Page 87 of Love to Loathe Him

“I’ve got it!” she snaps, yanking futilely at the line.

I grit my teeth, already moving across the deck to intervene regardless of her stubbornness. Because it’s painfully clear she doesn’t have a damn thing under control.

Before I can reach her, the sheet slips through Gemma’s whitened knuckles. The boom swings violently, nearly catching Robbie in the face. “Whoa! Watch it!” he yelps, ducking just in time.

“I’m so sorry.” Gemma stumbles, grabbing the nearest stay to keep her balance.

“No harm done.” Robbie waves it off with a nervous chuckle.

I’m not laughing though. “What the hell was that? You could’ve seriously injured him.”

Her cheeks flush as she looks at me, salt spray misting her face. “I’m sorry. It was an accident.”

“I know it was an accident.” My jaw clenches as I grab the sheet, bringing the jib under control. “But you refused my help when you clearly couldn’t handle it. That’s unacceptable out here.”

Her eyes flash but she swallows tightly and gives a terse nod, the wind whipping tendrils of red hair around her stubborn pretty face.

She’s struggling to keep her emotions in check after last night. Gemma let whatever is going on between us bleed into the job, compromising safety. And I won’t stand for that.

Satisfied for now that my point landed, I drag my focus back to the rigging, where it should be. But I can’t resist another glance. Her hair is wild from the sea breeze, framing those stunning features like some gorgeous, untamed mermaid beckoning me against my better judgment.

The flush dusting her cheeks from exertion has something twisting low in my gut. I grit my teeth, gripping the rigging ropes until they dig into my palms.

“Eyes up, McLaren.” The skipper’s shout snaps me out of it. “Stop staring at your pretty lady and focus on the damn job.”

Some of the crew chuckle, but the Ashbury Thornton staff nearby keep their reactions in check, just watching me with raised eyebrows. My jaw tightens as Gemma tries—and fails—to mask her embarrassment with an exaggerated eye roll.

“Your pretty lady, huh?” one of the guys ribs with a smirk. “Didn’t realize she was yours, boss.”

“If anyone’s the pretty one here, it’s Robbie,” she quips. But I catch the moment her smile falters, her eyes briefly meeting mine beforelooking away.

With a vicious yank, I haul the sail line taut. This is exactly why I keep business and pleasure separate—to avoid messy complications that invite others’ scrutiny into my private life.

CHAPTER 27

Gemma

If I thought therecouldn’t be any more twists and turns over this weekend, well, I was spectacularly wrong.

I stroll down the pavement late afternoon with my backpack, thinking to have one cigarette to unwind from the chaos, when I stop dead in front of my hedge. My precious Winnie is getting railed by some mangy tomcat like a fuzzy little porn star.

“Winnie!” I screech in dismay. “What the hell are you doing?”

She doesn’t even have the decency to look sheepish.

“Shoo!” I clap loudly, trying to disperse the amorous felines. “Shoo, you dirty bastard.”

Winnie meets my glare with flat eyes—the feline equivalent of sticking out her fuzzy middle toe bean at me.

“Oh hell no,” I roar. “Lizzie!”

Lizzie comes barreling outside in her pj’s and bare feet, looking like she just rolled out of bed. Which she might have. “What’s going on?”

I jab an accusatory finger at the tomcat, who seems unperturbed by our shouting match as he finishes up with Winnie.

Lizzie’s eyes go wide as she finally clocks the depraved feline show happening right there on my lawn. “What the bloody . . .”

Finally, Tom saunters off, his tail held high. Winnie just lies there in the grass, looking like she wants to light up a post-coital cigarette.