One Bossy Disaster: Chapter 2

Alki Beach feels like walking into heaven, if heaven’s mornings are made of high winds and fresh salty air.

Soft sunlight spills across the ocean below a blue sky that yawns on forever, and there’s no one else around to interrupt my quiet time.

Beside me, Molly, trots along with her long pink tongue lolled out. Only the best dog ever.

Early morning runs like this are all I need.

Early morning runs and Molly.

Oh, the seals are a nice perk, too.

They’re half out of the water today, basking in the sunlight like overgrown potatoes with flippers. I’m too far away to see them for sure, but I’m almost certain their eyes are closed in contentment, despite the wind.

Beautiful.

I stop to catch my breath and Molly notices the seals. Her ears prick and her head cocks to the side.

“Not a chance, girl,” I tell her, wrapping her leash around my hand. “Those seals don’t need your kind of trouble.”

She whines in protest.

Of course, Mol would never hurt anything. But at ten months, she has a lot of energy for a rangy young husky and not a lot of common sense.

She doesn’t know she’ll definitely scare the seals.

This is a good photo op, though.

The lighting is pristine, soft and flattering despite my sweaty face. If I face the sun, I’ll even catch the seals in the background.

“Ready?” I kneel so Molly’s head rests next to mine. She huffs in excitement and licks my face. “Okay, on three. Smile for the camera. One, two…”

Molly looks to where I click my fingers, her pretty blue eyes sparkling in the sunshine as she huffs a breath.

I swear she’s more photogenic than I am.

I take several quick shots and skim through them as I start walking again. The seals come out best in the third shot, so I start editing.

It isn’t much, no more than a minute’s worth of flipping through filters.

My brand is candid, not overdone.

Just a little contrast tweaking to bring out the seals, a soft filter to make the most of the morning sun, and I bring up a box to post it on Twitter and then Insta. My tongue pokes out from the corner of my mouth as I type.

Big hello from Mol and me on our morning run! Anybody else spot the seals? Remember, when you see wildlife in its natural habitat, always be respectful. #AlkiBeach #harborseals #wildlifeprotection

Not too preachy, but some people need the reminder.

Just yesterday, I saw someone post a video of their friend trying to catch a seagull. They probably thought it was a little harmless fun, but they don’t know how fragile animals can be.

My phone vibrates a couple minutes later as Likes start pouring in, peppered with comments. Each one is a little dopamine kick, sharper than a double espresso.

For once, it’s not just the scenery or Molly’s cute face that has people lighting up.

It’s a cute selfie. My hair is all over the place from the wind and my face is pink.

“What do you say, Mol?” I show her the screen. “Cute or nah?”

She boops her nose against it, leaving a messy smudge I need to wipe away.

I laugh loudly.

“Yeah, you’re right. They love you more.”

She wags her tail and I kiss her furry head.

Getting Molly was the best adult decision I’ve ever made, even if she’s demanding and needs to pull me out of the house four or five times a day.

I’m convinced I have half my followers thanks to her.

Molly runs beside me as I spring into a healthy jog again, the fresh breeze kissing my face. The leash is still wrapped around my hand, but I don’t give her any room.

Most of the time, she’s reliable.

Her recall is good.

I’ve done so much training with her that I’m pretty sure I would respond to a cooing voice and smelly salmon treat, but the doggo knows what I expect by now.

Though I’m guessing she’ll always have one weakness.

Birds.

Any kind, from the smallest hummer to the biggest screeching eagle, causes her to lose her senses.

If she was chasing a seagull off a cliff, she’d go right over with it.

If the bird dove into the water, Mol would swim too.

I love her, but when it comes to birds, she’s a total doofus.

“Absolutely not!” I tell her as we pass a bunch of black oystercatchers roaming the shore, their distinct red beaks ready for feasting.

Molly grumbles, one ear flopping adorably as she stares them down.

I know what she’s thinking.

If I’m not supposed to chase birds, why are there birds?

“You have a point,” I say, and she glances back at me. The sand is firm and I don’t lose pace as we pass by them without incident. “But no. Birds are part of the ecology around here. You go chasing and eating them, and pretty soon we’ll all be joining the dinosaurs.”

She grumbles again at hearing “no.”

Call me crazy, I talk to her a lot.

She doesn’t understand most of my rambling, but that’s one word we’ve worked on to death. Husky pups need to be told “no” a lot.

The beach opens up as I head to the point where the lighthouse juts into the sky. As lighthouses go, it’s a small one, but I love getting to the point and staring out into the bay.

Just me, the sea, and nature.

Being here makes me feel like everything is all right with the world.

The sun has fully risen like a gold balloon by the time I reach the lighthouse. The wind picks up more, though, turning the gentle morning breeze into a proper gale.

It roars against my ears, tossing my hair up.

I slow to a stop, picking my way across the rocks and gazing out to sea.

From Alki Point, I can make out southern Bainbridge and Blake Island. On the other side of the bay past that, the wild growth of the Banner Forest National Park awaits.

It makes me smile.

How many times have I gone hiking there with Dad, Eliza, and the fam?

All that greenery is a big bowl of pea soup for the soul.

I’ve called this place home for most of my life, yet it still takes my breath away—even when the wind wants to shove me in the ocean.

I’m used to seeing people boating out here. Most mornings, the bay is littered with sailboats and little fishing ships.

Not today, though. The rising wind is enough reason to tell me why when I see the waves.

They’re rolling bigger like restless beasts rising from a long nap, the wind spitting spray off the top.

Brine coats my cheeks, and for the first time, I shiver as I check my phone.

Dang.

There’s even a wind advisory for small boats. As I scan the waves, I don’t expect anyone down by the boat launch.

Definitely not a man holding a flimsy green kayak.

“Oh no,” I mouth, noticing he’s only a few feet from taking off on a one-way trip.

As one enormous wave swells halfway to Blake Island, I lunge into action, running toward the launch with my hands over my mouth.

“Hey! Hey, wait, mister. You can’t go out in weather like this!”

Are you freaking crazy? I want to add. But there could be a thousand reasons. He might be a tourist or a risk-taker or just some guy who never checks his phone and underestimates how pissed off the sea is today.

He stops and stares, all dark hair and slashing blue eyes that ground me midstep.

I jerk back so hard I’m almost winded. Even Molly goes into an instant heel at my side, watching him warily.

“There’s a major wind advisory. Looks like it’s already over thirty miles per hour out there. You really don’t want to go out there,” I say quietly as he watches me like a statue.

Okay, yeah, definitely freaking crazy. It kind of comes with the territory in this town.

“I’m aware of the weather, miss,” he says sharply. “I also have eyes. I’ve done the route to Blake Island over three hundred times in worse weather than this. Thanks for your concern, but no thanks.”

Holy hell.

He’s talking polite, but the wave that crashes behind him hard enough to spray us both obliterates his argument.

“You can’t go out there, dude. That’s the kind of mess that drowns people,” I say. But the more I talk, the frostier his icy look gets. “If you’ve been out to Blake so much, you must know how many people wind up in a bad spot and need rescue? But this, this is easily avoidable.”

“So is this conversation,” he clips.

Oh, boy.

We’ve got a live one, I guess.

My brow pulls down. “Um, don’t you think it’s a little selfish to risk people and resources if the Coast Guard has to roll out after you? I’m trying to avoid that.”

He rolls his eyes so hard I think I’m the one who’s dizzy.

“Lady, get a life. You’re lecturing a grown man who’s perfectly comfortable with taking his own risks. If I’m swept away, I’ll find my way back. You can have the police standing by to arrest me for self-endangerment if it makes you feel better.”

“Come on. That’s not even a crime.” I sigh as he turns his back, shooting me another cutting gaze over his very broad shoulder. “I guess no good deed goes unpunished, huh?”

He shrugs, pushing his kayak down at the edge of the very unsettled water before he looks up at me again.

Even Molly has her ears back, studying him like she’s trying to decide if his stupidity is a threat. I’m sure it’s just my mood rubbing off when she’s extremely sensitive, but ugh.

I can’t believe this.

“If you want to do good, Miss Intrusive, kindly butt the hell out and let me enjoy my day,” he says.

Yep.

He’s officially the rudest, coldest, most reckless man I’ve ever met. Part of me wants to give him a friendly push right into the storm the rest of me is working so hard to keep him from.

Decisions, decisions.

“Whatever.” I try to say it nonchalantly, hating how much anger creeps into my voice. “Pardon me for giving two shits about saving your life.”

The waves slap the shore too close to us again, and I can’t hear all of his response clearly as Molly shakes off the water.

But it sounds like “…you’d do better to care more about your dog. Get her the hell away from the water and stop pecking at strangers who don’t need saving.”

I’m actually speechless as I watch him push away, climbing a ten-foot-tall wave less than a minute after he’s on the water.

It’s not remotely safe.

He’s a ginormous idiot and a half.

Only, I guess I’m the bigger one for standing there and taking his abuse. If he doesn’t give a damn about his safety, why should I?

This man is either wackadoodle or as wildly overconfident as he is short-fused.

Still, I squint at him as he fades into the choppy waves, certain he’s on the verge of needing a rescue any second.

When I’m right, I’ll do him a favor and call it in.

I peel off my windbreaker and throw it around Molly while we watch and wait.

I don’t mind the chill. In fact, it helps cool my blood a little after this massive prick made it boil.

I’m honestly mad that he’s fighting the waves as well as he is.

Slowly, calmly, like he lives for nothing but spitting in the face of danger.

The raw power in his controlled movements feels angry, like someone with something to prove to the universe.

Holy hell, no.

No, this can’t be blind arrogance.

This is more like rage, a fury taken out on the ocean itself because nothing else is strong enough to withstand him.

I watch in irritated awe for a few more minutes with my heart climbing up my throat.

I’m expecting him to weaken any time as his muscles fail him, to show me a satisfying flicker of fear.

Any second now.

…it never happens.

Somehow, this maniac withstands the ocean, climbing over every swell, grinding his way toward Blake Island a few brutal crawling feet at a time.

I already had the Coast Guard’s rescue contact pulled up on my phone, but now I hesitate.

Watching him is hypnotic.

I’ve never seen anyone take on the ocean like he has a personal grudge with Poseidon and he’s determined to win.

And weirdly, he is winning.

To me, nature isn’t something you conquer. It’s part of life and it’s our responsibility to watch over it.

But this man has declared open war on it with every cleave of his paddle.

His naked aggression twists my heart like a limp rag.

Even though the sea keeps trying to swallow him up and serve some humble pie, it’s failing.

My God.

He must be enjoying himself.

I wonder if he knows I’m still standing here like a freezing idiot, watching and trying not to care about his fate.

Why else would someone throw themselves out there?

The adrenaline rush, sure. This area attracts junkies seeking their next high on wild risks.

Crazy, but what do I know?

Once I’m sure he isn’t doomed and he’s rolling up on the island’s shore, I turn away from the man and his weirdly compelling battle—just in time to find Mol trying to eat a whole-ass hermit crab.

“Molly!” I pry her mouth open and dig the poor thing out. At least the shell saved it from her sharp little teeth.

I drop it back in the water, hoping it isn’t too traumatized.

“You can’t do that,” I say, and she wags her tail, staring up at me with wide blue eyes. “Those aren’t the right kind of crabs for dinner.”

Mom, you don’t know how wrong you are. Her goofy dog grin only widens. Crabs are dinner. All the crabs, I imagine her saying.

“You’re the worst. But I love you.”

I glance back at the man on his stupid mission, but he’s finally out of sight.

For a second, I panic, wondering if I should’ve kept watching to make sure he’s all right after all. But then I see his kayak bobbing on the shore, this pale green thing tied down and half-obscured by rolling waves.

Huh.

Okay then.

I guess I need to just accept the fact that he knows what he’s doing and he’s too big an asshole to leave the world so soon.

Totally not what I need on a quiet morning.

I distract myself from the weirdness with thoughts about the weekend.

Maybe I’ll head over to Olympia for another stab at sea otter tracking. They’re so rare and endangered I’ve never spotted them in the wild, but I’d love to.

The Department of Fish and Wildlife is practically begging for civilian reports.

If I get a lucky hit up north, maybe I can help them preserve the species.

My internet followers would love that, and obviously it would be an amazing opportunity.

But not even thoughts of adorable endangered otters are enough to stop me from thinking about that sea freak toying with drowning like it was nothing.

What kind of man has that big a grudge against living?

And why?

“This way. Let’s get out of here, girl.” I jog away from the point so I can no longer see him.

I pull out my phone and check my notifications.

There are a bunch of Insta Likes and comments adding up, plus a healthy trickle of new followers. I swipe past to a few new Discord messages.

I’m in this chat with a bunch of other local people where we hash out new ways to grow and gripe about what it’s like to be an influencer.

Every so often, someone shares a cool new opportunity.

Usually, though, it doesn’t blow up unless there’s something serious going on.

Today, the messages are coming fast and furious.

Too curious, I open the chat and read through the messages.

ClaraDoesChickLit: OMG OMG YOU WILL NEVER GUESS WHAT

MegTea: I CAN GUESS

c h a o s b e a r: what? whats up?

jennineedscoffeeornope: new program? deets?

ClaraDoes ChickLit: RIGHT RIGHT RIGHT

ClaraDoesChickLit: How do you always get it first Jenni? Omg

MegTea: Who did you blow? Like did he taste good?

I wrinkle my nose. Meghan Tea’s whole brand is loud, crude, and she’s never shy about reminding us she’s number one in the pecking order.

I hate that she’s in our group when her brand is mostly self-centered and not based around a coherent niche like cooking or travel or random acts of kindness. Mostly, her videos are the Seattle dining scene, where she gossips about everything banal and scandalous in this city.

Still, I keep reading as the messages pop in.

ClaraDoesChickLit: Ew Meg. F off and find your next story somewhere else.

jennineedscoffeeornope: babe I always got an ear out

ClaraDoesChickLit: ANYWAY it’s a new Young Influencers program with Home Shepherd. Y’know the one with the hot messed up CEO? You guys it looks a-MAZING

I stop walking to type a message.

DestinysChild: Home Shepherd, huh? The global security company?

Several people start typing again, but Clara responds first. She usually does. I swear that girl has bionic fingers that type at the speed of light.

ClaraDoesChickLit: YES!! I mean, I know I know. It’s kinda weird, but it looks like a really cool program and a great opportunity. Every Seattle library will slay if I get that money

MegTea: Whatevs. You do your little books. When I win, I’ll feed the homeless. #peopleoverpages

Nobody laughs at her bitter joke.

I purse my lips as I think, tapping my chin.

Mol settles next to me and licks her lips.

Well.

I should look into this.

Free money and real opportunities to help people typically don’t grow on trees—but for Clara to get so worked up, it must be good. She’s more than a book snob when her high expectations extend to charity.

But the thing is, I’ve dealt with companies like this before I was old enough to drive.

Consider it one of the many life lessons that come with growing up a billionaire’s daughter.

Dad taught me early and often to suss out ulterior motives.

Oh, sure, most places say they want to help the world. They all read the right script.

But it’s really all about finding a fresh cause to make themselves look good and offset the real damage they do. Especially when it comes to Mother Nature.

They usually have a shitload of environmental damage to offset.

Dad knew that better than anyone, too, and he’s invested a ton in making sure Wired Cup runs as the most sustainable regional coffee company around.

It’s all about public perception, in the end.

I’m guessing the CEO of Home Shepherd doesn’t give a single solitary fuck, especially if he’s a walking mess like they say. I don’t really follow rumors but the way they talk about him is enough.

He’ll probably pawn the (un)lucky applicant off on an intern or corporate program manager in charge of philanthropy.

That will turn a great opportunity into something mediocre. A nice little bullet point on a résumé and nothing more.

See? It’s never too early in the morning to be cynical.

I turn my attention back to the conversation.

ClaraDoesChickLit: OH AND LOOK AT THE PRIZE MONEY!!! Hang on, lemme find a link

MegTea: Hurry up. Some of us have places to be Clara.

Prize money?

I read back and realize I must’ve skipped over that part.

That changes things if the big bad company is offering real skin in the game.

Stroking Mol’s head, I click the link and wait for it to load. If Clara sent three exclamation marks, that means something.

The webpage looks professional enough with simple, readable text and actionable links. I skim through everything until I find the real meat it’s offering and—

And holy crap.

Holy meatballs.

Home Shepherd, Inc. is offering two million dollars as prize money to a charity of the winner’s choice.

Two million effing dollars.

Look, I come from money, but a couple mil being handed out to a good cause isn’t pocket change. I’ve never managed to raise a fraction of that amount.

The only way I could get that much is if I raided my parents’ bank accounts, which I totally refuse to do, especially when they already give so generously from their own pockets.

Two million dollars.

That’s a lot of incentive.

There’s also a note about getting a chance to work with Mr. Hot Messy CEO in the flesh. I’m surprised he’s personally involved, and it might be good leadership experience, if you can get past the likely personality flaws.

I haven’t had a chance to work with many business leaders who aren’t part of Dad’s circle and biased toward liking me. That could be useful if I’m ever in a position to start a nonprofit.

The bad news, of course, is that a prize that big guarantees fierce competition.

Mr. Hot Messy CEO would get a big pile of good applications for a quarter of that amount. Even if he’d offered a hundred grand, he’d have people vying for the spot like hungry piranhas.

But two million dollars?

I have to remember how to breathe.

My mind is already spinning with hope, imagining everything I could do if I win the position—which is ridiculous when I haven’t even decided to apply yet.

But it does say you can pick any charity you want, doesn’t it?

Imagine what a local environmental group could do with a cool two million as a booster, all in one go. Heck, if I let my followers know, maybe they’ll donate too.

But what would I choose?

I’m pretty sure they need to know upfront.

I chew my lip as I run through my options.

Maybe the Marine Conservation Club?

They do so much to protect endangered local species like sea otters, whales, harbor porpoises, and sea lions.

Reflexively, I reach up and finger the little onyx turtle necklace I always wear. My stepmom, Eliza, got it for me years ago and it’s turned my luck around ever since.

So, maybe I could put in an application and let the rest sort itself out.

What could it hurt?

If a man can wake up this early to scream at concerned strangers and tempt fate dueling with the Puget Sound, I can certainly tempt it by getting off my butt for a good cause.

It turns out, it can hurt a lot.

Mostly my head.

Especially when you freaking win.

“Stand up straight,” the lady says from behind the camera. We’re set up in the bright, airy lobby of Home Shepherd’s headquarters. We could have filmed it on his office floor, but his décor feels less than cheerful.

What I actually mean is less pleasant.

Chrome and weathered grey slate are classy, for sure, but stepping in there made me feel like I forgot what the sun looked like in this fancy dungeon.

If the CEO chose that style himself, I can easily imagine what sort of man he is.

Stone-cold, with a personality as bland as his slate-tiled artisan floor.

I plaster on a smile.

Hey, it’s not like I’m new to standing in front of a camera under stress. But when I applied for this program, this wasn’t what I bargained for.

Honestly, I never expected to win.

Home Shepherd is a big deal in these parts. I’ve heard Dad mention them offhand for securing his shops and I couldn’t care less about security services.

Plenty of influencers certainly applied when they heard about the massive payout for charity.

It’s a little sweet to edge out the local competition, I’ll admit.

Especially total brat influencers, like Meghan “Tea” Maven, who make their views off rancid gossip. Home Shepherd’s big charity payoff would just be one more thing for Meghan to boast about, anyway, no matter how many homeless shelters she supports.

For her, it’s a means to an end.

More about boosting her own clout than helping the world.

I’m not into the whole gossip thing, of course, but a lot of people are. She’s been all over everything lately.

Compared to my paltry almost-a-million TikTok followers, she has well over five mil, plus a zillion more spread across Instagram and Twitter.

On paper, it should be a no-brainer. Meghan has a bigger platform, hands down.

For some reason, they picked me. I must’ve passed their vibe check, I guess.

“Okay!” Camera Lady says cheerfully, and I try to focus again. “That’s lovely, Destiny.”

It’s not lovely.

My smile feels rubbery at the edges and I think my eyes look puffy from the three hours of sleep last night. I’ve been doing this all day, all these little press releases and photo ops to let the world know about the program and the fact that I’m joining it.

I already want to just crawl into bed and sleep for a solid day.

But at this point I’d settle for getting down to work.

My skin prickles with the attention.

My smile wilts, and I have to hoist it back into place again.

“So, Destiny, can you tell us why you’re excited to work with Home Shepherd?”

Again, my smile becomes more of a grimace as I answer the same question I’ve answered a dozen other times this week. At least I have my lines memorized.

“It’s an amazing opportunity,” I say.

Clara, bless her heart, has coached me through this so many times it feels almost natural.

Camera Lady nods enthusiastically.

“Home Shepherd is such a big name,” I continue. “They already do so much for making people feel secure. I know it’s going to boost my platform.”

The woman smiles encouragingly. I keep my body language relaxed and open as I continue.

“Of course, the chance to shadow such a well-known CEO is pretty thrilling, too,” I say, really hamming that part up.

Somehow, I don’t believe I actually will get to shadow him, but I know how corporate egos operate. We’ll let everyone think I will and that I’m oh-so-grateful for the opportunity.

Including Mr. High and Mighty Foster himself.

No harm in signaling that I know where my bread is buttered and why I’m here.

“I’m looking forward to making new connections and learning how to make a difference from a business perspective. A new one, I mean. I grew up with a big shot CEO for a dad, but that’s always been a little too personal to be useful. I can’t wait to get advice from someone who didn’t used to buy my pj’s. I can’t thank you guys enough. It’s a fresh perspective, and I’m totally game.”

Camera Lady grins. “Do you think you’ll take what you’ll learn here with you?”

“Absolutely.” My smile brightens, this time for real. “Mr. Foster is top dog in the home security biz, right? It would be pretty hard not to learn something from the best.”

There, I’ve done it. Name-dropped him.

The stupid, petty part of me hopes he’ll see this and realize what my expectations really are.

He hasn’t sent so much as a note by pigeon. He probably has no intention of even meeting me beyond a quick handshake and a how-do-you-do.

But I want him to feel a smidge guilty—if that’s possible.

There’s actually not much about him available online, despite his reputation. What little Clara knows was secondhand from another influencer who said he smashed some poor woman’s heart to bits with a flash-in-the-pan engagement.

That’s what the only articles I can find are buzzing about, aside from tech security issues that mostly go over my head.

That’s a bit of a red flag. Does he really only have one recent scandal?

Every time Dad sneezed, the press used to jump all over him.

As soon as I knew I won, I went full detective on Foster, searching for his LinkedIn, any social media profiles, any articles I could find about him.

His face looked weirdly familiar, too, but I couldn’t quite place it.

Before his escapades with Vanessa Dumas, the man was a ghost, and nobody gets to play phantom with this much money unless they’ve spent a ton on sweeping up their dirt.

But all he had was some corporate bio, which I read in detail, and some articles about how he established Home Shepherd years ago and how much money it’s making on cutting-edge innovations.

Aside from that, the rest was all rumors.

No social media.

No pictures of him having fun and showing off like billionaires in their prime do.

No slick images grandstanding with his charities, which is really weird when every rich guy with power has at least a couple sets or several big supportive speeches posted.

The only thing I could find were a few recent photos with the actress he apparently dumped or something.

I’m not sure I blame him, really.

She looks high-maintenance as hell.

But even those articles were mostly about her. The fact that she was on his arm, and how she feels, crying about the alleged breakup.

I could care less.

I care a little more about the fact that he’s enormously private.

Is he even aware I’m alive? Does he know this program exists?

Or did some minion come up with this idea and he just signed off on it without a second glance? From the pictures, which show a handsome, stern man with piercing blue eyes and cheekbones that could cut glass, he doesn’t exactly look friendly.

Or hyper-committed to charitable works that don’t make money.

And now, to no one’s surprise, I’m stuck here doing a bunch of publicity shoots and videos rather than anything substantive.

“Destiny?” Camera Lady calls with a frown.

I snap my smile back on my face for the rest of the session.

I definitely don’t meet Mr. Foster that day.

The next few weeks fly by in a social media haze with more mini events and publicity shots—anything and everything except real philanthropic work.

It’s uniquely exhausting.

The thought of what that money might accomplish is the only thing that keeps me going.

There are two million annoying reasons to stick with this, despite my irritation, and I spend my spare time figuring out where I’ll actually put the money.

Turns out, they let me submit a shortlist I can finalize later.

I haven’t decided on a solid charity yet, but I’ve made a list of my top five. And revised it. And swapped out top place about ten different times.

But it’ll be one of them.

They’re all fine conservation organizations with good track records of preserving habitats for endangered species.

Not an easy list to narrow down. Since announcing I’ve joined Young Influencers, I’ve had so many charities reaching out to ask me to consider them. Not just in Seattle, or even the US, but organizations from all over the world.

As a side perk, since my announcement with all the promotion floating around, I’ve gained five thousand new followers.

So maybe it’s not all a waste of time.

I hope so, anyway.

That’s why I’m here.

To get the word out and make a real difference.

Finally, after the exhausting press junket dies down, my first day of real work in the office arrives.

The Home Shepherd offices are at the top of a high-rise stabbing up into the grey canopy of clouds over the city. When we reach the top floor, I try not to wince.

Despite the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Seattle in its busy midmorning glory, something about this place makes me feel like sunlight itself has suddenly ceased to exist.

Not to be dramatic, but it looks like the antithesis of environmentally friendly.

They could have at least dropped a few plants around to break up the clinical vibe. Some accent color. Even just green. We don’t need flowers rioting everywhere, just something to offset the drabness.

“Miss Lancaster?” A slim Asian woman steps out from behind the desk and murmurs something to the other receptionist, who offers me a curious glance. “Hi, I’m Hannah Cho, Mr. Foster’s executive assistant.”

I’m no stranger to high fashion and class, but everything about Miss Cho is pinned so perfectly in place she makes me feel small. She’s dressed in royal navy-blue and cream, her blouse fastened around her neck and her sleek bob flawlessly styled.

When she looks at me, I know she’s making a mental note of every hair that’s out of place, how bright my skin looks, and how hard I’m forcing this smile.

For a billionaire’s daughter with a very important day, I’m sure I look like a mess.

It’s a little scary how accurately she takes it all in without even breathing a snide remark.

Jesus.

Believe it or not, I did make an effort today. But against her militantly professional, picture-perfect attire, I’m convinced I spit toothpaste down my blouse. Or maybe, in the quick walk from the taxi to the front doors, the wind tossed my hair into a bird’s nest.

Dad always taught me to be on time when that’s a basic courtesy everyone deserves, but maybe I should have been more than five minutes early.

Did she expect me to arrive earlier?

“Hi,” I say quickly before I can overthink myself into paralysis. I give a quick wave and tuck my hands behind my back. “I’m Destiny Lancaster. Nice to meet you, Miss Cho.”

“Thank you for being on time. That’s always useful here at Home Shepherd.”

“Of course.”

Of course it is. What kind of tantrum does Foster throw when people show up late?

She gestures down the wide corridor. “This way. Mr. Foster is—he will see you now.”

I stop in shock. “Wait. I’m… I’m meeting Mr. Foster today?”

“Those were the terms of the program, yes. I regret that it’s taken this long with his travel schedule. However, he’s had a few meetings out of town this past week.”

“Yes, but…” I don’t have an adequate answer.

I wasn’t expecting him to ever stop ghosting me doesn’t seem like the right tone.

So I settle for a pained smile.

“That’s fine,” I lie. “Lead the way.”

She says nothing else as she leads me to the executive office.

No surprise, it’s an enormous, intimidating space with a giant, forbidding man at the center like he’s the focal point of the entire universe.

He stands against the window, radiating pure arrogance, looking out across the morning day like he owns it.

The sunlight seeping past the clouds casts him in shadow, true evil villain style.

First impression?

I have a sense of imposing height stuffed inside a black suit, impeccably tailored with subtle grey pinstripes and understated gold cuff links.

Understated.

Classy, yes—but not in the cold, soulless way of his office.

So, there might be a hint of taste in there somewhere, and a man who understands that great wealth doesn’t need to be ostentatious.

Then he goes and ruins my first impression.

He turns, sees me, and scowls.

Second impression?

Holy shit.

This can’t be real.

It can’t be him.

The walking asshat from Alki Beach looks just as big facing me as he did facing away, with a gloriously chiseled face that would be a whole lot more appealing if he wasn’t glowering like I just spat in his coffee.

His jet-black hair and blue eyes are so familiar it stops my heart. So does that glare.

God, I don’t think it’s just the photos I’ve been scanning from the internet rumor mills. I can’t believe it didn’t hit me sooner.

But to be fair, I only argued with the kayaking maniac for a few minutes and his posture is everything.

It’s the way he stands with those big shoulders bowed and that arrogant little curl of his lips.

The faded scar lashing down one tanned cheek I barely noticed until now, the huge folded arms—it all signals a man who’s wrapped in pure aggression.

“What’s this? Is this a joke?” His glare flicks from me to Miss Cho, who’s standing right behind me.

What?

My jaw drops. This man looked me dead in the face and had the audacity to call me a ‘what’?

Oh, hell no.

“The young lady selected for the inaugural Young Influencers program, sir,” Cho says coolly, not even remotely ruffled.

It’s like she expected this.

Like she deals with his attitude all the time.

Well, what else? If she works for him, she knows he’s a titanium jerkface.

“If you recall,” she continues, “we made our selection recently and she’s finished the press material. I forwarded you her résumé, social profiles, and application.”

“I remember,” he snaps.

“This is our winning candidate, Miss Destiny Lancaster.” Miss Cho gives a small sweep of her hand like she’s presenting a lowly peasant to a Roman emperor.

It’s so tiresome.

At least Foster looks at me for longer than three stormy seconds this time before he decides he wants to rip my head off.

His gaze burns with a braising contempt as it travels down my body.

Oof, forget my head.

It’s more like he’s ripping off my clothes so he can judge me.

Mind, body, soul, and everything in between.

I have to fight the urge to cover myself with my hands, and I’m not the type of delicate flower who ever wilts under a man’s eyes.

Only, I can’t just flick this guy off for giving me an angry eye-fucking I never asked for and go about my day.

I’m frozen as he drinks me in, his strong throat working. I swear the sound of him swallowing echoes through the room.

Yeah, I can’t take this anymore.

“Well?” I clear my throat loudly, coughing into my hand for emphasis.

His nostrils flare before that stern gaze snaps back to Miss Cho.

“Find someone else,” he snarls.

Then he strides past me, brushing my elbow without an apology.

What, what, what?

The door slams behind him.

He’s gone without a single word meant for me.

Miss Cho looks like she’s holding in a sigh she’s too proud to release. She holds up a hand with a thin smile, looking exasperated, but in a patient way.

The woman might be an undercover saint if this is normal when it comes to babysitting Shepherd Foster.

“Please give me a moment. Sometimes Mr. Foster needs to be managed.”

My mouth threatens to drop and I hold it in place with sheer willpower and clenched teeth.

Foster’s assistant has just told me he needs to be managed? After insulting me in the worst way possible?

“Don’t worry,” she says. “Wait here and I’ll be right back.”

Then she leaves, following Foster out and stranding me in his cave of an office.

My whole head is ringing, pinched between humiliation and outrage and total confusion, but mostly one question that keeps blasting on repeat.

Girl, what the hell did you sign up for?