The gaggle of finance bros let out a collective “Ooh” at the sick burn, and even Brad has the decency to look chagrined. Good.
Robbie smirks, raising his glass in a salute to me.
“Guess the fun’s over now that HR’s here,” Brad’s wingman mutters.
“I’m pretty sure that’s never stopped you before,” I say to him coolly, arching a brow. “But do try to keep your fun from being a fireable offense, yeah? It’s not rocket science, boys.”
He rolls his eyes, grumbling something that sounds suspiciously like “killjoy.” I choose to ignore it, because honestly, I don’t have the patience to deal with his manchild bullshit tonight. Not when I’m too busy trying not to flash the entire party in this dress.
Robbie smiles at me, his eyes warm. “Ignore them. It’s great to see you out at one of these.”
“The way some people act around HR, you’d think we just busted up a drug den,” I mutter, taking a swig of champagne.
He laughs then turns to Lizzie. “Are you in HR too?”
“God, no!” She shudders dramatically. “Seeing the stress Gem’s under? No thanks. I’m in theater.”
“Nice! Anything I might’ve seen?”
Lizzie’s eyes light up. “I was inCatsin the West End last year.”
Robbie looks suitably impressed. “Wow, really? That’s a huge deal.”
“Well.” Her grin turns a bit sheepish. “I was more of a . . . background cat.” She wrinkles her nose. “Okay, fine. I was the cat behind the trash can. But damn if I wasn’t the most committed trash cat that stage has ever seen.”
Robbie chuckles, clearly charmed by her antics. “I don’t doubt it for a second.”
One of the account managers swoops in, clapping a hand on Robbie’s shoulder. “Sorry, ladies, need to borrow this one for a minute.”
“Of course,” I say breezily, even as my heart sinks. There goes my only ally.
Lizzie grabs my arm, her nails digging into my skin. “Holy fuck, Gem. Who is that absolute smokeshow over there?”
I follow her line of sight, my eyes landing on a tall, dark figure across the rowdy bar.
I swallow hard, like I’m trying to choke down a grapefruit. There it is. The vest. That motherfucking piece of clothing that should be banned for how sinfully good it makes him look.
He’s holding court with a bunch of senior execs, looking every inch the big swinging dick in charge.
“That’s McLaren,” I mutter, my voice strained. “Stop eye-fucking him, for the love of god.”
“That’sMcLaren?” she squeaks, her eyes nearly bugging out of her head. “That’s the monster boss you’re always bitching about? I can’t believe it. The man is bloody gorgeous.”
“Would you keep your voice down?” I hiss, elbowing her in the ribs.
“Gemma, the way you go on about him, I thought he’d be some middle-aged ogre with a face like a smacked ass.”
“He is middle aged. He’s forty.”
She lets out a long breath, fanning herself dramatically. “Such a shame. That kind of beauty wasted on a jerk.”
I chance a glance in his direction and instantly regret it. Because he’s looking right at us.
For a second, I swear I see a flicker of surprise dance across his face as he takes in my outfit. But it’s gone just as quickly, replaced by that infuriatingly blank mask of his.
I give a slight nod of acknowledgement before tearing my eyes away, my traitorous cheeks growing warm. The last thing I need is for my boss to catch me ogling him at a company party. Especially after the whole cat shit debacle.
“He’s looking over here!” Lizzie squeals.
