While the recognition is as flattering as it is unexpected, I can’t shake the feeling that there’s something more at play here. Something sinister lurking beneath Liam’s uncharacteristic display of appreciation.
CHAPTER 9
Gemma
I don’t have timeto dwell on Liam’s behavior. While the rest of the employees are happily munching on the lavish catered goods, I take the opportunity to march back up to reception and retrieve the files from Lizzie.
“Heya!” she coos.
“Sorry, love, I’ve no time to stop and chat,” I say, already taking the files from her hand. “You’re an absolute lifesaver, though. Seriously, I owe you big time.”
She peers around my head for a glimpse beyond the reception area. “Aw, not even to give me the grand tour?”
“Not today, sorry.” I practically shove her out the door again, but not before slipping her some of our fancy canapés. “Here, take these. You’ve earned ’em. Love you to bits, gotta run, bye!”
No time to lose. I scurry down the center aisle in this awkward half-trot, my heels clacking with each panicked step. Why do I wear these again? Oh, right—appearances over comfort. Tale as old as time.
Striding into McLaren’s office, I make an overstated show of depositing those files front and center on his immaculate desktop with a decisive thwap.
As I pivot to make my escape, I run smack into a wall of muscle and expensive cologne.
“Pardon me,” I mumble, hating how flustered I sound as I stumble back a step.
One of his judgmental brows inches up in that trademark arrogant quirk. “Something wrong?”
“No, I just left what you required on your desk. I hope you find it to your satisfaction. Let me know if you’re unhappy with anything.”
He smirks. “How would I ever cope without you?”
“Probably a lot less well than you think,” I blurt out before I can stop myself.
He chuckles, deep and low, and cocks that damn brow again. I feel my face flush.
What the hell is wrong with me? Am I perimenopausal at thirty-three? Or am I just so painfully, pathetically sexually frustrated that a single quirked eyebrow from my asshole boss is enough to send me into a hormone-fueled tizzy?
Get a grip. And while you’re at it, get laid.
“Thanks for your kind words,” I manage stiffly. “On stage. They were . . . unexpected.”
“Perhaps I don’t show my appreciation as freely as I should.” He drags his searing gaze over me in a lazy, assessing sort of way that has heat prickling along my skin. “Obviously I have no true concept of how much meticulous planning and effort goes into pulling off an event of that scale. I know you work tirelessly to make these miracles happen.”
He leans in, close enough to make my pulse quicken, and adds softly, “All to fulfill my batshit demands.”
His . . . batshit . . . demands?
“It’s not a problem,” I reply with forced coolness. “It’s my job. It went off without any major hitches, wouldn’t you agree?”
“Your organizational skills were exceptional as usual.” He says it in such a deadpan manner that I can’t tell if he’s still being sarcastic. “Even though I did push the event back by a day.”
“That’s not a problem at all. I know how busy you are. And that speech earlier?” I double down, pouring it on thick now. “You were captivating up there, sir. You really have a gift for motivating the entire company.”
There’s that subtle hint of a smirk playing at the corner of his lips again, like he’s in on some joke that I’m not privy to. Probably laughing at my pathetic attempts at flattery. “I can always count on you for your honest opinion, Gemma, can’t I?” The way he says it, with that undercurrent of malicious amusement, makes me swallow hard.
“Of course.”
His eyes narrow. “Hmm.”
“Now if you’ll excuse me, sir.” I move to sidestep around his imposing frame, but he blocks my exit with a slight shift of his body, his broad chest looming over me.
