One Bossy Disaster: Chapter 12

Ican’t believe it’s over.

Even though I guess that’s a grim exaggeration.

I still have my life, my work, and a half-grown puppy who always chases away the sad by licking my face. Molly noses in, coming in fast and furious until I need to push her away.

Yeah, nothing truly important is over, I suppose.

Nothing meant to last.

Just enough to leave my heart hanging like a deflated balloon in my chest, heavy with bittersweet memories.

But that’s the thing about memories…

What happened wasn’t important in the grand scheme of things.

So what if I had the best time of my life with a man I’ll barely see again?

So what if we had gravity-defying sex at least eight times over two long days and he left me deliciously worn out?

Thank God for the private charter boat picking us up for the return trip, or else I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t have made the kayak trip home with jelly for muscles.

Eight times.

And every single second was indescribable.

Shepherd just has this way of making it feel different every time.

He doesn’t just bust out the same three moves in a different order.

We were tender, fast, furious, slow, gentle—and everything he did made me feel cherished.

With most guys, after a while, it feels samey. Even when it’s perfectly satisfying, a girl can get bored.

I can’t fathom sex with Shepherd ever getting bland.

It’s his intensity, I think.

When he looks at me, he doesn’t notice the sun shining or even that it started to rain on us the last time that evening.

Hair damp, skin slick, a shiver, it didn’t matter.

For two whole days, I became his entire world.

And foly huck, the orgasms.

Plural.

So many Os I lost track, and always during the same session.

That’s no easy task for any normal man.

Of course, Shepherd Foster is anything but normal.

God, just thinking about being with him makes my toes curl.

I’ve found the best sex I’ll ever have—and it just had to be with my off-limits, older, unapproachable boss.

But was he that frigid by the end of the trip?

We spent most of our last day exploring, marking observation sites, testing the drone a couple times for longer range flights before we worked our way toward the marina to meet our ship in the morning.

Overnight, we camped out one more time under the stars, sharing his sleeping bag.

I’m still trying to forget his scent as I unscrew my thermos lid and pour Molly some water into a portable bowl as we sit on the bench on Alki Beach.

I let myself remember our final night, and I don’t just mean the X-rated paradise he swept me away to.

The way he held me in his arms.

The way he cradled me, tight and strong and so big.

The way he was so present, there with me like I became the focal point of his universe.

Sue me.

I’m not being overly sensitive or romantic or anything like that, but it’s enough to make a girl melt.

So was his grumpy, adorably groggy butt the next morning when I woke up to the smell of him cooking instant eggs and sausage over a fire.

Just seeing Shepherd Foster so liberated feels like catching a secret I’m not sure was meant for me. All the little things no one else would notice.

The morning breakfast wasn’t a surprise, no, but the way he snuggled back down with me after we ate for a lazy extended morning was.

I never imagined the bossman could snuggle.

What else don’t I know?

My life has been cleanly divided into two phases. Before and After last weekend.

Except, somehow Before feels like one long hazy dream in black and white.

After, now that’s transcendent.

Like seeing the world in color for the very first time. A learning experience I wasn’t ready for, and if there’s a lesson, I hope to God one day I’ll figure it out.

I’m still trying.

But I remember the mole on the small of his back.

The scar across his side that matches the one on his face. I spent a long time kissing both, asking questions with my lips he wouldn’t answer.

Who hurt you Shepherd?

Who or what made your life so hard you pretend not to care?

Seriously, my knees have never been so weak.

Ugh.

I’m grateful there were other moments, though.

As Molly flops down by my feet, taking a breather, we linger by the park bench. I’m reluctant to head home and read over a new stack of sea otter studies.

Another night is creeping in, and that’s when the memories come out to shame the bedbugs with their bite.

I’m not sure I’ll ever forget our last real conversation about Vanessa Dumas after we pillaged each other for the last time.

I never thought he’d ever talk about it in such detail.

Especially not while we were still naked in the cool morning air, huddled together in layered sleeping bags and blankets across the sand.

“You were right,” he says against my hair, holding me so close.

We’re chest to chest, and his warmth soaks into me like a bath. I sigh against his throat.

“That’s a big deal, you fessing up. What was I right about?”

“I never hurt her. Vanessa, I mean.”

I pause.

That’s not a massive surprise, but hearing him say it is.

I knew I wasn’t wrong, but for him to come out and even bring it up…

“…do you want to talk about what happened with her?”

“Fuck it, why not?” He twines a lock of my hair around his fingers. “I think I just want you to know my side of the story. The truth. Someone else should, besides the lawyers who only listen because I’m paying them a thousand bucks an hour. Because you knew what she said wasn’t true, but I never told you what was.”

His heart starts pounding against my cheek.

I shift around, wrapping myself more firmly around him.

We just finished our last round of sex maybe fifteen minutes ago. My body still feels warm and content.

“I’m listening,” I whisper.

“We had an arrangement, Vanessa and me. A rotten fucking idea from day one. She agreed to be a prop, to raise her profile by association, all so I could swat down any rumors along with advances from women I had zero interest in. To me, they were always a distraction. It should’ve been simple. She’d accompany me to a few events. Just enough to get our names out there as a couple. I’d give her a chance to make connections for her career. I knew how important that was to her. But one night she let the deal go to her head, or hell, maybe she planned it from the beginning. She tried to fuck me in our car, and I wasn’t having it. I told her the next day the arrangement was done.”

I’m silent, slowly taking it in.

“Wow. And the rest, as they say, is history?” I ask softly.

His warm breath fans across my hair.

“Yeah. She decided to go scorched earth and play it up. Guess her ego couldn’t handle the rejection.”

“I mean, I get why she made a pass at you,” I say, pinching his ass. I didn’t think I’d ever see a male ass so fine. “But she had no right saying all that crap. Let alone accusing you of such crazy, devious things…”

I search his eyes.

Is this just him opening up or new worries talking again?

I feel the way his hold tightens.

Just a fraction, enough to tell me he’s scared of what I could do to him if I ever told the world about this trip.

I press a lingering kiss to his sternum.

“Shepherd, I don’t talk about my sex life, my relationships, any of that on social media. I grew up seeing how much media hatches could piss Dad off, and I’ve never wanted a taste of that. My life is conservation, cute animals, and Molly. End of story.”

When I mention relationships, he stiffens.

I look up, but he won’t meet my gaze.

“Shepherd?”

“Yeah?”

“Are you okay?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

Because he’s stiffer than a board.

But I don’t bother pointing that out when he’s been so honest, so vulnerable. I’m sure he’ll just get that look in his eyes that tells me how much he hates me for noticing too much about him.

For reading him too deeply.

“Okay,” I say eventually. I know my boundaries.

Keep pressing, and he’ll probably shut down, and I don’t want that.

“Is Molly your dog?” he asks, successfully turning the conversation.

I see him holding his phone now, looking at my Instagram.

The guy is a natural.

Because let’s face it, what dog owner doesn’t want to talk about their fur baby?

I grin into his chest. “Yeah. She’s the best husky in the world. I think I love her more than I could ever love any one human.”

“Where is she now?”

“Oh, staying with a friend I met in my grad program for the weekend. Lena Joly. She’s an awesome vet tech and a good friend. Molly makes her laugh and gives her mouth a rest from cursing like a sailor.”

“Let’s hope it’s not at you.” He snorts with amusement.

“Nah, no way. Only at everything else.”

Shepherd murmurs against my hair again before saying, “Didn’t know you were close to anyone from grad school.”

“You didn’t ask. I have friends. I’m not a hermit like you.” Just for fun, I decide to keep the name vague. “Like Sam. We hang out all the time.”

“Sam?” he growls back, an edge in his voice.

“Yeah.” I shrug.

“Did you take a class in otter-nomics together, or what?”

“Close enough. We met in the library, actually, back when we were studying. We both kept showing up, sometimes looking for the same books, and having to take turns with a few.”

If Sam was a guy, it would’ve been the beginning of a cute rom-com.

But I’m determined to leave Shepherd guessing.

We actually became instant friends. She loves dogs and whales almost as much as I do, even if she ultimately switched to a zoology program.

“I see,” Shepherd clips, a line forming between his eyebrows.

God, he’s too adorable when he’s jealous.

“Do you want to know what else?”

“What?”

“We slept together all the time in college,” I say quietly.

“I need to meet this friend. To talk.” His arm tightens around me.

I let out a laughing squeal.

I just can’t with angry Shepherd.

“Destiny, be serious. Tell me this boy’s last name or—”

“Sam’s a girl, you lunk,” I force out through my laughing fit. “We used to have sleepovers all the time. As in, the kind where you sleep.”

“Smart-ass. And here I was looking forward to a grudge match over who gets to sleep with you,” he rumbles.

“Come on! It was funny. And, um, you’re the one who said this needs to stop as soon as we’re home. Remember?” I hold my breath.

“Yeah.” His face drops.

He doesn’t look up until I exhale.

“Come here, though, and I’ll fix your laughing attack,” he says, kissing me again, the back of his huge hand wrapped around the back of my neck.

He’s as good as his word.

He absolutely cures me one bruising kiss at a time.

We’re walking off the small chartered yacht and he’s carrying my kayak before he goes back for his stuff.

“You didn’t have to haul it, Shepherd!” I call after him, running to keep up. “I’m not helpless.”

“Maybe not, but after the time we’ve had, I know you feel like you were flattened by a Mack truck.” He rolls his eyes at me, knowing it’s too true. “You want me to strap it on Ladybug or what?”

“You remembered his name? How sweet!”

“God help me,” I hear him mutter, but I think his mouth twitches up again.

That tiny half smile might just be my Achilles heel.

Before, I thought it was his abs and flashing blue glances, but it turns out a good smile can turn my stomach into a butterfly house. I try to swallow past the emotion.

It’s not easy with that rock creeping up my throat, knowing this is it.

“Thanks,” I say, helping with the straps. “I don’t usually play damsel in distress.”

“Shocking. You’re rather good at it, Dess.”

Dess.

When did we become nickname familiar and why do we have to go back?

I almost cringe at the thought of him Miss Lancastering me again, which he will if we only see each other in some stuffy, formal spotlight appearances for Young Influencers.

“Thanks. Did you like the way I fluttered my eyelashes?” I bat them at him now, before stopping, because the weekend is over with its easy smiles and soul-shattering sexy times.

We’re almost home.

Back in Seattle, destined to be strangers again.

It’s funny when you think about it, how a man you shared so much with has to be unfamiliar again. But that’s the story of every bad breakup and heart-wrenching divorce, isn’t it?

Becoming unfamiliar enough to smother love.

Somehow, this hurts worse because we never even had a proper romance.

Just a couple days of incredible, messy mistakes in the wilderness hinting at something too amazing to ever be.

Silently, I strap the kayak down on the roof of my car and Shepherd nods at me. “Are you sure you’ll be okay when you get home? Are you going back to your family?”

“I’ll be fine,” I lie. Somehow, I have to be. “You don’t need to worry about me. And I keep a small apartment here I sublease to a friend when I’m not around. I’m looking forward to some alone time to rest up, honestly.”

His eyes narrow. “You’re not just saying that?”

“Dude, I told you, I’m no damsel in distress. I just really like watching you carry heavy things.” I would also really, really like seeing him in my apartment.

Which is so impossible he’d probably laugh in my face if I outed it.

But I hope I’m right.

I just need time to heal.

Why should the heart be any different from the muscles killing me in my arms and legs?

A day or two of downtime, and this ache in my chest should recover. I’ll start to forget all about the grumpy billionaire and our otter excursions.

Time heals all wounds, they say.

…yeah, I don’t believe it either.

“I’m not much for goodbyes,” he says evenly.

“Yeah. Right. I guess this is it.”

“Will you be in tomorrow morning?”

Oh, boy.

Is that hope in his voice?

“I’m no slacker.” It’s my turn to roll my eyes.

He smirks. “You were awfully stiff this morning and you don’t have to be in the office. You can do the grant work remotely.”

“Well, I need a focused workspace if I want to make this proposal shine. I’ve still got the board to wow, even if I’ve sold you.”

I’m also trying like hell not to think about the sinful way he massaged my battered muscles that led to so much more.

“So, yeah, I’ll probably be in,” I repeat.

He nods, serious and unreadable again.

“Good. The hard part is over then. I’ll email you my personal recommendation with the drone flight data. If your presentation doesn’t convince them, that will.” He sticks out his hand. “Goodbye and good luck, Destiny Lancaster.”

Oh, God.

We’re doing this.

Shaking hands.

Touching for the very last time.

Come tomorrow, we’re back to being philanthropist rockhead CEO mentor and overly sensitive program apprentice again.

Nothing more.

I guess he’s just preparing for the frozen distance with an impersonal handshake.

Except, as his fingers close around mine, it’s the most sexually charged handshake in human history.

Help me.

I have a problem.

There’s nothing sexy about basic handshakes.

But my heart rate spikes halfway to Jupiter, and I give him a professional nod before inhaling and stepping back, releasing his hand. Or maybe he releases mine.

All I know is, I’m so cold and my hand feels sweaty and I can still feel his calloused palms against mine as I rush away, trying not to tear up.

Thank God his back is already turned, and he’s heading back to the boat to grab his own kayak.

I watch him for a single second with one hand on my car door before I tear my eyes away.

CEO and intern.

Strangers once more.

That’s all we are.

All we ever should be.

There’s no good reason I should feel like I’m losing a massive, hurting slice of my heart and heading home empty.

No reason at all.

A long walk on the beach and taking the long way home through Pike Place, followed by an evening snuggling with Molly and a good book, still can’t clear my head.

That’s due to the most invasive, erotic dreams of my life that night.

Shepherd Foster has me tossing and turning and wishing I could forget so many things.

His delicious weight on my body.

His freckles, always so light and muted unless you really notice them in the light.

That nagging faded scar on his face hiding so many questions I want to ask.

The delirious way he kisses like a man laying claim, and now that I’m his, I’ve forgotten how to be anything else.

I wake up alone in bed, dizzy and disjointed as I look down. Mol must’ve overheated at some point overnight and crawled on the floor, flattening herself out like she sometimes does. I can hear her snoring softly.

Streetlamp-yellow creeps past the gap in my curtains, and I know I’ve officially lost it.

These aren’t normal Destiny thoughts.

They’re dirty, regressive, depraved.

I roll over and check the time, inwardly cursing the primitive instincts living inside my twenty-first-century body.

Half past five a.m.

Painfully early, but it’s not worth going back to sleep now.

Molly leaps up beside me when she hears me moving with a big stretch, wags twice, and licks her lips.

“I can always count on you for an early breakfast, can’t I?”

She licks my face in agreement.

At least I caught her awake before my alarm went off.

Normally, she bolts up like a crazy dog, bursting with excitement for bacon and cheese and her morning run.

I’m a morning person, too, even if I don’t have puppy energy.

But for the first time ever, I’m dreading today.

As soon as I get moving, it’s back to the status quo. The weekend, over and forgotten like one more fever dream.

Shepherd Foster, nothing but an illusion.

Jesus.

We never talked through what happens if we bump into each other around the office, either.

Am I really supposed to strut around with a polite nod, pretending I haven’t seen him naked?

I wonder how I’ll even look Carol in the eye without cracking up and revealing the insane secret that’s burning me alive.

I slept with our boss.

And if she ever finds out, it’s not my own reputation that worries me.

How will she see him, when she was so sure Dumas was lying and he’d never do anything like that?

She treats him like her own son, so patient in the face of his bluster.

And Mark… ugh.

He won’t miss a beat asking about my weekend.

One little slip and the office blabbermouth will know that our trip resulted in the hottest sex west of the Rockies.

Otters.

Stick to otters.

We saw cute, endangered, wonderful otters and it was incredible.

That’s what I need to focus on.

Just to drive it home, I grab my phone from the nightstand and unplug it, squinting at the harsh light from the screen.

My eyes are assaulted.

An avalanche of notifications fill my screen, and my phone becomes a vibrating brick. I was going to scroll through the pics I took this weekend, but instead, I see my name over and over again on—well, everything.

Google Alerts. I set them up for media mentions, just in case.

And tags.

So many tags.

Instagram, Twitter, Facebook, TikTok. Countless people tagging me, blowing up my DMs on every freaking platform.

What now?

Frowning, I open a few and let my tired brain try to process the words on the screen.

Maybe this is just a freaky coattails effect from the Young Influencers publicity. I hope.

Except, it’s not that at all, and it’s obvious as soon as I see the words.

I sit up in bed so stiffly it alarms Molly, who bounds over and presses her big rubbery nose into my face.

I might be crying.

Tears of fury and confusion and disbelief, wishing I’d never opened the link. But it’s not just your run-of-the mill troll.

It goes to Meghan “Tea” Maven’s latest video, posted overnight.

She’s wearing her usual look, eye-melting lipstick and impeccable makeup that fits her snarky brand, plus jade-green cosmic nails that look downright lethal.

There’s a malicious smile on her face as she introduces herself.

“Hiii, party people,” she drawls. “It’s your girl, Maggie, and I’m back with a whole freakin’ tea party today. Remember billionaire scumbag Shepherd Foster? The same Shepherd Foster who just pulverized Vanessa Dumas’ heart into little stabby pieces? Welllll…”

She stretches the word like her hideous smile.

I already know what’s coming next.

She tagged me, after all.

The sound of my own ragged breath fills my ears, but her shrill, attention-grabbing voice still penetrates.

“Some of you might remember the Young Influencers program he started? Clearly, a desperate attempt to polish up his company and make everybody forget about his dirty misdeeds. Spoiler alert: we didn’t. But the details are here if you wanna take a gander…” She points to the link her editor added to some tabloid garbage. “Dirty birdy benefactor aside, Young Influencers was an amazing opportunity with a very generous prize package. The money and terms are practically unheard of. A whole boatload of people applied. I know because I was one of them.”

She pauses, staring into the camera with a shrug.

“What? Don’t look at me like that!” she croons. “Before you get all judgy, don’t act like you wouldn’t take a pile of money from a dude who breathes small-dick energy too, if you could put it toward a good cause. Anyway…”

It feels like forever ago.

At the time, I was sure she’d be a top contender thanks to her reach alone, even if she’s as charming as a drunken rattlesnake.

Instead, they chose me.

“As y’all know, I missed out,” she says with a fake pout. Probably so everyone notices the subtle gradient from her wine-colored lip liner to the soft pink in the middle. “And who was the lucky winner? Destiny Lancaster! Yes, that Dessy, daughter of hardass hottie Cole and his coffee empire. You know I love my Wired Cup.” She pauses to hold up a cup of coffee with a familiar logo with the most punchable look on her face. “And doesn’t Dessy love to be Miss Invisibility?”

A picture of my face and channel appears beside her from my Insta link. I’m smiling with Mol, somewhere on Mount Rainier about a month ago.

Holy hell, no.

Molly whines and licks my face. It’s like she knows how screwed we are.

I dig my fingers into her fur. “It’s okay, girl. Don’t get upset for my sake…”

It’s almost worse that she can’t understand why I’m upsetting her.

“You might notice,” Meghan continues, “our Destiny doesn’t have the same platform as some folks in this industry. That’s whatever. That’s fine. Everyone has to start somewhere, right?” Her smug little smile looks painted on her face. “But well, let’s be real—it was a pretty big surprise when she got selected.”

“Jealous bitchface.” I glower at the screen.

“I mean, let’s think about it for a second. Home Shepherd wanted publicity, sure, and they wanted someone they could train, so they picked someone who doesn’t have the experience or the exposure they wanted. Weird, right?”

The only weird thing I see is that smirk under your overdone makeup, I think grimly.

But the video keeps going.

“Unless,” Meghan says in that lazy drawl that makes me want to scratch out her eyes. “Unless dearest Destiny did something awfully juicy to gain the CEO’s favor.”

A picture of Shepherd appears now from his corporate profile. He’s his usual handsome, stern self in a charcoal suit with the light catching his glacial-blue eyes.

Again, she smiles too wide for her face. “I mean, it adds up. Simple math. When you look like a model and you come from a rich family—well, you can find the answer too, can’t you?”

I don’t know how I avoid throwing my phone.

This is nasty, salacious stuff.

People might have thought the same crap privately for all I know, but now that she’s aired it in the open, everyone will think I went and fucked my way into my conservation money.

Worse, they’ll think that a rich, powerful man like Shepherd Foster would totally screw a hot girl nearly half his age who threw herself at him for favors.

Especially after what happened with Vanessa Dumas, piggybacking on the very scandal he’s tried so hard to bury.

I barely notice she’s still talking, wishing she’d shut up.

“…but maybe you think good-girl Destiny would never do something so spicy,” Meghan says maliciously.“Oh, I thought so, too. I wanted to give her the benefit of the doubt when she’s all about cute animals and she rocks that whole do-gooder vibe. But, well, there’s that pesky evidence—and this evidence doesn’t lie.”

New pictures flick across the screen that stop my heart.

Pictures of us together.

Kayaking.

Cooking.

Smiling and laughing through various stages of our trip.

They’re all aerial shots, so it must be drone footage, but how? Who?

Did someone hack the drone Shepherd brought along for our otter tracking?

I shake my head, trying to force answers into place that don’t fit.

It really doesn’t make sense.

Virtually no one knew we were going on the trip. I made a note not to tell anyone at the office, and I think Hannah Cho is the only one who knew there.

I can’t imagine her backstabbing him like this when she’s been a loyal soldier forever.

Even Lena, who looked after Molly this weekend, didn’t know what I was away doing. It’s common enough that she doesn’t ask many questions.

I exhale a shaky breath as the pictures flick past.

I’m just waiting for a series of X-rated pics to turn up, but miraculously, they never do.

If it wasn’t for the night and the tree cover, there’d probably be way more damning photos. This is just proof we were out there alone, close and intimate.

And that final shot that’s half-obscured by some brush, but not enough to hide the fact that we’re kissing…

Oh, God.

Dread crawls up my throat, coppery and bitter.

I wrap my arms around Molly and press my face into her furry chest as a darker thought hits me.

There’s no obvious suspect with the right motive and access.

That means Shepherd will think I did this.

That’s the bottom line.

The only explanation that makes sense, at least to him. No one else knew.

How could he not assume I lied to this face, and this was all a treacherous stunt to ruin his reputation for clout? Another character assassination.

Crap.

Crap crap crap crap crap.

Just twenty-four hours ago, I thought there was nothing worse than the fact that I might never see him again.

Now, it’s staring me in the face.

How the hell do I make him believe me?