Page 7 of Love to Loathe Him

“Sorry,” she splutters, blowing her nose loudly into the tissue. “I just . . . I don’t know what to do. What should I do, Gemma?”

She looks at me with those big, watery Bambi eyes, like I’m some sort of all-knowing relationship guru.

I pause. “As HR, I can’t give you relationship advice. That’s what your girlfriends and a bottle of wine are for. But perhaps ending it cleanly is best, since it’s a workplace relationship. Keep it professional. Leave the emotions at the office door and move on with your head held high.”

She bursts into a fresh round of sobs, then looks up, eyes blazing. “Can I lodge a complaint against him?”

“For what?”

“For cheating!” Like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

If being an asshole were against company policy, we’d have to fire half the men in this place. Starting with McLaren as owner.

I shake my head. “I’m sorry, Emily, but cheating is a personal issue, not a professional one. Unless he’s, I don’t know, cheating on company time or with corporate credit cards, there’s nothing HR can do about it.”

Her shoulders slump, the fight draining out of her. “So that’s it? I just act like nothing happened and carry on like normal?”

I nod, handing her another tissue. “Look, you’re young and talented. Don’t let one bad relationship define you or derail your career. We’ll make sure your work relationship is at an arm’s length going forward.”

She nods and hauls herself out of the chair, sniffling and wiping her nose. “Thanks, Gemma.”

She pauses at the door, hand on the knob. “You won’t tell anyone, right? I can’t handle being office gossip on top of everything else.”

“Of course not,” I reply, slightly offended. “What’s said in this room stays strictly between us.”

And it’s true. I know everyone’s deepest and darkests in this place. Many of which I wish I could bleach from my brain.

I let out a breath as the door closes. It’s not the wildest problem I’ve dealt with here—I’ve had to fire people for turning the cleaner’s closet into their own personal red room, for god’s sake.

But still, I’m holding out hope that the remaining appointments aren’t all scorned lovers and broken hearts. I’m running dangerously low on tissues and patience for that kind of drama.

“Knock knock,” chirps a familiar voice.

“Hi,” I say to Mary, my assistant, though it sounds more like a groan than a greeting.

“Want me to grab some lunch for you?” She hovers in the doorway. “Or are you heading out?”

I almost laugh at the absurdity of me “heading out.” I eye my desk, which looks like a bomb went off in a paper factory, and the aftermath was hit by a tornado of Post-it notes.

“If you could grab me something, that would be amazing. You’re the best.” I flash her a grateful smile and she beams back before scurrying off.

I keep telling myself tomorrow will be the day I step outside for some fresh air and a quick stretch. But tomorrow never comes.

One great perk of Ashbury Thornton is the fancy free lunches they serve up in the downstairs restaurant. Not that I have any friends here to grab lunch with anyway, as my inner voice loves to remind me with a bitter cackle.

As the head of HR, navigating friendships is a delicate tightrope act. I learned that the hard way when McLaren had me personally fire my work bestie, Katie, last year. Talk about a knife to the gut.

Sure, she walked away with a decent severance package, because Ashbury Thornton is nothing if not generous when it comes to paying people to shut the hell up and go away quietly. But that didn’t make watching her pack up her desk any less soul-crushing.

I was a bit of a mess over that, spending nights ugly-crying into a half-empty bottle of Chardonnay, wondering where it all went wrong and how I became the kind of person who could fire her own friend.

Our friendship just wasn’t the same after that. So it wasn’t really a surprise when Katie eventually ghosted me altogether a few months later, deciding that being friends with the woman who canned her wasn’t great for her mental health.

Speaking of the devil responsible for my friendless work existence—I look up to see McLaren in his office, phone glued to his ear, but his laser-focused gaze is locked on me.

I arch a brow, meeting his stare head-on. I’ll be damned if I’m the first to look away, even as I feel that familiar clench low in my belly—ninety-nine percent pure, unadulterated loathing, and a traitorous one percent flutter of something that I absolutely refuse to acknowledge as anything other than loathing.

Finally, he breaks eye contact, barking into the phone. Probably ordering a hit on a competitor.