But then Miss Winchester-Scott huffed until I let her into the living room. As much as I told her I needed some me time, she wouldn’t let up. I had to waddle to the door, mid-pleasuring, and let her in.
Not only did she witness my disheveled, panting state, the cheeky mare just plopped herself down like it was a bloody show! Didn’t avert her eyes, didn’t excuse herself, nothing. She just sat there lapping it all up like the degenerate she is.
Holy shit. I do a double take, rereading that last bit just to make sure my eyes aren’t playing some sick, twisted joke on me.
Who the hell is Miss Winchester-Scott? Her cleaner? Her raunchy roommate? I’m learning all sorts of new and intriguing things about Gemma today. I feel like I’ve stumbled into a weird remake ofDebbie Does Dallas.
And if that wasn’t enough, she cockblocked me with the most toxic gas attack and I couldn’t finish.
“Jesus Christ,” I mutter. Is this some weird kinky shit Gemma’s into? Some metaphor I’m not getting?
“Couldn’t agree more, boss,” someone chimes in from across the table, assuming my interjection was in response to whatever the hell else we’re supposed to be discussing.
I nod absently, not even bothering to look up. My mind’s too busy trying to process what I just read. If anyone else was this distracted in a meeting, I’d be tearing them a new one.
I don’t know what to think or do about this. But one thing’s for sure—it can’t go on. I need to put a stop to this before it has a chance to escalate.
CHAPTER 8
Gemma
An email flashes upon my screen, the dreaded signature making my stomach twist—McLaren. I simply do not have the bandwidth to deal with any more of his last-minute whims right now. The all-staff meeting is set to start in ten minutes.
I can’t believe I was nearly late this morning, all because my darling feline companion decided that for the first time in her pampered life, taking her morning poo wasn’t at the top of her priority list.
From: Liam McLaren
To: Gemma Jones
Subject: Late night?
Gemma,
Couldn’t help but notice you were burning the midnight oil last night. I hope you weren’t working too hard. Wouldn’t want you wearing yourself out before the big meeting today.
I know how dedicated you are to giving 110%, but remember, pacing is key. Can’t have you failing to finish off those critical tasks.
Liam
What critical tasks did I leave unfinished?
I glance over at the boardroom where he’s holding court with his merry band of Armani-clad vultures. This message is straight-up odd. And a whole bunch of other adjectives that I can’t quite put my finger on.
I stare at the email again, scanning it over slowly. The tone—it’s all off. Disarmingly casual for him, with his famously terse emails. Like he’s trying to banter with me. But that can’t be right. Liam McLaren doesn’t banter. He barks orders and makes grown men cry, usually at the same time.
It’s unsettling, to say the least.
Burning the midnight oil. I swallow hard.
My god, what if he somehow found out that I flicked the bean to his headshot last night? Does he have some sort of spy software installed on my laptop, monitoring my every move?
Okay, now you’re just being ridiculous.
I take a deep breath, my fingers hovering over the keyboard. Then I start to type.
From: Gemma Jones
To: Liam McLaren
