I honestly don’t have the faintest clue what the guy thinks of me. I’m not sure I want to know. Ignorance is bliss. But I’m eternally grateful that he seems just as clueless about the true depths of my contempt for his arrogant ass. It’s safer that way. If he knew how often I fantasize about throttling him with his tie, I’d probably be out on my ass.
A timid knock jolts me out of my homicidal and slightly kinky thoughts.
I glance up, my eyes widening as I take in the sight of Dennis from accounting standing in my doorway. The rash covering his face is so angry and inflamed, it’s like a neon sign screaming “I’M STRESSED OUT OF MY DAMN MIND!”
“Hey, Dennis,” I choke out.
Pleasedon’t let him be here to talk about the rash.
Deep breath.Time to face the beast.
I knock on McLaren’s door, my stomach flipping. If he’s in one of his trademark foul moods or decides to take a giant dump on the recruitment strategy I’ve spent all day on, it’s back to the drawing board. And given that it’s already seven p.m., the thought of starting over makes me want to curl up in the fetal position under my desk.
“Get in here,” he barks, not even looking at me. Charming as ever.
I slip into his office, greeted by the mouth-watering view of his broad, muscular back, his imposing frame silhouetted against the London skyline. The setting sun is bouncing off the Shard, looking like a giant, sparkling middle finger flipping me off personally.
He turns around and I lose my breath for a second.
He’s buttoning up a crisp white dress shirt, but not fast enough to stop me getting an eyeful of his chest and the trail of dark hair disappearing into his waistband in a way that saysFollow me to happy land, sweetheart. I promise it’ll be worth the trip.
I try not to stare at the tattoo scrawled across his right pec. A traditional sailor-style anchor with a thick rope coiled around itand something inscribed on it. Perched on the side of the anchor is a mermaid with long, flowing red hair cascading down her back and over the anchor.
Finance bro meets Popeye the Sailor Man. Must be a nod to his love of sailing. Either that or a drunken Ibiza booze cruise tattoo. Maybe he has a thing for redheads. Redheads like me.
Get a grip, Gemma.
It’s not like I haven’t seen him all dolled up in a tuxedo, but try telling that to my cavewoman ovaries. They’re practically fist-pumping and chanting “Breed!” at the sight of him.
I lock eyes with him, trying desperately not to let my gaze drift south of his collar. “I sent over the new recruitment strategy for your review.”
“Give me the highlights,” he says, buttoning his shirt with agonizing slowness.
He’s not even fazed by the fact that I’m getting an eyeful of his half-naked glory. Just once, I wish something would throw him off-kilter. Make him blush or stammer like a mere mortal. But no, McLaren is infuriatingly comfortable in his own skin, completely at ease with his sex appeal and the power he wields over everyone around him.
And damn him to whatever circle of hell is reserved for impossibly attractive assholes. I’m utterly defenseless against the breed of man who looks like he just stepped off the cover of a mafia romance novel—all brooding intensity and smoldering gazes, with the unspoken promise of Very Bad Things.
It would be so much simpler if he was just . . . hideous.
I clear my throat, trying to dislodge the lump of lust that’s taken up residence there. “Right. So first, I think we need to revamp our sponsorship approach in these countries. It’ll cost more upfront but will let us fast-track the best recruits.” I hand him the list,our fingers brushing for a nanosecond of electric awkwardness. “And if we expand our visa sponsorship programs to include these specific countries”—I motion the bottom of the page—“we should be able to fill those empty seats ASAP.”
His eyes skim the paper before giving a curt nod. “Fine.”
Riding high on not being immediately shot down, I press on. “I also think you should personally take the reins on interviews for our highest-value prospects. Really give them the full Ashbury Thornton Equity pitch.”
His eyes snap to mine as he loops a Dicky bow around his neck. “What’s wrong with Ollie handling them?”
“Nothing at all, sir. Ollie is exceptional in his field. But an interview with the big boss himself is the kind of ego stroke that could really seal the deal, make these hotshots feel like they’re being courted by the best of the best.”
I’m betting that McLaren’s giant hard-on for control will override any knee-jerk instinct to defend his managers.
I watch him grab some cufflinks. Based on the penguin suit, he must have some fancy-schmancy party tonight. Probably drinking champagne out of the hollowed-out skulls of his fallen financial enemies.
“I’ll look it over in the car,” he says, his voice short but not totally dismissive.
I let out a sneaky exhale, feeling tension melt. He didn’t tear my proposal to shreds, so I’ll chalk that up as a win.
“Got big plans tonight?” I ask, instantly regretting this foray into small talk.
