One Bossy Disaster: Chapter 4

I stand there fuming for several minutes.

Miss Cho asked me to wait, but I don’t know how long she expects me to stay in the office of a man who insulted me and rushed out like I caused an allergic reaction. I’m not even sure I still have a role at Home Shepherd.

What the hell is his deal?

Okay, so he probably didn’t know who was picked for the program. But am I really so toxic, one past screaming match over the world’s dumbest kayaking trip aside?

I made the effort today. I got dressed up.

I nailed the application process and the endless PR sessions.

I did everything a good employee should on her very first day, never mind a glorified intern for a nonprofit program.

This is a freaking charity program. No one pays me to be here beyond the pile of prize money. I’m far more okay with that than anyone who actually needs an income.

Whatever.

I’ll wait twenty minutes, I decide, eyeballing the empty chair in front of his desk.

Do I dare sit? Or would that burn another bridge for touching his property?

He’s probably a total wacko about that too.

Do I even care what impression I’m giving now?

Yes, unfortunately.

Although if he’s behaving this erratically, maybe the tabloid stuff wasn’t the pointless gossip I figured. Maybe I should have paid more attention.

But screw it.

I drop down in the seat in front of his desk—which is almost comically vast. His enormous leather swivel chair behind it makes me think of a throne as I pull up the story.

Mr. Foster and the actress, Vanessa Dumas.

I speed-read the article.

Long, messy story short, he was involved with her before changing his mind and dumping her abruptly.

No, not just involved. Engaged.

Exactly the kind of scumbag behavior I’d associate with guys like him who have way more money than common sense and more clout than character.

He probably thought he would have his fun, and when he got bored of her, she could skip off and pick up the pieces of her broken heart alone.

Which, from what I can see, she’s doing very publicly.

Hmmm.

Victim or not, Vanessa isn’t so much picking up the pieces as flaunting them like hunting trophies so everyone can take a good look.

Still, it doesn’t erase his assholery.

It’s easy to believe he’s a heartbreaker. He’s handsome enough, in a coldhearted lizard blood kind of way.

I figured out money and good looks were a deadly combination when I was fourteen. You’d need to be a saint not to let great wealth go to your head.

Oh, plus that faint scar on his cheek that makes him look mysterious and dangerous in an annoyingly sexy way.

If this Vanessa did fall hard enough to get bruised, I can kind of see the appeal.

Totally theoretically, of course.

He’s so not my type.

Shepherd Foster is my anti-type.

I only find a guy attractive if his maturity has grown past the moody Neanderthal stage. But I get why she might find him attractive.

How, objectively, the jet-black hair and ocean-blue eyes and that slashing faded scar might entice some girls who let their butterflies do the thinking.

At least this program finally makes sense, though.

I’m here so Shepherd Foster can save face.

Sighing, I scroll through another article bursting with sensational claims.

Vanessa is outing all his dirt, even poking at some organized crime rumors I don’t quite understand. When I try to search deeper, nothing turns up.

Huh.

The way it’s played up, the crazier it seems, and the less confident I feel about believing anything.

Everything that came down with Dad after my mother died spoke volumes about where truth ends and entertainment begins in the media.

Bad rumors spread like wildfire when the right people repeat them like mockingbirds. It’s all too easy for hearsay to become fact in the public eye.

That’s the world of billionaires, though.

A world I swore I never wanted to be involved in, having seen enough of it growing up.

All scandal and image management and security concerns.

No flipping thanks.

Ugh. I should’ve known this opportunity was too good to pass up.

No one’s motives are that pure, especially CEOs of powerful security companies.

But by sticking this out, I’m going to get the funding for my conservation work. That’s the important thing, all that really matters in the big picture.

I stare at my phone thoughtfully. There’s a stark black-and-white portrait of a perfectly scowly Foster staring up at me like the judgmental prick he is.

What kind of man is he for real?

The messy picture Vanessa Dumas painted or something more human?

Before I can dwell on it, the door behind me flies open. In stalks Satan with his usual bold, forceful strides. Miss Cho follows in his wake, wearing what seems like her normal serene expression.

Irritation flicks across Foster’s face as he sees me in the chair, but he thrusts out a no-nonsense hand without waiting for me to stand.

A power play.

“Shepherd Foster, CEO,” he says crisply. “You’ve already met my assistant, Hannah Cho.”

Wow.

I guess she really did ‘manage’ the tantrum right out of him.

I sneak a quick glance at her, but she doesn’t show a flicker of emotion.

Foster doesn’t move, waiting demandingly.

“So, we’re just going to pretend this is our first meeting?” I say, folding my arms.

His eyes glint like knives. “I’m going to swallow my damned pride and start over, Miss Lancaster. The rest is entirely up to you.”

Lovely.

We’re caught in a breathless staring contest for the next thirty seconds.

He’s not offering an apology for going off on me, and I’m not expecting one.

I’m honestly tempted to leave him hanging for a few more seconds or to neglect his handshake altogether. He was disgustingly rude, after all, when all I wanted was to keep his dumbass from becoming the richest person to drown in the Sound.

But I’m stronger than temptation and smarter than my snark suggests.

“Destiny Lancaster.” I stand and shake his hand lightly, dropping it as soon as I can. His fingers feel oddly warm, strong, too firm to call it diplomatic or comfortable. Another power play, I guess.

Another burst of irritation snaps at his eyes, but he just crosses behind his desk and drops into his chair. “You can go, Miss Cho. I’ve got it from here.”

She pauses for a second, looking at me for half a beat before nodding.

“Of course, sir.” As commanded, she turns and shuts the door gently behind her.

Yawning silence.

Three seconds feels like thirty years.

The large glassy modern clock on the wall ticks obnoxiously loud. I wonder if he wants that thing to intimidate everyone who comes into his citadel.

If he’s hoping it’s going to work on me, he’s SOL.

“Sit so we can talk,” Foster says, waving at the empty seat next to me. “You already made yourself at home once.”

“What was I supposed to do? You stormed off and left me here alone.” I don’t mean to say it, but he’s pissing me off.

Just because he’s filthy rich doesn’t mean he has to be a colossal dick.

His gaze lands on my face, direct and forceful like always. I have to fight not to flinch under his scrutiny.

“Do you need an apology? Is that what you’re waiting for?”

“You were rude,” I grind out. “And pretty psycho.”

“I was,” he admits, with absolutely no regret or remorse. “I suppose you only had my well-being in mind that day at Alki Point when you threatened to sic the Coast Guard on me.”

My lips thin. “Oh, please, it isn’t even about that—”

“My apologies, Miss Lancaster.”

I’ve never heard a less sincere apology.

Somehow, I ignore my urge to spin around and exit the room.

“Now,” he continues, “I need to bring you up to speed on our expectations. I’ll give you the company tour now so you know what you’re getting involved with.”

A company tour with this guy? Not Miss Cho?

I can hardly imagine anything worse.

“Peachy,” I whisper.

“For the next two weeks, you were supposed to be working with the Director of Corporate Giving, but regrettably she’s just starting her maternity leave. Unfortunate.”

He doesn’t look like he thinks it’s unfortunate.

Bastard.

“Right now, there’s only a program intern, but he’s well versed enough to explain how everything works with our grant process. I’m sure he’ll be grateful for your cooperation and a chance to reduce his considerable workload.”

Oh, now I see.

The big press junket is over, so he’s pawning me off on a minion.

Just like I expected.

This awkward trainwreck of a meeting is probably the only time I’ll see Shepherd Foster. That’s a small silver lining.

Still, I smile tightly and decide to push my luck.

“I’m sorry to hear that, Mr. Foster. I thought I’d be working directly with you?”

He stares blankly.

“Did you?” Either he’s not used to being challenged or he really didn’t know that was the deal.

“Unless, of course,” I continue, “you’re the kind of CEO who doesn’t know the ins and outs of his own program.”

His eyes narrow.

Gotcha.

That awful clock ticks between us as he stares at me, his stern eyes hiding everything but his flaming irritation at being in this room with me.

Then he gives a small cynical smile.

“We work with Homes for Seattle,” he says, naming one of the biggest charities in the city. “With Doctors without Borders, CARE, the International Rescue Committee, Direct Relief.”

Some of the biggest global charities.

Of course, he knows about those, though. They’re famous and worldwide.

“You’ve heard of New Leaves Tree Recovery as well, I imagine,” he continues. “Every year we donate a substantial sum to Friends of Arctic, the only conservation group to ever increase polar bear numbers near Hudson Bay. Last year, we partnered with Winthrope International to host a global conference for Hawaiian bird conservation. I gave a presentation on efforts I funded with a local, Dr. Cash—at my personal expense—to find a living Kauaʻi ʻōʻō. The bird is probably extinct, but I’ll agree with that call only after we’ve scoured every rock on Kauai.” He raises a challenging eyebrow. “Are those too famous for you? Too personal?”

I think my jaw is hanging open.

I can’t even argue.

“Additionally, we work with Nairobi Waters and a new earthquake and disaster recovery charity set up in Turkey and Iran, a banana soil rehabilitation group in Brazil, and True Blue Blooded to stop the over-farming of horseshoe crabs by big pharma.” He keeps going, rattling off charities ranging from international rock stars to the local and obscure.

And… and he knows the details.

About every single one.

Holy hell.

This man isn’t bluffing.

He’s not pretending just because he thinks it’ll impress me. And he doesn’t even glance at his computer screen to cheat and read off information.

The man knows his shit.

When he’s done, he folds his arms over his broad chest, reminding me again of those shiny gold cuff links and his sheer size.

“I could bore you with more details, Miss Lancaster, but that’s not why we’re here.” He watches me swallow too loudly. “Tell me, though, who exactly did you think you were dealing with?”

I bite my tongue.

Not because I think he’s right or he deserves my consideration.

He might know what he’s talking about, but he’s behaving like an asshole. The arrogant, entitled superprick I met the second he stormed away with his kayak, thinking he could wrestle nature and win.

I’m still a little sad that he did.

But he wants me to rise to the challenge.

That’s what this whole thing is—a test.

No way am I going to let this man bait me. I’m not intimidated by his big showy knowledge—and just because he knows the names and a few of the whys doesn’t mean he cares.

He’s probably one of those freaks with a photographic memory or something.

“Very impressive, sir.” I give him an artificially sweet smile.

That gets through if nothing else does.

His biceps bunch, and he looks like he’s gritting his teeth. A muscle pops in that impossibly sharp jaw.

Honestly, I would have preferred it if the exterior matched the interior. It would be easier to hate him if he looked more like his gnarled gargoyle of a personality.

But Foster turns away from me abruptly, shaking his mouse to wake his screen.

“Whether you’re with me or the intern, you’ll get your two million. Isn’t that what it’s all about? The zeroes on the check?”

In some ways, yes.

But admitting that would be like exposing my throat to a vampire, so I just watch him coolly. I can practically see his blood pressure climbing.

“Just so you know, I’m not impressed by big money, Mr. Foster,” I say. Though he doesn’t look at me, the corner of his mouth twitches. “I grew up rich.”

“Cole Lancaster? Yes, he’s done quite well for himself selling everyone their morning high,” he clips.

Now he’s making it personal?

My eyes snap to the half-empty mug on his desk and I glare.

“Emphasis on ʻeveryone,’” he growls. “I’m not immune to your father’s brand. Half of Seattle grew up on Wired Cup, and this office runs on their Pioneer Campfire blend.”

Nice save, damn him.

“Whatever. Money isn’t worth much unless you make it useful,” I say.

“And how do you define useful, Miss Lancaster?” he challenges.

I actually don’t mind.

I want to meet him head-on.

I want to push his buttons and find his weaknesses, the things he truly hates. I want to flay him open and see what’s really under all the jagged antisocial rock.

His dormant volcano temper is weirdly compelling. Like walking into a lion’s den with a big, juicy burger and wondering how long it’ll be until you wind up lunch.

“Useful?” I let the question linger, then I smile. “How about saving creatures who can’t save themselves without it?”

“Animal conservation?” Foster’s eyes narrow. For a second, I see the way my words press into him. The weight of them sit uncomfortably against his skin. “We might have one thing in common then, Miss Lancaster. Shocking, I know.”

Oof.

I’m speechless.

And he closes off, shutting his flicker of emotion behind an icy wall I imagine he throws up a lot like a shield.

The air in the room thickens.

Adversarial, charged, yet somehow, questioning.

Can we set our own crap aside? For the greater good?

I don’t know.

He’s taken up arms, and so have I.

I’m not sure who even decided to declare war, but it doesn’t matter now. There’s no earthly way I’m backing down and giving him the satisfaction of thinking I’m a quitter.

Especially not when there’s so much good on the line.

I hate how his eyes are so gorgeous, though. Blue and sharp and compelling.

I can’t imagine them ever being soft, but now with our gazes fused, I notice flecks of brighter color. Grey and yellow and brown. All the fragments that make up that ice-blue.

It reminds me of the sea a little, reflecting the world around it while it looks on with its own unyielding strength.

This man has an ocean soul.

Vast and immovable and stubborn.

Kind of beautiful in a scary way.

The difference, of course, is that the ocean is more forgiving than Shepherd Foster. It brings life and only shows its terrible wrath every once in a while.

Generally, the ocean is good.

The same can’t be said for him, no matter how many precious maybe-extinct birds he’s gone searching for.

Mr. Foster is one of those hardass, brass tacks billionaires my father always tried to avoid.

I bet he probably fires people for breathing too loud and sends his executive team home in hives.

I can practically feel a few rising on my arms as I look at him.

I’m allergic to prolonged exposure to jackasses.

But he’s still watching me, searching my face like he wants to read every thought.

If he can, then he must know how much I despise him—but he probably knew that anyway.

Chin raised, I stare right back.

The charged air skitters across my skin, reminding me how long it’s been since anything has made me feel this on edge.

“So, are we done making eyes at each other or is this part of Young Influencers too? I mean, I guess I can do this all day if you really want. First one to blink is a sucker.”

When he turns away, I swear I see a hint of a smile he immediately squelches.

He looks back with pure scorn and raises his hand.

“I’ll spare you the eye drops, Miss Lancaster. Now, if you’ll retract your claws for twenty minutes, I’ll give you the tour.”