Love to Loathe Him: A Billionaire Office Romance
Love to Loathe Him: Chapter 20

I want off this fucking boat right now.

The boat lurches dangerously, tilting up on one side in a way that can’t possibly be safe. I frantically try to mimic the rope-pulling motions Skipper Magee demonstrated, but who am I kidding? I have no clue if I’m doing this right or just making everything worse.

There’s been zero opportunity for team bonding or charming Sir Whitmore’s grandson so far. Unless “bonding” means me and Max collectively losing our minds in sheer panic. He’s not as bad as me, but he’s not as good as Liam needs him to be.

“Steady as she goes!” Magee bellows from the helm, his wild eyes fixed on some distant horizon point. “Keep an eye on the luff!”

“I don’t know what any of that means,” I wail to the wind, tugging helplessly on the rope.

As the boat dips even further, I can’t stifle the scream that rips from my throat. “Is this normal?” I shriek to no one in particular.

Everyone else is working hard. The other guys and Liam are doing god knows what on the other side of the boat and Max is trying to trim like me. I don’t think he knows what he’s doing either. From what I understand, trimming is adjusting the sails by pulling on the ropes.

Magee continues barking indecipherable technical instructions that leave me more bewildered by the second. Liam’s shouts as he rushes about the rigging make it evident that winning this stupid race is his sole priority.

The winds are intensifying by the second. Magee bellows more orders from the helm, this time aiming the torrent of bizarre jargon directly at Max and me—the clueless “trimmers” tasked with adjusting . . . something?

In a desperate bid to placate the furious old sea captain, I begin yanking on every rope and line within reach, like some sort of deranged puppeteer.

I catch Liam watching me intently, his brows furrowed into a severe line. He mutters a string of curses and strides over.

But it’s not out of concern for my wellbeing—oh no. The downright ferocious look on his face makes it clear this is all about making sure we don’t lose this stupid race.

“Gemma, you’re falling too far behind the trim,” he shouts, grabbing the ropes from my trembling hands and adjusting them with a few harsh, efficient pulls. “We have to keep the sails optimized for these winds.”

“I don’t even know what the fuck that means!” I screech as the boat starts tilting. “Someone, please get me off this floating fucking deathtrap!”

“Calm yourself,” he growls. “It’s fine. Nothing’s going to happen to you. I’m here.”

“Like that’s reassuring after you threatened to toss me overboard!”

His expression flickers with a smirk. “I’ll wait until after we win to feed you to the sharks.”

Before I can process what’s happening, Liam hauls my back against the hard wall of his chest and wraps his beefy arms around me.

I let out an undignified shriek, my body going rigid with a heady mix of fear and something else entirely. “What the hell are you—”

I promptly shut up when I realize he’s trying to show me what to do.

“Feel how I’m countering the wind?” His voice tickles my ear, sending sparks down my spine. Feel it? I can feel everything. “Use your whole body, not just your arms. And calm down. Relax your breathing. Easy now. It’s okay, you’ve got this.”

The heat of his touch sears through my big yellow trousers, branding me with his fingerprints. I’ll probably have scorch marks in the shape of his hand for weeks.

His other hand grips the ropes, biceps flexing with the strain. I’m acutely aware of every hard plane of his body pressed against mine, the friction between us too much, too hot, too everything.

He guides my hands to the ropes, his fingers engulfing mine.

“There, that’s it,” Liam murmurs in a tone that could almost be construed as approval.

His breaths are pulsing hotly against the back of my neck and combined with the salty ocean breeze whipping my hair around, it’s making it really hard to focus.

“Now work those ropes, just like I showed you,” he instructs, all business. As if he doesn’t realize his proximity is melting my brain. As if my ass isn’t nestled in his groin, with him as my big spoon.

I try to keep up with what he’s saying and what his hands are trying to show me. But it’s impossible. All I can think about is how badly I want to lean back, to test if that bulge I feel is what I think it is.

My hands shake as I grip the ropes, desperate to prove I’m not useless.

“You okay to handle this by yourself now?” he says over the chaos of wind and waves.

No, I want to scream. I’m not okay. You have your hands all over me and it’s driving me fucking insane. I need to hump something before I explode. If I live past this race, that is.

“Uh-huh,” I squeak out, then clear my throat, trying to sound like a badass sailor. “I mean, yeah. I got this.”

“Good,” Liam bellows, storming back to his position like a man on a mission. The abrupt loss of contact leaves me reeling.

“Prepare to jibe!” Magee’s voice pierces the winds.

Before I can process this new bit of nautical nonsense, there’s a loud whoosh above my head. The boom—the massive metal pole at the base of the mainsail—swings violently across the boat. I duck, narrowly avoiding an impromptu decapitation.

“Jesus Christ!” I yelp, my heart pounding. I think I let out a bit of pee.

Liam and Skipper Magee continue to shout sailing jargon back and forth like they’re speaking in tongues for the next twenty minutes while I focus on the more important task of not dying.

The chalky cliffs of the Isle of Wight are coming closer. Solid, beautiful, non-moving land. Pebbled between the colorful houses of the port town, there’s a pub beckoning. And I need a drink.

“We’re winning!” Max yells at me from his position on the other side, his face lighting up.

We’re winning? How the hell did that happen? Did all the other boats sink?

I don’t even know where the finish line is. I don’t know anything anymore. I’m just trying not to get swept overboard or yelled at.

I risk a glance over at the other boats, and holy shit, we’re neck and neck with Alastair’s crew, leading the rest of the pack. The wind is finally starting to die down a blessed notch, but the competition still feels ferocious.

“Come on!” Liam roars, the vein in his handsome forehead looking like it’s about to burst. He’s going to give himself an aneurysm if he doesn’t chill the hell out. Without a doubt he’s doing ninety percent of the work on this boat. The other ten percent is split between the rest of us and sheer dumb luck.

“Max,” he barks sharply, making the poor kid flinch. “I need that jib trimmed properly. Now. We’re losing speed out here.”

Oh god. Max looks like he’s about to burst into tears, his face crumpling under Liam’s harsh criticism. Just great.

“It’s okay, Max!” I shout over the wind, promptly getting a mouthful of salty seawater. “You’re doing great.”

Liam and Skipper Magee have a heated conversation and Liam takes the wheel from him, his jaw clenched tight and his eyes narrowed in fierce concentration. We’re so close to the port now.

Beside us, Alastair’s boat is matching us move for move.

“Do you want to win this fucking race or not?” Liam shouts, his voice harsh and commanding, and Max flinches like he’s been slapped.

I glare at Liam. What the hell is he playing at?

A crowd is gathered at the port, clapping and cheering us on. Sir Whitmore is front and center, his eyes locked on our boat, on Liam, on Max. Oh shit. If Max breaks down in front of his grandpa after being berated by Liam . . . This is not good. This is so, so not good.

“Max, why don’t you take the wheel now?” I blurt out impulsively before I can second-guess myself. “Your grandfather does such amazing things for this charity—you deserve the honor of being the one to steer us across the finish line.”

I turn to Liam, my heart in my throat. Please don’t kill me. “Liam, let Max steer us in.”

The thunderous look on Liam’s face makes it clear what he thinks of that plan. “Are you out of your mind?”

Max’s crestfallen expression crumples even further. At this rate, the poor kid’s going to need therapy before we reach the shore.

Liam sees it too, and he looks at me, his expression torn between fury and what might be a flicker of human emotion.

I give him a pointed look, mouthing, Do it now.

“Hey . . . buddy,” he grits out, his tone strained but managing to soften. “Why don’t you come on up here and take the wheel? Show us what you’re made of.”

Max’s face lights up with a childlike excitement as he dashes to the helm, pushing Liam aside. His hands clamp onto the wheel with fierce determination.

Alastair’s boat is right there, but with Max steering, we’re losing ground. Fuck, fuck, fuck. My heart pounds so hard, I’m pretty sure the entire Isle of Wight can hear it.

And then, it’s over. Alastair’s boat pulls ahead, leaving us floundering in their wake.

Liam sighs and murmurs to me, “That little stunt just cost us the race.”

“Did I cost us the race?” I huff. “Or did I help us win something more valuable?” I nod toward Sir Whitmore, who’s cheering and waving at Max with a proud grin.

Liam follows my gaze, his jaw loosening slightly as realization dawns.

I elbow him in the ribs. “See? There are different ways to win. Smile and wave, Captain Sunshine.”

A faint smirk tugs at his annoyingly perfect lips. “Quite the strategist, aren’t you?” he drawls. “All right, Gemma. You’ve made your point.”

“Looks like Skipper Magee isn’t the only one you take orders from,” I taunt, unable to resist pushing his buttons.

If my jab affects him, he doesn’t show it. “You get off on bossing me around, don’t you?” he murmurs, his voice deeper than I’ve ever heard it. “Makes you all hot and bothered, thinking you can put me in my place.”

I swallow hard, fighting the heat creeping up my cheeks. “Someone’s gotta keep that ego in check. Might as well be me.”

Liam studies me with that inscrutable look.

Finally, he speaks in that same low, controlled rumble. “Be very, very careful what you wish for, Gemma.”