Page 9 of Love to Loathe Him

“Charity thing,” he grunts, fixing the cufflinks.

I wonder who his arm candy is tonight. Imayhave done some light cyberstalking, morbidly curious about what type of womenthe most eligible sociopath in London dates. But it’s hard to tell if he has a type, except for stunning. And probably submissive.

Trying to imagine McLaren being all lovey-dovey—cooing sweet nothings, making goo-goo eyes . . . Does. Not. Compute. The man likely has “Cuddle at Your Own Risk” tattooed across his balls.

“Sounds fun,” I say.

“It won’t be.” He gives the Dicky bow a final, decisive tug with the aggression of a man strangling his last shred of patience. “Enjoy your boxing class.”

How the hell did he know that? I’ve been trying to cram in boxing sessions at the company gym on Wednesday nights to blow off steam. Even if it means taking work home.

“Not tonight, actually. My cat needs me.” Great. Sleep deprivation has completely annihilated my brain-to-mouth filter. “She’s been feeling peaky.”

“Right.” His expression makes it clear he couldn’t give fewer fucks about my Winnie’s digestive dramas. “Was there something else?” His tone heavily implies that there had better not be.

I flash my most dazzling, insincere smile—the one that says “happy to help” and not “I hate you”—and shake my head. “No, sir. Have a fabulous evening.”

May you trip on your own ego and face-plant right into the hors d’oeuvres.

With that, I spin on my heel and stride out.

I’ll say this for McLaren—the man has a real talent for making me feel like I’ve just gone three rounds in the downstairs boxing gym, and he hasn’t even laid a finger on me.

CHAPTER 3

Gemma

I shove open thedoor to my cozy Putney flat, and Miss Winchester-Scott prances over, sniffing the air to see if I’ve brought home anything more interesting than my boring self.

I could be living in a castle in the picturesque English countryside for what I paid for this two-bedroom garden-level flat, but that’s London for you.

Don’t get me wrong, I love this place. It’s got all those charming Victorian features—the original fireplace, the fancy cornicing. It’s part of a bigger house that’s been split into three flats. And Putney’s a pretty swanky suburb, so I can’t complain. If I really stretch up on my tippy toes while standing on my bed, I can just catch a glimpse of the Thames. And my neighbor’s knickers flapping in the breeze.

“How’s it going, gorgeous?” I coo, bending down to give her a scratch under that plush, round chin of hers. “Did you have a fun day?”

Miss Winchester-Scott, aka Winnie, my gorgeous blueish-gray British Shorthair companion, rewards me with a look of pure disdain—the same look my bitchy French teacher of the same name used to give me.

Known as the “teddy bear” breed, I picked her because they’re supposed to have easygoing personalities. But the longer Winnie lives with me, the more high-maintenance she seems to get. I have so many questions that she just refuses to answer.

Does she like having me around?

Does she counter-surf in the kitchen when I’m at work?

Would she prefer it if I just moved out?

She’s always hanging out with the neighbor’s cat, Tabby. They saunter in and out of each other’s cat flaps like they own the whole street.

I kick off my heels, ripping off my posh pantsuit right there in the hallway, down to my underwear. I’m safe to perform this burlesque act since Lizzie, my best mate and housemate, is out for the evening. As much as I love a good office power outfit, I don’t wear them a second longer than I have to.

At work, I’m a prim and proper thirty-three-year-old professional lady. Pantsuits on point, hair done nice. But the second I enter my flat, it’s like I time-travel back to my twenties, lounging in sweats, shoveling dry Coco Pops into my gob. I’m leading a straight-up double life here.

I throw on a ratty old T-shirt and some cotton shorts and pad into the kitchen to check Winnie’s food bowl. “Why didn’t you eat? Did you catch a mouse or something in the garden?”

Please, no. I’m still in therapy from the last “gift” she left in the tub—a half-eaten mouse carcass staring up at me.

Winne just purrs, doing a slutty circle around my legs, rubbing against me in blatant manipulation. Probably trying to butter me up so I’ll forget about her jabs.

I swap out her untouched kibble for a fresh batch of her favorite ridiculously expensive organic blend, trying to tempt her. Shegives it a disdainful sniff, then sashays away, tail flicking like I tried to poison her with bargain bin food.