Love to Loathe him is now live on Amazon.
❣️British Billionaire Boss
❣️Workplace romance
❣️Age gap
❣️Swoony & spicy
❣️Enemies to lovers (well , she hates him)
❣️He’s her boss
❣️Relatable and sassy FMC
❣️Grumpy ruthless workaholic MMC
❣️Lots of banter
Excerpt
Here’s a fun little tidbit: apparently, 4 percent of people are sociopaths. But here at Ashbury Thornton Equity Group, we strive for excellence—and that means exceeding our sociopath quota. Sniffing out cutthroat individuals is our bread and butter. Especially for me—I’m the head of HR, so hunting down those delightful little psychos is literally in my job description.
I spend my days surrounded by a bunch of money-hungry sharks who’d gleefully punt Grandma into oncoming traffic for a Rolex. Actually, that’s not fair—they’d hold out for a Patek Philippe watch before tossing Granny to the wolves. But still, my point stands.
Even my adorable little kitty is a stone-cold bitch.
But the biggest, baddest sociopath of them all?
That would be the owner of those smoldering brown eyes currently trying to incinerate me through the glass walls of his fancy fishbowl office.
Liam “I-make-grown-men-sob-like-babies” McLaren.
London’s most ruthless financial hotshot and the big kahuna at Ashbury Thornton Equity Group. Just whisper his name and even the toughest traders need a fresh pair of tighty-whities.
Oh, and I call him Mr. McLaren, like we’re in some ’70s office porno, because he never bothered to correct me during my interview. Never said, “Please, call me Liam.” Then, on my first day, I called him Mr. McLaren, expecting a warm “Call me Liam! Welcome aboard.” But nope, I just got the same brooding glare.
My office, conveniently situated across the chaotic finance floor on level thirty-five, offers me an unobstructed view of his devastatingly handsome face. All. Damn. Day.
Sure, having my own office with a killer view of the Thames is a sweet perk. But when you’re the company’s resident therapist and the bearer of bad news, it’s an absolute necessity.
I heave myself out of my chair, storming through the sea of shouting suits, phone glued to my ear as I verbally flay the incompetent recruiters on the other end.
McLaren’s moody gaze finds me through the glass. He’s sprawled in his leather throne, hands clasped behind his head while Ollie, his senior-level manager, perches on the edge of the desk like a well-trained lapdog.
On autopilot, I flash him my bring it on smile. Years under McLaren’s rule has hardwired this fearless smirk into my DNA—the only way to survive dealing with guys like him. Never let ’em see you sweat.
Yes, McLaren is unfairly hot—smoldering eyes, chiseled jawline, muscles you could crack nuts on. But that’s just his human suit, the bait he uses to draw in unsuspecting victims before tearing them to pieces. Mother Nature sure is a bitch, making the deadliest creatures the most irresistible—like Venus flytraps or those tiny cute frogs that could kill you with a single lick.
And this fucker is no exception.
Ladies, don’t be fooled.
Underneath that handsome exterior beats the pitch-black heart of a raging See-You-Next-Tuesday.
Watching the female new hires around him is comical. As HR, I get a front-row seat to their faces morphing from “I want to scale that godlike tree” to “holy shit, this terrifying bastard is going to fire me before I’ve had my morning poop” in a single blink.
He jerks his chin, summoning me in like I’m some misbehaving schoolgirl.
I stab the end call button on my phone and smooth my already flawless blazer on reflex. Drawing in a deep breath, I stride into McLaren’s office.
“Take a seat,” he orders, hands still locked behind his head. His shirt strains against his chest, like it’s one deep breath away from sending a rogue button flying straight into my eye. I wonder if he’s physically restraining himself from wringing my neck.
My pulse quickens, and I give myself a stern mental slap. Five years. Five freaking years, and this man still makes me feel like I’ve grabbed a live wire every time he glares at me.