He looks up with that small smile that until just yesterday made me weak in the knees, and my breath catches in my throat. Now it just makes me want to burst into tears.
I can’t do this.
I stride into his office, but instant dread washes over me. I can’t bear to look at his face.
I really can’t do this.
“Hey,” he says in a soft drawl, his eyes tracking me as I make my way to his desk. I wish he would stop looking at me like that.
“Hi.”
At my clipped tone, a frown etches lines into his perfect, lying face. “Everything okay?”
I grasp at my flimsy excuse. “Allergies. It’s so annoying. It gets me bad every year.”
Yeah, that’s it. I’m allergic to lying, cheating bastards.
“I’m sorry to hear that,” he says. “Is there anything I can do?”
Yeah, you can explain why you were at the Athenaeum last night. You can tell me why you have a standing appointment there every month. You can admit that you’re a lying, cheating scumbag who’s been playing me for a fool and fucking your business rival’s wife. And while you're at it, you can tell mewhy Jimmy’s coffee cart is suddenly closed when you said you were sorting out a deal for them. You lying shit.
But I don’t say any of that. I can’t. Not yet. It’s all still too fresh, the wound too deep and jagged to start poking at. And if there’s one thing I’ve learned from years of dealing with HR nightmares and listening to people blurt out wildly inappropriate stuff, it’s that you never let your heart lead in the workplace. You keep your emotions in check and your head on straight, no matter how much it hurts, no matter how much you want to scream and cry and throw staplers. Men like McLaren see blubbering women as an annoyance, an inconvenience.
So I force a tight smile, swallowing hard around the lump in my throat. “I’m fine, really. How are you? Do anything exciting last night?”
Liam leans back in his chair, exuding that infuriating casual confidence. “Not much. Had a PT session.” His eyes lock onto mine, his voice softening. “I gotta admit—I missed you.”
And there it is. The final nail in the coffin. My proof that he’s been deceiving me.
A PT session? Sure, buddy, if that’s what you want to call it. I hope you limbered up before your “workout,” wouldn’t want you pulling anything important.
My heart clenches painfully. How dare he look at me like that, all secret smiles and shared intimacy?
“How was dinner with Alastair?” he asks. “You’ve been very quiet about it. I was expecting a late-night lowdown.”
“It was fine.”
“Just fine?” His eyebrow arches, clearly not buying it.
I shrug, the movement stiff and unnatural. “Didn’t really get much out of him. Except that he loves sailing too and he’s part of a club near my flat. You two have so muchin common.”
“Like hell we do,” he scoffs, his face twisting with disdain.
Huh, exact same reaction as Alastair. You’re practically twins in assholery.
He stands, striding around his desk to perch on the edge, closer to me. Too close. I swallow hard, hating the proximity, hating the way my body still reacts to him.
“Did he say something to upset you?” His voice is rougher now, laced with a gruff concern.
“No,” I say, probably too forcefully. His hand reaches out, as if to take mine, but I pointedly look out at the open plan area where everyone can see us, and he drops it back down to his side. “I’m just tired after last night and the allergies and . . . stuff.”
“Okay,” he says after a beat. “Where did you go?”
This is it. The moment of truth.
“Guess!” I shrill.
He folds his arms over his chest. “You want me to guess out of all the restaurants in London? Gemma, I don’t have time for that.”
