Love to Loathe Him: A Billionaire Office Romance
Love to Loathe Him: Chapter 31

Thankfully, there’s no queue at Jimmy’s Comfort Cup cart, which is a godsend considering how desperately I need my caffeine fix this morning.

“Gemma.” Jimmy beams at me, all chipper and annoyingly awake. “You look tired, love. Rough night?”

Is it that obvious I’m shagged out?

Part of me thinks last night was a fever dream. I have had vivid fantasies about Liam before. But the delicious ache between my thighs and the stubble rash all over my body suggest that it was very real.

I rub my chin, wincing slightly. I had to cake on the makeup this morning, and my skin is still red. I look like I’ve been snogging a hedgehog.

“Jimmy, you should know better than to tell a lady she looks tired,” I scold him gently, mustering up a tired smile.

“Sorry, love,” he apologizes, looking sheepish. “You just look a bit peaky, that’s all.”

“I didn’t sleep too well,” I admit, which is the understatement of the bloody century. Kind of hard to get a good night’s rest when you’re up all night riding your boss’s cock.

“That boss of yours working you too hard?” Jimmy asks. If only he knew just how hard Liam’s been working me.

“Something like that,” I mutter. “I’ll take an extra shot in my flat white today, please.”

“Good call.” Jimmy nods and sets to making my coffee.

Just then, I spot Sir Whitmore leaving our offices with a gaggle of suits trailing behind him. Judging by the tightness around his eyes and the tension in his shoulders, the meeting I wasn’t allowed in didn’t go well. Liam won’t be happy.

As he walks past me, I muster up my best professional smile. “Good morning, Sir.”

For a second, I think he’s going to breeze right by, too preoccupied with his thoughts to even notice me. But then he stops abruptly. “You’re not driving more people away from my coffee, are you, Gemma?”

My eyes widen. “No, no, of course not! I would never. . .”

He waves a hand dismissively, cutting off my stammered apology. “Relax. It was just a little joke.”

I let out a shaky laugh. “Right. Sorry, I’m just a bit jittery this morning.”

“You and me both, dear.” He sighs, the weariness in his voice unmistakable.

Our eyes meet, and a moment of understanding passes between us. He knows that I know about the meeting.

I clear my throat, searching for something comforting to say. “You know, Jimmy’s chamomile tea is relaxing. Maybe you should give it a try?”

He nods, turning to Jimmy. “I think I will. Jimmy, I’ll have a chamomile tea, please.”

He’s sweet, considering most of the suits who come through here don’t even bother to make eye contact, let alone exchange pleasantries. They just bark their coffee orders.

I shift awkwardly, not wanting to overstep my bounds. It’s not my place to pry into the details of the meeting, especially not out here on the street.

“How have you been, Sir?” I ask instead. “Have you had a chance to do any sailing recently?”

He shakes his head, a rueful smile tugging at his lips. “No, not recently. I haven’t had much time, what with . . . well, you know.”

The unspoken hangs heavy in the air between us. Since his billion-pound company might be going under. Since his life’s work is on the line.

“Of course, I understand. You’re a busy man,” I say gently. “I hope you can replace some time to get out on the water soon.”

He nods, taking the chamomile tea from Jimmy with a grateful smile.

“How about a pain au raisin, Sir? Or we’ve got some lovely Portuguese tarts,” Jimmy suggests, seemingly delighted at serving Sir Whitmore.

Sir Whitmore pauses, looking torn. It’s clear he doesn’t really want anything, but he also doesn’t want to disappoint Jimmy. “Ah, go on then. I’ll take a Portuguese tart, please.”

He hands over a crisp fifty-pound note, waving away Jimmy’s attempt to give him change. “Is business going well, son?” he asks, his eyes crinkling with genuine interest.

“It’s great!” Jimmy beams. “Never been better.”

I feel a pang in my chest at his enthusiasm. Please, god, let him keep this cart.

“Glad to hear it.” Sir Whitmore nods. “Keep the change, son. Consider it a tip for your excellent service.”

He turns to me then, his expression sobering. “You take care of yourself.”

He walks away, leaving me with a sinking feeling in my gut. I say goodbye to Jimmy and head through the revolving doors of the very company that might dismantle the charity he depends on.

I feel like a traitor. I always wanted to be successful, to prove I could do it. But now, the higher I climb this corporate ladder, the more I realize just how many lives we affect with every deal. It’s not just about trading pounds and pennies—there are real people on the other side of those numbers. I’m no saint, but I can’t shake the feeling of wanting to do better.

If we win the bid, we’re set to make some major changes. We’ll be licensing the TLS brand to foreign markets, allowing for expansion. We’re also planning to reduce the workforce, cutting staff numbers particularly in middle management. And we’ll be moving certain operations, like IT, to countries with lower labor costs. Then, in a year’s time, we sell it off, presumably for a tidy profit.

From a business perspective, it all makes perfect sense. Streamline operations, cut costs, maximize profits, then cash out while the going’s good. It’s the kind of calculated move that has made Liam McLaren as successful as he is.

I head straight up to the main boardroom, steeling myself for another round of What the hell is she doing here looks from some of the suits who are wondering why I’m helping with the bid.

This is the second executive board meeting I’ve been invited to, and some of them still look at me like I’m the tea lady who’s accidentally wandered in. As if HR is just a lowly admin role.

As I walk in, I hear the execs laughing and joking around, which throws me for a loop. After seeing Sir Whitmore looking so grim earlier, I figured Liam and the others would be in a shit mood. But nope, they’re all smiles, even Liam—though he’s got it reined in compared to Ollie, who’s practically falling out of his chair cackling at something one of the execs said.

I opt for the seat farthest from Liam’s end of the table, joining the other B-list suits who didn’t make the cut for the first meeting.

I’m pleased to see that Liam looks just as knackered as I feel, though it’s a good look on him. My pulse quickens at the mere sight of him. Memories of last night come flooding back—the feel of his stubble rasping against my thighs, of him eating me out.

Fuck.

This is fine. I can sit here and pretend I didn’t spend the night riding him, pinching his nipples and pointing his own jizz at his face. Easy.

He looks up then, his gaze locking with mine, and despite the otherwise stoic expression, there’s a flash of something in his eyes. A silent communication that passes between us like an electric current.

His eyes flick to my chin, taking in the reddened skin, and the corner of his mouth twitches. I hope his dick is as chafed as my face.

Liam doesn’t sit. Instead, he stands behind his chair, gripping the back of it. “Before we dive into the agenda, I want to give you all an update on our meeting with Sir Whitmore’s team. He’s finally ready to come to the table. Just a few minor details to iron out.”

Ollie lets out a whoop. “Finally, the old man sees sense.”

I frown, not quite buying it. “That’s . . . great. What made him change his mind?”

Liam shrugs. “We hit him with some scary projections, stuff he should’ve woken up to ages ago.”

But something doesn’t feel right. These guys aren’t reading the room at all. Sir Whitmore might have backed down in the moment, outnumbered by the execs, but he’s tough. He hates being pushed around. I’ve got a hunch they’re nowhere near closing this deal like they think they are.

Liam did say he wanted me to be straight with him. So screw it, here goes. “I actually ran into Sir Whitmore downstairs. For a man about to sign a deal he didn’t look that celebratory.”

Ollie waves me away. “It’s fine, don’t worry about it.”

But my gut’s telling me it’s not fine. Not even close. “I’m sure he’s still not happy with what we’re offering for the charities. That’s a risk.”

The rest of the room’s eyes land on me, probably wondering why the hell I’m piping up about some piddly little coffee carts when there are millions of pounds at stake.

“This is a small part of the deal, it’s hardly relevant,” Ollie interjects, his voice dripping with condescension. “Can we get back to the important points?”

I ignore him, my eyes landing on Liam. “Sir Whitmore doesn’t want his charity to go under. And rightly so. That charity does so much good, helps people who have nothing else. We can’t just cast them aside.”

“Gemma, for fuck’s sake—” Ollie starts, but Liam glares at him.

“If the company goes under, the charity goes under. It’s a moot point,” Liam says, his voice hard and unyielding. “The charity model will have to adapt into a profit percentage model. We can keep the main coffee shops open in the flagship stores, but the others aren’t sustainable. A fixed percentage of TLS’s profits will go to the charity—one percent, which is the best I can do with the numbers.”

I feel my heart sink. “But those people will lose their jobs. This isn’t just about numbers on a spreadsheet. This is their lifeline.”

Liam’s jaw tightens. “No one is going to do any better,” he snaps. “It’s this or the charity closes completely.”

“But—” I start to argue but he cuts me off with a sharp gesture.

“Enough,” he growls, his eyes flashing with anger. “This discussion is over.”

Just like that, I’m reminded of why I hate this man. Because underneath the mind-blowing sex, he’s still Liam McLaren, the man who puts profits above people.

I’m mortified and furious. It’s not like this hasn’t happened before—Liam shutting me down in front of everyone—but it stings more now. I shouldn’t have expected any different just because we slept together.

“Gemma, stay behind.” Liam’s voice slices through the air as the meeting wraps up.

“Good luck, kiddo,” Ollie whispers as he passes me. Ugh. I bite back the urge to tell him exactly where he can shove his “kiddo.”

As everyone else files out, I swallow hard. Liam’s got that look in his eyes—the one that says he’s about to rip me a new one. Fantastic.

“You asked me to be honest, and that’s exactly what I was doing,” I say before he can start.

“I asked for honesty, not for you to derail the entire meeting,” Liam says, his voice tight with barely contained frustration. “I agree, the charity has done incredible things. Credit where it’s due,” he continues, and for a split second, I think he might be coming around. But then he hits me with: “But this is business, Gemma. Look at how many fundraisers TLS is hosting, tapping into Sir Whitmore’s wealthy circle. With our setup, if TLS makes money, the charity makes money. That’s the only way it survives long-term.”

I swallow the bitter pill of his logic, hating that he’s making sense. Hating that I can see the cold, hard truth in his corporate reasoning.

“What about the people who work for it?” I ask, my voice quieter now.

Liam’s eyes soften, just a fraction. “We can keep about fifty percent of them open. That’s the best we can do with the numbers. For the rest, there has to be a rampdown plan.”

Rampdown plan. What a neat, clinical way of saying “we’re going to crush people’s dreams and call it business.”

“How do you do it?” I scoff. “How do you talk about people like they’re just pawns on a chessboard? Those charities change thousands of lives. People like Jimmy, who you walk past every single day.”

Liam’s jaw clenches, his eyes hardening as he crosses his arms over his broad chest. “This might be a shock to you but we’re running a business here. This isn’t a charity. You’re working at the wrong place if you can’t understand that.”

“You call that business? I call it lazy,” I snap back, my anger flaring to match his.

“Lazy?” He looks both shocked and furious, like he can’t believe I had the nerve to call him that.

“Anyone in a position of strength can take from those who are in a position of vulnerability. It takes someone radical to come up with a strategy where everyone emerges stronger. Where everyone wins.”

“Big talk from someone cozy in a secure job. Someone who doesn’t have to take any real risks.”

I feel my cheeks flush with indignation. “Just because I’m not a CEO doesn’t mean I’m wrong. It means I have a perspective you’ve lost. Maybe you had it once, but now you’re too high up in your ivory tower.”

Liam’s eyes flash dangerously as he steps closer, his tall frame looming over me. “High up in my tower?” His voice is edged with warning. “Poverty isn’t some problem for me to coo over as Jimmy makes me a coffee. It’s a reality that I lived for years.”

I lift my chin. “And that’s what makes your attitude so much worse. That you’re willing to screw over the Jimmys of the world for a pound when you already have more money than you could spend in ten lifetimes.”

Liam leans in close, his face inches from mine, the heat of his anger radiating off him. My heart stutters, confused by the proximity—reminded too much of the last time he was this close, of his lips on mine. “When you hold the cards, you make the calls. Right now, there are billions on the table. You’re not a player, you’re not the dealer, you are not even the goddamn cocktail waitress serving the drinks. You’re an observer. And when I need your opinion, I’ll ask for it.”

Fury bubbles up inside me but I refuse to cower.

His eyes burn into mine. “You’re way out of line, Gemma. You’ve had your say, now drop it. I won’t tell you again.”

As much as I want to keep pushing, to make him see how wrong this is, I know it’s pointless. I’m just making him angrier, and a pissed-off Liam is not someone I want to cross right now.

“Yes. Of course. I understand,” I say, the words tasting bitter on my tongue. I don’t understand. I don’t agree.

I glance down at his tie, that absurdly expensive strip of silk that probably costs more than Jimmy makes in a week.

When I look up, he’s glaring at me like he’s just caught me mentally strangling him.

As if I needed the temptation, mate.

I turn and walk out, caught between white-hot rage and sickening shame. He demanded my honesty, and I’ve given it to him. And now that he’s on the verge of sealing the deal—now, when my honesty could actually make a difference—he just fucking ignores it.

I spend most of the weekend and following work week on TLS-related madness. It’s business as usual. And by usual, I mean pre-hallway-shag usual. It’s like Liam never even graced my flat with his brooding, bossy presence. In fact, he’s so firmly back in boss-hole mode that I’m half convinced I hallucinated the whole sordid affair. Maybe I should check my wall for cracks, or ask Winnie if he was actually there, if she heard the Great Hallway Humping.

All week he’s been barking orders, concentrating on getting the TLS bid over the line. To make matters worse, Vertex have moved into the top two floors of the building next door, just as Alastair promised. Liam’s stomping around the office like a bear with a sore head and a grudge. I’m half expecting him to start interviewing snipers to take Alastair out.

It’s Thursday, a full week since the hallway incident that may or may not have happened, and today’s supposed to be our next scheduled “meet.”

Not that I’m going to remind him. No way in hell.

It’s fine. Great, even. I’ve been up to my eyeballs trying to sniff out our mole on top of my regular job and recruitment duties.

He raps sharply on my door, holding the report I gave him. “Gemma, we’re still ten heads down.” Here to bollock me for the fifth time today. Lucky me.

“I know, but we’ve also recruited six more in this last week alone,” I snap back, not in the mood for his bullshit. “I’m not a miracle worker.”

He narrows his eyes at me. “I want daily updates on progress. This is critical.”

“Fine,” I say, my voice laced with sarcasm. “But just know that you adding more reporting will only slow us down further. I’ll be spending more time writing out emails and less time recruiting.”

“What the hell is with the attitude?”

“I’m just giving it to you straight, boss,” I shoot back. “Isn’t that what you wanted?”

“I didn’t ask for a temper tantrum,” he says, fuming now.

I bristle. Okay, maybe I am being a bit more snappy than usual today.

He shakes his head and strides off. Well, that’s just fan-fucking-tastic. We’re definitely not on for tonight, then.

Good. It’s better this way. I’m not disappointed. Not at all.

I’m walking from the office to the underground when my phone buzzes with a message.

“What?” I say loudly to no one on the street. My heart thumps in my chest. Surely he can’t be serious?

I blink and reread the message, my brain struggling to process the sudden turn of events. Someone crashes into me from behind, muttering a charming “For fuck’s sake, move it!” as they pass.

Adrenaline rushes through me as I type out a response.

No chance. Not after his moods and rants all week.

Part of me wants to say fuck it and text back yes, yes, yes, but I can’t. I just . . . I can’t handle this. This entire week has been torture, walking into work every day and pretending that incredible night never happened. Spending all my time with CEO Liam, the ruthless, brutal version of him that’s always going to war, is hard. I can’t reconcile that man with the one I see in the bedroom, the one who’s so generous and attentive it’s intoxicating.

His compartmentalization is killing me. Instead of feeling stronger or more confident, I feel fragile, battered, and bruised. Sleeping with him opened up something inside me, something dangerous that I need to shove back into its box.

I hit send with a satisfying flourish, feeling an immature rush of vindication. Take that, McLaren. I’m not just some booty call you can summon at will then treat like mud on his shoe the rest of the time. I’m a strong, independent woman who . . . washes her own hair.

My phone rings, and his name flashes on the screen. Shit. My heart leaps into my throat as I stare at it, frozen. I let it ring out.

Another message pops up, and I nearly drop my phone when I read it.

My knees go weak at the thought, heat pooling low in my belly. I can almost feel the warm water cascading over my skin as he presses me up against the tiles, his body pinning me in place as he—

No. Don’t let him get in your head.

He calls again, and I stare at his name on the screen, my thumb hovering over the answer button.

Then I turn it off, very proud of myself.