Since then, all week, I’ve been buried up to my eyeballs in work, helping the team with the acquisition bid. And surprisingly, despite the extra workload, I’ve been enjoying it. Two new hires joined the HR team this week, which has been a big help.
Some of my HR skills are proving useful here. I’ve been reviewing TLS’s current HR practices, policies, and procedures to identify areas that may need alignment with Ashbury Thornton’s HR framework post-acquisition. I’ve also been assisting with the organizational restructuring plans, which were major concerns for Sir Whitmore’s team.
So, all in all, telling my boss he’s an insufferable prick and confessing that I occasionally diddle myself to his corporate headshot has its perks.
And I’m so, so close to bringing Kim Hye-jin on the team. She’s practically in, just giving the paperwork one last look-over. She’s going to be an incredible addition to our group. It wasn’t easy in the lead-up to the interview—there were late-night video calls,a lot of persuasion, and the promise of a corner office with a view—but she finally saw the light.
I’m especially proud of this one. She started out firm, insisting she was content at her current job and would never relocate. But here we are.
And now on this bright and ungodly early Saturday morning, we’ve got the TLS charity weekend regatta. Part of my grand scheme to make Liam look less like Satan’s favorite son in Sir Whitmore’s eyes. I’m flying by the seat of my pants here. I don’t know how it’s going to go.
The port is already bustling with people who look like they’ve just stepped out of a sailing fashion magazine as Robbie and I make our way across the docks.
“Please let this be fun and not weird,” I groan to Robbie as we near the bobbing boats.
Fifty vessels are lined up to race from Southampton to the Isle of Wight, and three of them belong to Ashbury Thornton. I can already feel the competitive tension in the air.
Robbie grins that infuriatingly calm grin of his. “What could possibly go wrong?”
“Umm, someone ‘accidentally’ pushes a colleague overboard?”
“Relax.” Robbie slings a reassuring arm around my shoulders, giving me a squeeze. “No one’s going overboard. Look at those beefy guys—we’re in good hands.”
I glance around, and holy hell, we really are in good hands. And arms. Abs too, by the looks of it. Everywhere I look there are tanned, toned guys doing manly things with ropes and rigging.
Maybe I can kill two birds with one stone here. Maybe we can charm the Whitmores, and I’ll meet a hot guy who can teach me a thing or two about knots. The thought never crossed my mind before, but as I ogle these prime specimens of manhood, I realizeI’ve been missing out on a whole world of non-finance totty . . . a world of saucy seamen on the English southeast coast.
Lizzie would be having a field day down here. But she’s at home with Winnie and I pray they’re both behaving themselves.
And of course, there are a few more weathered ones who look like they’ve been around the block a few times.
“Close your mouth there, you’re drooling.” Robbie elbows me not-so-gently in the ribs to break me out of my lustful sailorman reverie.
“I’m simply observing their techniques,” I say haughtily, but I can’t hide my smile. Not that I can do anything but look . . . I’m still HR. Technically I’m working.
“Do you have any sailing experience?” I ask Robbie.
“Oh yeah, loads,” he deadpans. “I went on a boozy catamaran cruise in Ibiza. I plan to put all that vast nautical expertise to good use today. As in, ten a.m. is prime day-drinking time on a boat, yeah?”
I laugh, slightly nervous. Liam always makes sure our team wins this stupid annual race, which is why jokers like Robbie weren’t allowed to join before. I’m not sure how he’ll react if we don’t come first again this year . . .
The laughter dies in my throat as I spot Liam talking intently to an old sailor who looks like he personally witnessed the Titanic sinking. The guy’s got a cigarette dangling precariously from his mouth, ash threatening to drop onto his weathered gear at any moment.
Liam, on the other hand, is rocking a navy tee that clings to his muscular torso, paired with eye-scorchingly bright yellow sailing pants that should look ridiculous but somehow just . . . work on him. It’s a far cry from his usual sharp suits.
As he gestures toward the boat, the muscles in his shoulders and arms ripple and flex beneath the casual fabric. The whole rugged, nautical look is doing dangerously tingly things to my lady bits that I’m not entirely comfortable with. Those forearms with their bulging veins and taut muscles are too much.
I recognize the two other guys with him—they do contract work for us but aren’t officially on Ashbury Thornton’s payroll. They’re serious sailors. One of them even tackled Cape Horn a few months ago, which is apparently a big deal in the sailing world. This is why Ashbury Thornton always wins these regattas.
As I stroll past a sleek-looking boat, I spot Alastair on board, looking every inch the dashing high society sailor in his crisp white polo shirt and shorts. He waves, and I flash a big smile, waving back. I knew he’d show up in person.
I spot Sir Whitmore emerging from a harborside hut, accompanied by a younger guy. Brilliant timing.
“Back in a sec, Robbie,” I mutter as I stride over to him before anyone else can swoop in.
“Good morning, Sir.” I beam with probably too much forced enthusiasm.
Sir Whitmore looks at me for a moment, his brow furrowed in confusion, before recognition dawns on his face. “Ah, Gemma. How lovely to see you again. You’re sailing today?”
