“Sorry I’m late, Mr. McLaren,” she says breathlessly, hovering in the doorway. “Is now an acceptable time?”
Her cheeks are flushed, chest heaving like she just ran a marathon in those heels. Those red curls are tumbling down her shoulders, begging me to grab a fistful and pull.
Disrespectful little minx.
I level her with a glare.
She just stares back, her face a maddening mix of polite confusion and vague unease.
“What time do you call this?” I ask, keeping my voice level.
“I realize I’m behind schedule and I sincerely apologize. My cat is ill, and I had to make an emergency vet appointment. And with all due respect, sir, you scheduled this last-minute meeting at midnight. I didn’t see the invite until I woke up this morning.”
I shove my hands in my pockets, too wound up to even think about sitting behind my desk. “Would you care to discuss what you so thoughtfully shared with me last night?”
She nods crisply. “Absolutely. I’m happy to pull up the document in question so we can review it together?”
I narrow my eyes. “I don’t think that will be necessary. I got the gist quite clearly.”
“Excellent. Then you’re in agreement?” She doesn’t even blink.
I clench my jaw. “Not entirely, no.”
“I see.” She purses those full lips. “Which parts did you take issue with, specifically?”
“Are you trying to be funny?” I growl, stepping closer.
She blinks up at me, those wide emerald eyes the picture of confusion. “I’m not sure I follow, sir.”
The tension in the room thickens with every passing second of her maddeningly innocent expression.
“Just what exactly do you think I’m referring to here, Gemma?”
“The new recruitment strategy I sent over last night, per your request,” she replies evenly. “We’ll proceed with implementing it today, as discussed.”
A harsh laugh rips from my throat.
Her brows knit together, all righteous indignation. “I fail to see what’s so funny, sir.”
“Oh, it’s ‘sir’ again, is it?”
She frowns. “I always address you as sir.”
“You always address me as . . .sir,” I repeat, my voice dripping with sarcasm.
Her frown deepens, uncertainty flickering across her pretty face. “Would you prefer ‘Mr. McLaren’ instead?”
I smile slowly, already imagining the torrid details she’ll scribble about this encounter later. “What wouldyoulike to call me, Gemma?”
She eyes me warily. “You’ve never had an issue with how I address you before.”
“Well, I have an issue with it now. What is it you’dreallylike to call me?”
She hesitates, her tongue darting out to wet her bottom lip. I track the movement, my body tensing. “Liam . . . ?”
“Liam it is then,” I concede, my tone dripping with mock sincerity.
I hold her gaze for a long moment. It’s clear now—she has no idea she shared her hate manifesto with me.
