Page 73 of Love to Loathe Him

Startled, I reach down to take one of my heels off, tottering precariously on the rocking deck, a nervous giggle bubbling up from my throat.

“For fuck’s sake.” Liam closes the distance between us in two long strides, bending down and lifting one of my legs. With a deftness that shouldn’t be possible for a man with such large hands, he removes the strappy sandal from my foot.

I feel like saying “While you’re down there, love . . .” but I manage to keep that particular thought to myself, instead placing a hand on his bare shoulder to steady myself.

“Did you work in a shoe shop in a past life?” I tease, then choke down a breathy chuckle. “You sure know your way around a sandal. Oh wait, you’re probably used to taking off women’s shoes, aren’t you?”

He stops what he’s doing and looks up at me, his eyes intense. “You’ve had a bit to drink.”

“Just a little,” I admit, shrugging one shoulder. “We’re supposed to be enjoying ourselves, aren’t we?”

“You’re supposed to be winning Sir Whitmore over,” he counters, his jaw clenching.

“We’resupposed to be winning him over. And we will, at the awards ceremony.”

He sets my bare foot down on the cool deck, sending a shiver up my spine, before moving on to my second stiletto. “That’s cold!”

“The last thing I need is a drunk employee slipping and going overboard on my watch,” he growls, his fingers brushing against my ankle. “Why are you here?” he asks, his tone impatient.

“I am not drunk! Anyway, I’m here to convince you to come to the pub and spend some quality time with us. Network. The real deals happen at the bar, not in the boardroom, you know.” I smirk, pleased with myself.

“I’ll be at the awards ceremony,” he says, his expression stony.

“You mean when you absolutely have to be? The bare minimum face time?”

“You guys are more than capable of having fun without me.”

“Maybe we want to have funwithyou,” I counter, the wine making me bold, or stupid. “I thought hot fisherman Liam might be more enjoyable company than billionaire banker Liam.”

“He’s not. And for the record, fisherman Liam doesn’t put up with women who don’t follow the damn boat rules. Rule number one? No one’s walking on board in ridiculous heels.”

My eyes drift down to where he’s kneeling at my feet, his strong hands still wrapped around my ankle. “I much prefer fisherman Liam, even if he is grumpy. On his knees.” My hand shoots up to cover my mouth. Who the hell am I out here? The words just slipped out naturally, like my tongue had a mind of its own.

Liam’s head snaps up, his eyes burning into mine in question. Slowly, deliberately, he rises to his full height, towering over me. “You prefer me on my knees, do you?”

Oh god. “I . . . I didn’t mean . . .”

Abort.

Abort.

“Why don’t you come up to the pub and celebrate with us?” I rush out. “Then I won’t have to write in my diary about you being a wet blanket.” I need to get off this boat.

“Is that what you’re going to write about me?” he murmurs. His eyes flicker down to my dress, lingering on the curves of my body, then back up to meet mine. His jaw clenches tight.

Oh, sweet Jesus.

“No,” I breathe, my voice barely above a whisper. My pulse is thundering in my ears, my heart pounding so hard I feel dizzy. I’m close enough that his bare chest is nearly touching mine, the heat radiating off his skin despite us being in a cool British dock. “I’ll write about how I have a thing for tatted fishermen with abs.”

He groans, a deep, guttural sound that sends a bolt of pure lust straight to my core. His hand finds my hip, his grip possessive. And it hits me that this might be the first time I’ve seen him out of control. Besides the cat poo fiasco.

My breath comes out in shallow, unsteady gasps, my chest heaving with each inhale.

Do it,I silently beg.Pull me close, crush me against you.

I’m so close I can see the small scar on his jaw, a remnant of a past fight maybe, the stubble growing unevenly around it. The slight bump in his Roman nose hints that it’s been broken before and set imperfectly.

He’s going to kiss me, and it’s not going to be a gentle, tentative thing. The heat in his gaze is unmistakable. He’s going to do a lot more than kiss me.