How the hell did I share my diary in the first place? An image of the great wine spillage when Winnie jumped springs to mind. Wiping it clean, I must have somehow dragged it over to the corporate folders by accident.
A sharp rap on my door snaps me out of my thoughts. Speak of the devil and he appears.
Liam barges in and tosses a stack of papers unceremoniously onto my desk. “The terms, in writing.”
The moment our eyes meet, my face bursts into flames.
Last night, I at least had the benefit of a few glasses of liquid courage sloshing around in my veins. But now, stone-cold sober and faced with the man himself, I’m acutely aware that Liam McLaren knows I fantasize about him while engaging in a bit of DIY love.
Kill me now.
There’s only one thing left to do. Own it. Grab this situation by the metaphorical lady balls and show Liam McLaren that I’m not to be messed with. “You’re efficient. Less than twenty-four hours.”
I skim the pages, and my heart practically leaps out of my chest. The salary. There in black and white, a figure that’s double what I’m currently earning.
It takes every ounce of my acting skills not to react, not to let on just how much this means to me.
Freedom, much quicker than I thought. My nest-egg will be decent enough to take the risk to go self-employed and not have to worry about mortgage interest rates going up. I can give myself a year to flounder, to fail spectacularly, and to hopefully, eventually, succeed.
Trying my best not to let my giddiness and excitement show, I scan the rest of the document.
The part regarding juniors starting under mentorship and not Ollie is in there. I’ve been fighting that for a year. It’s a win for the little people. If you can call junior staff with elite degrees from elite universities “the little people.” But it doesn’t matter. We all need a hug sometimes. I read on. So far, so good.
C. Jones shall disclose full honesty and transparency to McLaren in all matters related to Ashbury Thornton’s business, without omission or obfuscation of any kind. “Full honesty” shall be defined as promptly providing any and all information requested by McLaren related to Ashbury Thornton and the TLS Deal.
D. No Cat Poo Deposits. Jones shall refrain from placing, depositing, or otherwise leaving any feline excrement, waste, or droppings (collectively “Cat Poo”) on McLaren’s desk or any other property belonging to McLaren or Ashbury Thornton, and shall take all necessary precautions to prevent any such occurrence.
There goes my plan to leave a steaming pile of cat shit on his desk every morning.
“Is this a joke?” I ask. “Did the lawyers seriously sign off on this?”
“The legal team has dealt with their fair share of unique requests over the years. Nothing shocks them anymore.” He leans in, bracing his hands on my desk, his face mere inches from mine. I can practically count the individual hairs of his perfect HenryCavill–like jaw. “You wanted it in writing. Yes, it’s absurd, but here we are.”
“I’m sorry, but I must have missed the part where you suddenly gained telepathic powers. How are you going to know if I’m telling the truth? Are you planning on hooking me up to a lie detector every morning?”
Liam’s lips curve into a smirk, his eyes glinting with a dangerous sort of amusement. “Oh, I’ll know. I can read you, Gemma. Didn’t get to where I am without being able to sniff out a lie from a mile away.”
“Really? You didn’t seem to figure out that I was lying for five years about how much you irritated me.”
“I knew. You think I haven’t learned a thing or two about you in the five years we’ve worked together? I just didn’t give a damn. But now that you’ve shoved it in my face, demanding a reaction? That’s a different story. I know you dislike me, Ollie, and most of our exec board. I know how much it kills you to be even a minute late. I’m well aware of your festering resentment over your work friend’s termination—which, I might add, was entirely justified and long overdue. I know your nose scrunches up when you’re pissed off, no matter how hard you try to maintain that professional facade. I know your morning ritual—that special coffee from the shop downstairs, the meticulous checking of your customized to-do list before you so much as power up your computer. And I know you think you look bloody fantastic in that blue dress of yours—which you do, by the way.”
I suck in a sharp breath, feeling like he’s stealing all the oxygen from my lungs.
“Your professional mask has been impressive; I’ll give you that. But my intuition has never steered me wrong. I just didn’t thinkyou’d ever have the guts to rip that mask off and show me the real you.”
I busy myself fixing some papers on my desk, desperately trying to regain my composure. “Well, anyway, this whole thing is a farce. Nice touch with part D, though. You should be a comedian if bartending doesn’t work out.”
Liam chuckles. “The contract may be a farce, but your new salary is very real. Effective immediately. Maybe you can get your kitty something nice.”
I inhale sharply, pretending not to be affected by the mention of my new salary and how weirdly dirty “kitty” sounds in his rough Northern tones. “Good. Thank you. Maybe I’ll buy you a present too. Get you a nice, long tie. One that’s long enough to strangle you with when you inevitably piss me off.”
The words hang in the air between us, a challenge I can’t quite believe I’ve issued.
Liam’s eyes darken, his gaze dropping to my mouth in a way that makes me think of things I shouldn’t. “Careful. Keep talking like that, and I might have to break my rule and let you try.”
Let me? What’s that supposed to mean? He’s going to let me strangle the life out of him?
He made it quite clear he doesn’t mix business with pleasure—not that I would want that—so he must be messing with me. I clear my throat, pursing my lips and trying to ignore how flustered I feel. “Right. Well. If that’s all, I have about a million emails to attend to, so if you’ll excuse me—”
