Page 8 of Mostly Loathing You

His office?

I hadn’t really thought about who I would be assisting during my time at Baker & Park, but I didn’t think it would be Jackson. This should be comforting, and it is for a moment…until I remember who he shares an office with.

No.

“Yes, sir. Maintenance brought her desk up Friday afternoon and set it up in the outer office. We’re heading up there right now.”

“Excellent—” Stephen’s attention veers to someone behind me and Jackson. “I’m glad I caught you two, but I am actually meeting a client. Hannah, have a good first day.”

I offer a smile and a nod, and Stephen is gone in an instant.

We make our way up the escalator before we are ushered into an elevator. This place really is a maze.

“Your office?” I whisper to Jackson.

He pins me with a glare. “Hannah, don’t. I can’t deal with both of you about it.”

I stifle the urge to roll my eyes in response. Liam has no reason to complain; I am a fucking delight. Much to my surprise, I manage to keep that thought to myself.

Jackson pulls out his scan card, pressing it to the office door, where I find an empty desk void of charm. I assume it’s mine, and set my purse in the seat before he directs me toward another door directly to the left of my desk.

His office…or…theiroffice, I guess.

The moment the door beeps, Jackson pushes it open to reveal a room, much like the rest of the building, glistening from floor to ceiling. Except for their respective desks.

I’ve been here a few times before, so I knew what to expect, but it’s still so weird to know I work here now.

In the room, my eyes meet Liam’s and my stomach lurches. He glares at me, his piercing, borderline insidious brown eyes fixed on my eyes. Normally I would meet his presence with unwelcome disgust, so why am I fixated on his strong jawline like it has appeal? His perfectly styled, thick, dark hair should make me want to dishevel it to cause him anger, so why am I thinking about what it would feel like to touch it? This isLiam, Hannah, get it together!

The combination of excess caffeine and anxiety over the day has me reacting in weird ways, that’s for sure.

“Park,” I quip before turning away from him, instantly allowing my previous diversion from sanity to wash down my spine.

“Satan spawn.”

“Guys,” Jackson interjects, rubbing his eyes in irritation, “we have to work together. This may be okay when we’re on family holidays, but it can’t be like this at work.”

I know he’s right, but damn does it make me feel like a reprimanded child to be reminded of the fact. I look over atLiam, who doesn’t seem even remotely concerned with what Jackson said.

“Work would imply she’s going to do anything.” Liam’s eyes shift to mine, a look of disdain that I know all too well aimed back at me. “You may have convinced my dad that you’re going to work while here, but you and I both know you’re not going to do shit. Act like you’re not a princess all you want, but you forget I know you—”

“Liam.” Jackson’s voice travels out of my periphery, quelling the building rage in my stomach.

“Jackson.”

“Guys.” Normally I would find amusement in them butting heads, but this seems like a lot.

“Look—” Liam sighs, getting up from his seat, buttoning his suit jacket as he stands. I struggle not to notice the way the fabric of his sleeves hugs his arms as he stretches. “Jackson, I realize she’s your sister, but if she’s going to fuck around and be hanging around in our office without a purpose, then it’s going to be a problem.”

“She won’t.” Jackson grits his teeth as he forces the words out.

I can’t quite figure out why what Liam is saying hurts so much. He’s said far worse than this to me over the years, but something about him attacking my work ethic stings. Working hard has never been an issue for me. I work to hide the sting in my chest and eyes as I look away from him and Jackson, allowing them to hash their shit out without my input.

“Good.” Liam turns to sit down, unbuttoning his suit jacket in the process. He pulls it from his frame, draping it over the back of his chair before rolling the sleeves of his shirt to his elbows. The muscular strain of his forearms pulls my attention before I jerk my gaze away in an attempt at being discreet.

Beautiful fucking asshole.

Look, it’s not that he’s unattractive—objectively, at least—but his personality is easily one of the most unappealing things about the man.

---