really were a gentleman not ratting me out.”

“It’s our secret, Gemma. And between us, you’re not wrong about the coffee. It’s just we need to keep costs down.”

I smile sympathetically, the tension easing from my shoulders. Sir Whitmore’s eyes twinkle as he asks, “Tell me, have you participated in one of our sailing soirées before?”

“Nope. I’m an absolute novice,” I admit with a self-deprecating laugh. “I’ve never so much as set foot on a real sailing vessel before today. How seriously do we need to take all this, Sir?”

“I simply want you all to have fun and enjoy yourselves,” he assures me. “Perhaps make some new acquaintances, learn a bit more about our charitable initiatives, that sort of thing.”

“Oh, thank goodness.” I’m flooded with genuine relief. “That I can do. In my head I was picturing this event as more of a hair-blowing-in-the-breeze shampoo commercial. You know, with me lounging about on the deck.”

Both Sir Whitmore and Maximilian laugh, and I mentally high-five myself. “But now that I’m here,” I continue cheerfully. “With everyone yelling and scurrying to get the boats ready, ropes and nautical doodahs flying everywhere, I’m really nervous.”

“You’ll be fine, my dear,” Sir Whitmore assures me, still chuckling. “All the captains are seasoned professionals. It’s about team building and raising money for charity. Try to have some fun.” His wrinkled smile takes on a slightly tense edge. “Although I don’t doubt your dedicated boss will be aiming to win yet again.”

“Liam is certainly . . . passionate about his pursuits,” I reply carefully.

“He’s very nearly a professional-level sailor himself these days, from what I’ve seen.” Sir Whitmore’s smile tightens. “And he always has his boat crewed by near-professionals as well.”

It’s obvious from his tone it isn’t a compliment. He thinks Liam’s a giant asshole for stacking the deck to ensure Ashbury Thornton’s victory every year. But credit where credit’s due. It does show Liam’s tenacity.

And my heart skips a beat at that truth because Liam is going to be pissed if I fuck this up for him and cost him his precious winning streak.

“As you said, Sir, this isn’t about winning,” I say quickly, trying to steer the conversation back to safer waters. Bad pun intended. “These top companies win at life every single day. This is about supporting an incredible charity.”

“Young Maximilian here did a spot of work experience at one of the carts last week,” Sir Whitmore boasts, clapping his now bored-looking grandson on the shoulder.

“That’s fantastic.” I beam at Maximilian. An idea pops into my head. “Hey, if you ever fancy getting some work experience at a private equity firm, you just give me a ring. We’d be delighted to have you.”

Sir Whitmore coughs awkwardly. Clearly, the idea of his grandson rubbing elbows with the capitalist sharks at Ashbury Thornton isn’t going down well.

“Are you sailing today, Maximilian?” I ask, sensing it’s time to change the subject yet again. Every time I veer near Liam or his company the vein in Sir Whitmore’s forehead seems to pump more blood.

“Yeah,” the teenager says, nodding eagerly.

Sir Whitmore squeezes his grandson’s shoulder, his face softening with affection. “I want Max to have the full experience, to really understand what this event is all about.”

Another idea pops into my head, and before I can think better of it, the words are tumbling out of my mouth. “He can join our boat! You can keep me company, Max.”

The fresh-faced teen visibly perks up at that. I think he might have a bit of a crush. Either that, or he’s just really excited about the prospect of hanging out with someone under the age of seventy.

“Which is yours?” Sir Whitmore asks, his brow furrowing slightly.