Love to Loathe Him: A Billionaire Office Romance
Love to Loathe Him: Chapter 9

I don’t have time to dwell on Liam’s behavior. While the rest of the employees are happily munching on the lavish catered goods, I take the opportunity to march back up to reception and retrieve the files from Lizzie.

“Heya!” she coos.

“Sorry, love, I’ve no time to stop and chat,” I say, already taking the files from her hand. “You’re an absolute lifesaver, though. Seriously, I owe you big time.”

She peers around my head for a glimpse beyond the reception area. “Aw, not even to give me the grand tour?”

“Not today, sorry.” I practically shove her out the door again, but not before slipping her some of our fancy canapés. “Here, take these. You’ve earned ’em. Love you to bits, gotta run, bye!”

No time to lose. I scurry down the center aisle in this awkward half-trot, my heels clacking with each panicked step. Why do I wear these again? Oh, right—appearances over comfort. Tale as old as time.

Striding into McLaren’s office, I make an overstated show of depositing those files front and center on his immaculate desktop with a decisive thwap.

As I pivot to make my escape, I run smack into a wall of muscle and expensive cologne.

“Pardon me,” I mumble, hating how flustered I sound as I stumble back a step.

One of his judgmental brows inches up in that trademark arrogant quirk. “Something wrong?”

“No, I just left what you required on your desk. I hope you replace it to your satisfaction. Let me know if you’re unhappy with anything.”

He smirks. “How would I ever cope without you?”

“Probably a lot less well than you think,” I blurt out before I can stop myself.

He chuckles, deep and low, and cocks that damn brow again. I feel my face flush.

What the hell is wrong with me? Am I perimenopausal at thirty-three? Or am I just so painfully, pathetically sexually frustrated that a single quirked eyebrow from my asshole boss is enough to send me into a hormone-fueled tizzy?

Get a grip. And while you’re at it, get laid.

“Thanks for your kind words,” I manage stiffly. “On stage. They were . . . unexpected.”

“Perhaps I don’t show my appreciation as freely as I should.” He drags his searing gaze over me in a lazy, assessing sort of way that has heat prickling along my skin. “Obviously I have no true concept of how much meticulous planning and effort goes into pulling off an event of that scale. I know you work tirelessly to make these miracles happen.”

He leans in, close enough to make my pulse quicken, and adds softly, “All to fulfill my batshit demands.”

His . . . batshit . . . demands?

“It’s not a problem,” I reply with forced coolness. “It’s my job. It went off without any major hitches, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Your organizational skills were exceptional as usual.” He says it in such a deadpan manner that I can’t tell if he’s still being sarcastic. “Even though I did push the event back by a day.”

“That’s not a problem at all. I know how busy you are. And that speech earlier?” I double down, pouring it on thick now. “You were captivating up there, sir. You really have a gift for motivating the entire company.”

There’s that subtle hint of a smirk playing at the corner of his lips again, like he’s in on some joke that I’m not privy to. Probably laughing at my pathetic attempts at flattery. “I can always count on you for your honest opinion, Gemma, can’t I?” The way he says it, with that undercurrent of malicious amusement, makes me swallow hard.

“Of course.”

His eyes narrow. “Hmm.”

“Now if you’ll excuse me, sir.” I move to sidestep around his imposing frame, but he blocks my exit with a slight shift of his body, his broad chest looming over me.

“I thought we agreed on you calling me Liam,” he murmurs. The proximity makes my stomach flip and I curse myself for the traitorous reaction.

“Of course. Liam.”

Honestly, I prefer him as an insufferable asshole. At least then, I know where I stand. This new, almost playful side of him is throwing me off-balance, and I don’t like it one bit.

I manage to break free for a few precious minutes to grab some of the leftover buffet when Lizzie’s name flashes across my phone.

“Yeah?” I answer, typing furiously at my laptop with my free hand.

“Uh, we’ve got a slight issue here, babe.” Lizzie’s voice is laced with poorly concealed panic. “Hmm, do you know how to make Winnie poo on demand? Like, is there a special cat treat or something that just gets things moving?”

I pause mid-keystroke. “What? Why?”

“So, I, um, you know, went to drop the cat poo off but can’t replace it anywhere! So I’m back home now, trying to get Winnie to provide a replacement sample. But she’s not exactly being cooperative. Should I try feeding her?”

“So you’ve lost the original poo sample?”

“I swear I had it in my bag with your files! It must’ve fallen out at your office.”

“At my office?” I hiss, before remembering where I am and lowering my voice to a furious whisper. “Are you telling me there’s a rogue cat turd rolling around somewhere in my workplace?”

She makes a whimpering sound.

Squeezing my eyes shut, I suck in a deep, calming breath through my nose. “Don’t force it, she only goes once per day usually. We’ll get another deposit tomorrow morning. I’ll have to do a sweep and make sure that biohazard isn’t rolling around reception somewhere.”

I hang up abruptly and charge out toward the lobby, doing my absolute best to seem cool, calm, and collected—like I’m not on a covert mission to locate a wayward piece of cat poo in a flipping transparent tube.

Liam is holed up in his office, deep in what looks like an intense discussion with three blokes who can only be the dreaded auditors.

Mercifully, there’s no sign of the missing specimen tube in the lobby. But I still feel uneasy.

I stride back through the open-plan office while sneaking a furtive glance toward Liam’s glass-walled office.

He appears to be attempting a smile for the auditors, though it clearly causes him great physical and emotional pain. He lifts a hand, idly stroking the stubble dusting his jawline, then his arm comes down to land on the folders I left on his desk and . . .

Oh.

God.

No.

Out rolls the fucking poo tube in tortuous slow-motion, directly into Liam’s line of sight.

What have you done, Lizzie?

I feel the blood draining from my face. Liam’s frown carves deeper into those handsome features as confusion—and a trace of horror—washes over him.

He glances at the auditors, nostrils flaring, probably praying they didn’t witness that. Then his gaze whips back to settle on . . . the poo sample, nestled all snug and cozy beside his tanned, toned forearm.

And . . . is that my lipstick? My bright red, unmistakable, signature shade of lipstick, lying conspicuously next to the offending turd like some sort of bizarre still life? What the actual hell, Lizzie? Did you just grab a handful of random objects off my table and stuff them in with the files?

I snatch up a random file from a nearby desk, feigning deep concentration as I pretend to review its contents. All the while, I’m watching Liam out of the corner of my eye, trying not to look like I’m watching him.

All right, deep breaths. In through the nose, out through the mouth.

Nothing definitively links the poo to me, except for the fact that I was likely the last person in his office. And it was nestled oh-so-lovingly in the folders I handed him. But besides that, I’m in the clear.

He shifts uncomfortably, his features contorting into something I can only describe as flustered confusion. In all my years at Ashbury Thornton, with all the shit I’ve witnessed, I’ve never once seen McLaren flustered.

And yet here we are, at this crowning moment of my career, and I’ve finally managed to do the impossible.

He makes an awkward attempt at discretion, trying—and inevitably failing—to nudge it out of sight with repeated jabs of his muscular forearm. Good luck with that, mate.

This is just too much. I can’t stand here and watch this go down. I’m going to walk away calmly and pretend I haven’t the faintest idea about any of this. It’s just some rogue poo that magically appeared on his desk. He might even suspect Brandon—it has all the hallmarks of a petty act of revenge. Or maybe the auditors themselves planted it in a bid to unsettle him.

Either way, I have plausible deniability on my side.

As I’m making my not-so-casual retreat, a sobering realization washes over me: Brandon and the three balding auditors don’t exactly strike me as the red lipstick–wearing kind.

I hurry back to my office, offering strained smiles to my coworkers as I pass. It’s as if I’ve left my signature at the scene of the crime. A bright red calling card, right next to the damning evidence. I might as well have written “FROM GEMMA, WITH LOVE” in permanent marker on the bloody tube.

I’m sure that’ll go over well with HR. Oh wait, I am HR.

Twenty minutes later, the auditors finally pour out of McLaren’s office, with him leading the way.

I’m doing my utmost to appear nonchalant as I chat with Isabella about expediting the visa process for new Dubai recruits.

Mercifully, Liam doesn’t spare me a glance as he strides past, his auditors in tow, heading toward reception. I let out the breath I’ve been choking on. Maybe he didn’t notice the lipstick after all.

Isabella’s query cuts through my panicked haze. “So we go through this company now for their visas and give them this code?”

“That’s corr—” The words shrivel up and die on my tongue as a deafening RAP-RAP-RAP against my open office door slices through the atmosphere.

Liam appears in my doorway just long enough to growl out a curt summons: “In my office. Now.”

Before I can even blink, he storms off back to his own office.

Isabella shoots me a worried look. “Hope everything’s okay, Gem?”

“Everything’s just fine,” I lie through a plastic smile.

Steeling my nerves, I stride into McLaren’s office to replace him stationed squarely in the center of the room, his arms crossed, his jaw clenched tighter than I’ve ever seen.

“Explain yourself.”

“I’m not sure what you’d like me to explain, sir?” I buy myself a minute. He could be referring to any number of issues. It’s not like he’s Mr. Congeniality. For all I know, he’s about to explode over the delay in updating the company’s employee handbook.

With one sharp movement, he snatches something up from his desk and thrusts it toward me in an accusatory gesture.

“This,” he says, his eyes narrowing. “Explain this.”

The plastic specimen tube filled with its damning evidence dangles between us.

Shit. Literally and figuratively.

I could deny everything. Feign ignorance. Pretend I’ve never seen that poo before in my life. But all roads lead to me with that red lipstick sitting there, bold as brass.

“It’s not what you think,” I blurt out on pure desperation autopilot, hands raised in a placating gesture.

“Really?” he retorts, sarcasm dripping from each syllable. “Because it looks an awful lot like shit on my desk. And I’m guessing it’s yours since this is your lipstick, correct? Unless you’re going to tell me that one of the auditors just happened to leave their makeup behind after taking a dump in my office.”

Wait . . . back up. He knows my lipstick. Like, he recognizes it. But that’s not the issue at hand here.

“Well, yes . . . technically it is a stool sample,” I admit with a grimace. “But it ending up on your desk like that was a total accident.”

“You ‘accidentally’ left shit on my desk?” Liam growls, leaning in and using his imposing height to tower over me. “Because this does not feel even remotely accidental, Gemma. In fact, the last time some entitled prick tried pulling a stunt like this in my office . . .” His eyes blaze with fury. “I made damn sure they’d never work at a decent company in London again.”

Wait, this isn’t the first time Liam has dealt with a fecal “occurrence” in his office? Bloody hell.

Liam closes more of the distance between us, intent on invading my personal space in a display of dominance.

“No. No, let me explain,” I scramble, palms in a white-flag gesture of surrender as he advances. One accidentally touches his chest, and I quickly bring it away.

“By all means, do explain,” he snaps, jaw clenching with tightly leashed impatience. “What, you just happened to trip mid-stride, and it materialized out of your pocket and onto my desk?”

“Obviously not.” I wince at his scathing sarcasm. “The sample was . . . well, it was from my cat, specifically.”

He stares, eyes flickering between disbelief and outright revulsion. “And that’s meant to improve this situation . . . how, exactly?”

I swallow hard. I can’t tell him Lizzie brought in my forgotten files.

He’s so close now. I can practically feel the heat of his anger radiating off him, mixing with the scent of his cologne and creating a heady, slightly terrifying aroma.

“I was taking a sample to the vet. My cat’s been having some stomach issues, and they needed a sample. It must’ve accidentally ended up on your desk when I was dropping off those reports earlier. I’m so sorry, sir. It was a genuine mistake.”

The silence that follows is heavy, each second stretching out painfully as he just . . . stares at me.

“Is this your twisted way of expressing your true feelings about me? Some perverse act of rebellion?”

“What?” I freeze, my eyes widening in disbelief. “No, absolutely not! I can’t believe you’d think that. Miss Winchester-Scott—my cat,” I quickly clarify, “required the stool analysis. I’m dreadfully sorry about . . . all of this.” I wave my hand vaguely, encompassing the entire situation.

Good grief, pull yourself together, woman.

Something flickers behind his eyes—realization, incredulity, or maybe just the simple fact that he’s witnessing his head of HR go completely off the rails in real time.

He shoots a quick glance at the open office outside his glass walls, his jaw tightening ever so slightly as he realizes we’re now the main attraction.

With a subtle step back, he puts just enough distance between us to restore a hint of professional decorum.

“Miss Winchester-Scott,” he repeats with exaggerated slowness, “is your . . . cat.”

I blink. “Yes?” I say slowly, drawing out the word. Talk about a weird thing to get hung up on.

He regards me for a long, loaded moment, face impassive except for the hint of a smirk he seems to be fighting off.

Then Liam bursts into deep, rumbling laughter.

At what, I haven’t the slightest clue. He turned forty this year—it might be a mid-life crisis kicking in. Or he’s finally snapping from the pressure of being the top dog. Or maybe he just really likes cats.

I laugh nervously along with him, even though I’m not in on the joke. It’s a high-pitched, slightly manic sound.

Either way, I’ll take it. Better to deal with laughter than the alternative, which probably involves a security escort out of the building.

As the laughter dies down, I shift uneasily, trying to gauge the mood. Has this truly transitioned into a shared joke between us now?

“Let me just take that off your hands,” I murmur, leaning forward to gingerly pluck the offending specimen with the tips of my fingers.

Clearing my throat, I decide the only viable path forward is to play this entire fiasco off as a silly little mishap hardly worth dwelling on further. “Once again, I’m terribly sorry about that. Please accept my apologies.”

His lips thin as he studies me. “Close the door on your way out.”