One Bossy Disaster: Chapter 8

I’m too stunned to breathe when it sneaks up on me.

Somehow, I’m out here having the time of my life.

I won’t lie, when Mr. Foster—Shepherd—suggested we actually go ahead with this trip, I was nervous.

Not least because it’s extremely easy for anything and everything to go wrong out here with him, practically alone.

Not that I think he’s a murderer or anything—when he’s trying to clear his name, he’s not going to dismember me and hide the parts unless I really grind his gears.

But it turns out, he knows his stuff.

Oh, plus being on the water paddling is actually fun.

When I was a kid, I was terrified of the ocean. Wouldn’t go near it, not even when Dad made enormous efforts to make me feel safe on tranquil beaches without a cloud in sight.

There are so many unknowns.

Like, sure, I was scared of sharks and jellyfish.

But the thing that haunted me most was what happened to my mother when her body washed up on a peaceful stretch of shore next to our family coffee farm in Hawaii.

My parents didn’t have a great marriage. It was stormy and toxic and ultimately, my mother smashed his heart.

Even so, Dad was devastated. He never had a chance to fix it, much less end it and move on.

He buried his feelings in chronic work and a defensive short fuse that didn’t go away until Eliza crash-landed in his life.

Thank God she did.

Besides being the catalyst for making him function like a human being again, she also saved me from a lifetime of ocean deprivation.

It wasn’t even the fact that she brought us closure with the past.

She encouraged me to explore my passion for animals at a time when I was a major brat, staring down the barrel of taking over a coffee empire I had zero interest in.

She reawakened Dad’s kindness, too, and together, they got me on boats with dolphins and turtles and then into the ocean with nothing but a paddleboard.

They showed me a lost love I’ve been absolutely smitten with ever since. I can’t imagine what my life would be if I’d let fear hold me back.

I also can’t believe I’ve never tried kayaking before today.

Once the ocean bug bit me, I went ham on outdoor sports—surfing, canoeing, parasailing, you name it—but somehow kayaking never made it onto my list.

Maybe because there’s still a hint of uncertainty with new things, and any water activities with live currents have the potential to go so wrong.

But it also has the potential to be incredibly satisfying.

Yes, even with an unrepentant grump for a teacher.

I steal a glance at him and try not to smile like a starry-eyed moron.

He’s doing his broody thing again.

Mouth pulled tight, eyes dark, staring into the distance like he’s contemplating the secrets of the mountains, his stern blue eyes narrowed and focused.

With him looking the other way, I can linger on that hard jawline, the way he’s made up of so many sharp lines and dips and walls of muscle.

That wet suit doesn’t hide much, either.

And because I’m a hot-blooded woman, yes, I checked him out back on the beach.

I hate to admit there was a hint between his legs that he has a reason for that mammoth ego.

And his abs—

Sweet Jesus.

I had to switch my brain off before the daydreams started. It’s already awkward enough with Foster without picturing him gloriously naked every time his lips move, okay?

The man works out.

He doesn’t skip leg day like most guys or… any day, really.

He’d be less intimidating if he had skinny chicken legs or basic biceps or a narrower chest.

Honestly, that would make this entire thing easier if he was just a walking attitude without the Michelangelo looks.

The attitude isn’t a total turnoff when he’s not all supervillain.

The way he rushed in when my dumb face got stuck under the kayak—

God.

No, the man isn’t half-bad when he tries.

And that confession feels like it might cost me everything to admit.

Before this morning, I came here expecting to see the bosshole everyone in the company knows, up close and personal.

A cold, unfeeling, perfectionist lump who never developed enough patience to hold his shit together without screaming the minute I upset him.

Oh, he has high expectations and a low tolerance for failure, for sure—but although he’s grouchy, he’s never cruel with his criticism.

He’s never off the mark.

I consider myself a fast learner, but even when I make mistakes as we ply the waters, he corrects them firmly yet politely.

No big sighs.

No passive-aggressive eye-rolling.

No pointed comments about how I should be picking up on this faster.

That helps me relax and improve at my own pace.

By midday, we’re paddling along at a reasonable clip.

Sure, my arms and lower back are burning, and my palms might be a little chapped by sunset, but I barely notice.

It’s too fantastic out here with a clear view of Washington’s soul.

A hundred shades of green, imposing rock rising from the sea, picturesque yachts and sailboats and a few massive cargo ships gliding around us lazily in the distance.

The wind carries the songs of nature, birds and fish and hikers and fishermen laughing from the shore.

Shepherd certainly doesn’t get any less gorgeous as the day wears on.

The sun sweeps high overhead as we go, traveling north past Harstine Island into North Bay.

The sunlight dances off the waters like it’s pointing to sin, toying with the dark hair on Shepherd’s head.

The rest of him is highlighted in the ruby red glow of evening reflected on the water. He’s a silhouette shadow of the gods.

And those gods make me watch him kayak, gracefully moving through the water so effortlessly with every mile.

Now I know how your average Greek girl felt watching Hercules work out.

I lean back in my seat, tipping my head back and closing my eyes as I wipe my brow. When you’ve been under the summer sun long enough, it heats you up.

“Enjoying yourself?” His voice is wry yet gently amused, and suddenly next to me.

When I look over, I see he’s stopped, waiting for me to pull alongside him.

It’s a weirdly human moment.

Almost like he doesn’t mind—or maybe he even likes—the fact that I’m having a good time.

Whoa, girl.

Let’s not get carried away.

“It’s nice to just hear the sea. I always forget how noisy Seattle can be until I come home,” I say, lifting a hand so I catch the breeze in my fingertips.

“I know what you mean about the silence. Half the reason I spend so much time on the water is so I can hear myself think.”

I wonder about the other half.

“Yeah. It’s good to be alone, just the two of us here.” I snap my eyes open, regretting my words, just in case he could take that the wrong way.

But he’s just looking at me contemplatively.

Not like he’s about to make my slip more awkward.

Because we are alone now.

And that’s something I haven’t stopped thinking about ever since we embarked and the little towns along the shore became smaller and sparser.

“Alone, yes. Fifty or more miles from every demanding asshole and bitter disappointment. Even money can’t always buy that much solitude, Destiny.” He glances away again.

It’s fascinating how he relaxes when he paddles, like he’s truly content, even though he’s still vibrating raw power. Still, something about his giant, tight-wound body just loosens up here.

Though honestly, I’m a little more fascinated hearing my name.

It rolls off his lips like a tiger’s purr, a new word he has to taste to understand.

No, this isn’t the same man I met on Alki Point, all bluster and deep grudges against life.

That man didn’t seem like he could ever find any peace without a heaping risk of drowning and hypothermia.

I think I like this version of Foster better.

Dangerous thoughts, I know.

But I don’t have a prayer of stopping them as he looks at my face, then away, like his eyes might bleed if he stares at me too long.

“We’ve only got a few more hours of good light. We should rest and then bring it home.”

The minute I stretch my arms over my head, my aching upper body agrees.

Apparently, his version of a rest is to paddle up to shore so we can stretch our legs while eating another piece of flapjack.

“I’m happy it won you over,” I tell him between bites of my own. “I knew you had a sweet tooth in there somewhere.”

His eyes flick to me, already narrowed. “Woman, I have a calorie deficit from five hours of steady kayaking and nothing more. Also, any interest in homemade sugar highs stays strictly between us. Don’t make me put it in an NDA.”

He’s so ridiculous I laugh.

“A little late for a nondisclosure agreement over snacks, isn’t it?”

He doesn’t reply, ripping off another Shepherd-sized bite of his bar instead and chewing like he means business.

O-kay then.

“I’m so stiff,” I say, rolling my shoulders for the tenth time and trying not to wince. “Ow. You weren’t kidding about the workout.”

“You’d have an easier time if you’d quit hunching your back,” he says, tapping my shoulder blades. The contact jolts me. “Sit up straight in the boat. Let your arms take the strain.”

“Um, my arms definitely are taking the strain,” I say pointedly, waving them like overcooked noodles.

“They could be taking more. Some growing pains have to be expected, like any sport. It takes a while to break yourself in,” he says with an almost straight face.

But one corner of his lip curls.

I can’t tell if it’s a fun smile or something more vicious.

I also get hung up on that whole ‘break yourself in’ part.

Holy hell.

For the briefest second, I saw that look.

He was looking at me like someone he wanted.

“Watch out. That’s like the third joke you’ve told today,” I say so I don’t dwell on the other possibility. “You’re really going to ruin your supervillain mystique if you keep that up.”

“Like hell. Bad reputations are easy to get and nearly impossible to erase,” he says grimly. That almost-smile, almost-desire look disappears. “I wasn’t joking.”

“Don’t deny it! You absolutely did.”

“That was a statement of fact.”

I wave my flapjack bag at him. “I don’t think so. I bet you’re just a sadist who likes inflicting pain.”

“I’ll let you decide, Miss Destiny,” he growls, his gaze flicking from the last piece of flapjack to my face.

With a sigh, I hold it out to him as a peace offering. “Have at it. I don’t want to overstuff myself for the last leg of the trip.”

“As long as you don’t stuff it in my face again,” he grumbles.

I can’t help laughing.

This time, when he picks up his hunk of flapjack and stuffs it in his mouth, there’s an honest smile in his eyes.

A little while later, with our bellies full and our muscles stretched, he nods at his kayak and stands.

“Let’s get going.”

“Yep. Definitely a sadist,” I mutter.

He rewards me with an amused snort.

We don’t talk much as we set off again. I fidget with my small turtle necklace, pulling it out of my wet suit.

It’s brought me so much luck over the years it feels like an extension of my own skin.

But he does continue to teach me, barking back key information as we go.

He talks about the differences between ocean currents and freshwater, how to get through tricky inlets, how to push against choppy waters, what to do when you can’t, and how to survive when you’re being swept toward sharp rocks or a big-ass boat.

He should know, I guess.

Part of me wants to poke him again about his death-wish kayaking trip the day we met, but I don’t.

I’m smart enough to know when to zip it and just enjoy a nice evening.

Oh, and no lesson would be complete without a nice, long lecture about avoiding ferry and shipping lanes. That’s huge.

Kayaking in Washington isn’t all just paddling around in the pretty sunlight and looking for seals and orcas.

We stop a few more times in calmer waters for my benefit.

Amazingly, Shepherd doesn’t even seem winded.

I have to remind myself where my arms actually attach.

It’s hard. Really hard.

But it feels good pushing my body in new, unexpected ways.

It feels even better when he offers approving glances, and when I steer myself around a half-sunken buoy that comes out of nowhere, he mouths, “Good girl.”

Oh, God.

I think I just died.

Overall, though, I’m hit with this weird sense of familiarity.

I’m listening intently, of course, but I’m far more glued to the way he moves, especially as our journey stretches on toward sunset.

When we hit a sharper current around some islands, he paddles harder, digging into the water like he owns it.

Tight, controlled motions.

Not tense, but powerful.

Like he’s his own force of nature, demanding respect, powered by the same mysterious anger I saw the day we met.

This last strait is challenging, for sure, with currents pulling and threatening to knock me off course.

I should be more focused on navigating, but all I can think about is him.

The madman from Alki Beach.

How I watched him moving like this with the same feeling back then, only now, I get to see it up close and personal.

The same powerful strokes.

The same strange sense of warring frustration and joy that he takes out on the elements.

Even now, though we’re pushing against the current, and he doesn’t look like it’s truly straining him. He only slows down to look back at me with concern.

“I’m good!” I call, flashing a thumbs-up.

But every time he dips his paddle into the water, I feel the sheer force behind it.

It’s enough to steal my breath away.

Later, when we’re through the worst of it, he glances over. When his eyes lock on mine, they’re wild and hot and strange.

They make me tingle all over.

The butterflies swarming my stomach weren’t there a second ago.

Why, Shepherd? Why do you row with such a grudge?

What made you so angry?

“Is there a reason you’re staring?” he asks sharply.

My face snaps away with a blush.

Oops. I didn’t realize I was.

“No reason. I just… I wish I could borrow a little of your stamina,” I say, my voice worn.

“Miss Destiny, if you saw my true stamina, I’m sure you wouldn’t be breathing,” he says darkly.

What the what?

He can’t mean—

I don’t ask.

I don’t dare.

My mind splits into innuendo-tainted chaos.

A terrible vision flashes of Shepherd’s hard body over mine, his jaw set and his eyes blue flames, growling my name as he works me over with the same brute energy he uses on the water.

His eyes narrow and his throat bobs as he swallows slowly.

Oh, God, am I really still looking?

He’s my boss, he’s my boss—but instead of waiting for some snappy comeback, he just nods.

“It’s rougher up ahead. Be ready,” he warns.

No kidding.

The water gets choppier still, fizzing and rushing around us hard enough to spin my bow off center.

And just when I thought the worst was over.

We’re passing through the narrows, without much room for mistakes around the rocks jutting out into the water.

The challenge makes me grin.

So does the chance to impress this man who’s rapidly driving me insane.

“I was born ready, dude,” I call back.

His eyes ignite as we set off together, paddling side by side at close range.

We’re almost close enough to touch as we plow forward.

I know he’s probably taking it slower for my sake, protecting me from taking on more than I can handle if he has to intervene. But the fact that I’m here with him, in the middle of nowhere, matching him stroke for stroke, feels oddly special.

Almost intimate.

I hear each splash as his paddle dips into the choppy waters.

My breathing synchronizes with his.

His paddle grazes mine, and the impact jolts up my arm like it’s his bare skin.

This freaking man.

He makes every part of me overly sensitive, and every bit of spray sends a shiver through me.

Adrenaline and fear and wonder rush through me as a wave shoves my kayak against a rock.

“Destiny?” Shepherd glances over in concern.

I shake my head, righting myself before anything dramatic happens.

“Damn nice save,” he says.

Yep.

We’re doing this, and I’m going to get through it without him diving in to come to my rescue. My lungs work hard, but I keep breathing through the saltwater spray.

My legs tremble as they brace against the footholds.

Stroke by stroke, I become a human rope of fire.

No arms.

No spine.

No pain.

Just a numb, chugging movement.

Forward!

With every wave, I know there’s a chance the next one could tip me over. And if it does, the rocks out here could scratch me up pretty bad.

This is the danger he mentioned miles back.

The jarring change from pretty sightseeing to holy shit, no, before you can blink.

But I’m not scared.

I’m here with Shepherd, immersed in it, and honestly, it’s flipping incredible.

There’s a silver lining to how rapidly things change on the water.

Just as I’m preparing for another intense stretch, I’m jerked back by my own exertion.

Without warning, we break past the sharp currents into calmer waters. And I can actually take a second to enjoy the adrenaline shot to my veins.

I set my paddle down, shake out my arms, and take a few badly needed breaths of briny air.

Then I do the only thing I can.

I laugh.

Arms spread wide to the sky, I throw my head back and just let myself be for one glorious second.

If he wasn’t looking at me like a crazy girl before—

No. I don’t care.

It’s too much, this giddy feeling of accomplishment, all while I’ve just shared something so intimate with this bizarre, broody suit.

When I can finally straighten up again and breathe normally, he’s still looking at me.

Probably trying to decide whether or not I’ve lost my mind.

Honestly, I wonder, too.

But he must see something I don’t.

Because Shepherd Foster gives me a smile.

A rare, genuine smile, spurred on by what we’ve just shared.

The unexpected sight makes my heart skip in the wildest of ways.

And I have absolutely no clue what to do with that.

So I just smile back, shaking my head.

My heart soars halfway to the sun. I’m still a little scared because this is uncharted territory—just like all of today.

But my heart settles as he nods quietly, and we paddle on, together, into the evening light.

It’s deep into dusk by the time we reach a small island just past Eagle Creek, and it hits me just how crazy this trip has been.

I. Am. Exhausted.

I’m fairly fit, but this was such a gauntlet I’m practically glued to my kayak and rendered boneless.

The plan is to camp overnight at the marine park before venturing out in the morning to scout for sea otters or signs they’ve been here.

A few recent sightings have me pumped.

But as I brace my weary arms against the side of the kayak, they give way.

Everything that came so easy this morning, even when we stopped for lunch, now feels impossible. I can’t freaking move.

I didn’t even notice my legs doing that much work, but now I’m aware they’re also jelly.

Shepherd hops out of his kayak and parks it on the finer sand, without noticing how dead I am at first.

I shamelessly stare at his ass because I can’t do anything else.

It’s magnificent.

I’m also far too beat to feel any regret over checking out my boss.

I’m a hot-blooded girl, okay?

I have needs that get neglected a lot when I have a busy life with goals and not too many boyfriends worth keeping around.

I have eyes and Shepherd’s body is too wicked for a man over forty.

The whole older ‘daddy’ thing never did much for me before, but with him—

No.

Nope, we’ll blame it on adrenaline and exhaustion.

Finally, he turns around to look at me.

I gesture hopelessly with my paddle in the air.

“Um, a little help? I can’t get out.” I make another half-hearted attempt to stand and fail comically.

Shepherd stares at me for a second before he laughs.

He laughs—a real belly laugh—and it’s a happy sound that vibrates through me.

Not cruel, either, but warm and understanding.

There goes my heart again as he strides over to where the waves meet the beach.

He grabs the front of my kayak effortlessly and hauls it out of the water.

No sweat.

No big deal.

No small favor with bigger muscle.

Damn, I’ll admit it.

Right now, I am thirsty as hell.

I’ve been ogling him all day and he still hasn’t stopped getting hotter.

“There,” he says when I’m safely on the sand. “Can you get out now?”

I try.

I really do.

But my body simply won’t cooperate.

I guess my legs forgot they’re supposed to be a flesh and bone team, and my arms feel totally disconnected from my shoulders.

“This is so embarrassing,” I say, but he just releases the end of the kayak and steps closer.

“Save it, Destiny. You worked your ass off today and there’s no point in feeling shamed. Even if I’m going to carry you.”

What?

He bends down, and before I can register what’s happening, he does it.

Picks. Me. Up.

As in, I am in his arms right now, damsel in distress style, legs hooked over one arm while his other arm lends back support.

The world spins as I weakly wrap my arms around his neck.

And oh.

Oh.

He’s almost superheated with exertion through his wet suit.

The shelter of his arms makes me aware just how massive he really is.

I’m so used to being the same height as most of the men around me—often taller—but this guy makes me feel small.

That’s a miracle in itself.

And he’s breathing harder now.

I’m pretty sure he wasn’t when he dragged my kayak up onto the shore. His arms tighten around me, drawing me closer.

I’m not sure I’m breathing.

Scratch that, definitely not.

There’s a wild look in his eyes.

My arms are locked around his neck and we’re so close, I can feel his heart beating so, so fast.

He isn’t alone. Mine strums like a guitar plucked by a rock star belting out a nasty breakup ballad.

What is even happening?

“It’s normal for first-timers,” he says softly, and I blink up at him in confusion.

Shepherd Foster is never soft.

…and first-timers?

How do I explain that although I’m way younger, I’m not inexperienced. I’ve had my fair share of male attention, though none of the boys I’ve dated have ever swept me up like a storm.

“Kayaking,” he clarifies, eyeing my blank face.

Oh, crap.

And I thought I was embarrassed before.

Except, it’s too hard to feel bad when I’m being hauled around by this bear of a man.

“It’ll hurt like hell for a while. Eventually, you’ll get used to it. You need to rub the feeling back into your legs. Can you manage that or are your fingers cramping?” he asks a little too gruffly.

I’ve got nothing.

I can’t speak.

I’m a little worried that if I attempt speech, I’ll say something garbled and terrible. Or worse, make some kind of comment about the dusky blue of his eyes in the fading sunlight.

It’s not easy, especially when he’s all Poseidon right now, smelling like salt and exertion and a testosterone brushfire.

His lips are more incredible than ever up close.

When you look at them, you can’t look away.

From a distance, they seem thin and striking, but up close, they’re so full, like they were made for kissing a girl completely senseless.

On a scale of awestruck to smitten, I’m a solid I’m screwed.

There’s a strained moment of crackling tension.

I try to look away from his mouth, but I can’t, and it’s not because my neck feels like wood.

My eyes aren’t working either—or maybe they’re working too well—and all I can see is the way his bottom lip is slightly fuller than his top and—

I don’t know if he kisses me first.

Or do I kiss him?

Can you really pinpoint the precise second a storm rips open and unleashes its lightning?

One second, I’m staring at his lips like a woman possessed.

The next, his full, delicious mouth presses down on mine with a growl that’s all thunder, reaching up inside me.

Just a brush of parted lips and unexpected potential that feels like a cloud-to-ground strike.

I feel it in every searing bit of me.

His pressure.

His voice.

His claiming, harsh tension, snapping as he loses his own fight, as he gives in.

For the briefest second, I belong to Shepherd Foster in a way that makes me worry I’ll be fit for anyone else.

Again, all lightning.

Blink once and it’s over.

We jerk back, physically rocked, staring at each other in shock.

I see my horror reflected in his eyes, which are so dark and conflicted now. Thrashing blue fire on unsettled water.

Crap, crap, crap.

We just kissed.

I just kissed my boss.

Or he kissed me or—

Whatever.

It doesn’t matter. This is an insta-termination waiting to happen. He’s had so much trouble lately with that actress accusing him of the worst, he’ll have zero tolerance for more trouble.

Eep.

Could he even press charges?

I don’t know how he can prove anything.

But if I didn’t instigate it, I certainly didn’t mind.

I wanted it as bad as he did—and we both tasted desperation.

Even though he’s still holding me up, I feel like I’m falling.

If I could hit the ground, I would.

It’s too humiliating.

I have to borrow courage from next year to even look at him.

But he’s not glaring at me. There’s no anger smoldering in his eyes, no barbed words on his tongue.

His face glazes over as he moves, carrying me to a large driftwood log.

Though he’s not looking at me, exactly, he sets me down carefully and kneels in front of me.

I’m expecting him to walk away, if only to pull his thoughts together.

Honestly, I wouldn’t blame him.

I definitely don’t expect to feel his hands massaging my calves.

My brain short-circuits.

I stare at him in utter disbelief because this isn’t happening.

Surely this can’t be real.

After that messy, accidental kiss, he can’t possibly be—

Oh, but he is.

And it feels divine.

His thumbs dig into my sore muscles with a manly, yet gentle precision.

A groan slips out of me so suddenly I press a hand over my mouth.

You’d think, being numb and kissed dumb, my legs and my brain wouldn’t feel anything, but they definitely are.

And it’s not total mortification.

His fingers are warm and my face is flushed, but he doesn’t look up.

He doesn’t meet my eyes.

He just works my torn muscles into butter like he’s trying to smooth them back together.

I whimper again.

I can’t help it—the human connection, the unexpected massage feels amazing and it isn’t all the sensuality, either.

His skin rubs roughly against the rubber, and his hands are big.

My calves aren’t small, with all the cycling and running I do, but he can practically wrap his hands around them.

He works his way up slowly, up to my knees, still rubbing and kneading at a steady clip.

I bite my lip until it hurts so I don’t make more humiliatingly sexual sounds.

Though the higher he gets, the sexier this feels.

When he reaches my thighs, my legs open.

Just a bit.

Just to give him access to my thighs.

Nowhere else, obviously.

His breath is slower, but heavy now, his hands methodical, squeezing higher and higher, reaching toward my hips.

Holy shit, is he going to—

I squirm against a wet heat between my legs, my core pulsing.

Don’t judge.

There’s no straight woman on Earth who could experience this and not be ready to hurl herself at this man.

Especially after that kiss, all soul and instant addiction.

It may have lasted a few seconds—barely a moment—but it branded me from the inside out.

That’s never happened.

One tiny brush of lips basically reached my clit.

And he still hasn’t uttered one word.

I can’t tell if he’s just ignoring the fact that it ever happened—but then why is he still touching me?—or whether he just doesn’t know how to touch the subject.

“O-okay,” I stammer when his thumb drops across my inner thigh.

He’s still working muscle groups I didn’t know I had, but if he doesn’t stop, he’ll push me to an orgasm for the ages.

I stare at his face, willing him to look up.

He doesn’t even meet my eyes.

Cryptic, magnificent bastard.

Irritation floods my blood, dampening some of my arousal. “Shepherd? Did you—”

“Don’t say it,” he snarls.

One hand moves off my thigh, moving to my lips.

He pushes a finger over them with a cutting glare.

“Don’t talk, Destiny. Nothing you can say right now will do a damned bit of good.”

Eek.

I clamp my jaw shut, confusion colliding with frustration.

So, what then?

He really doesn’t want to discuss it? Or even acknowledge what happened?

What’s still happening?

I’m so lost.

I squirm again, trying to find a position where I can’t notice how wet I am.

For a second, his massaging stops.

I can’t decide whether that’s good or bad.

All I know is, whether he’s actively touching me or not, I still feel him everywhere.

“We should talk about it.”

“No,” he says bluntly. “We shouldn’t.”

“But why? I just—”

“Nothing happened, Destiny. Nothing worth talking about and it’s no one’s fault. Just a mistake caused by too many hours on the water and too much shit stirred up in our blood. What the hell is there to say?”

My nostrils flare.

He’s kidding, right?

I have so much to say, but right now, I can’t find the words.

His reluctance definitely makes it harder, and extra difficult to not pick an outright fight with him.

“I don’t know if I can just up and ignore it. After something like that, we should—”

“We shouldn’t and we won’t. I told you before, there’s nothing worth talking about.”

Jeez.

He’s seriously going to keep denying it?

“Look, Shepherd, I know you didn’t mean it to happen. Neither did I. But—”

“No buts,” he says, still not looking at me. Still touching my legs in that firm, certain, incredibly sensual way he has that makes my muscles gel and my panties damp. “I said we’re not talking, Destiny.”

I could push.

I want to push him so bad.

But he hasn’t just up and fired me, and the set of his jaw suggests he isn’t going to let me get away with a sane conversation right now.

So I change tack.

“That was you. The real you,” I whisper.

He sends me a quick, annoyed glance. “Must you keep talking?”

“No, I don’t mean—” The kiss.

I clam up.

But I reach around and fumble with my zipper, yanking it down my back and exposing my bare skin to the air.

His gaze flashes to my red bikini before he drops his head and stares at his hands, which are still going.

If anything, they’ve moved higher than before.

Focusing takes everything I’ve got, but I find the watertight pouch with my phone inside and fish it out.

“What are you doing?” he asks sharply.

“Relax, I’m not about to take a picture.”

Finally, sadly, he pulls his hands back and sits next to me.

“Then what are you doing?”

“Showing you something.” My cell phone finally switches on, and I open Instagram, thankful I have a signal out here in the sticks. I scroll through the pictures until I find the one I took on Alki Beach that day with Molly beside me.

I thrust it at him and he takes it with cautious fingers. “What am I supposed to be looking at?”

“There.” I jab a finger at the screen, the tiny dot in the distance. The kayaker. Him. “That’s you. After you yelled at me, another thing you won’t talk about.”

He frowns at the photo, and then his frown deepens.

“What’s your point?”

“I kept watching you all the way to Blake Island that day, after we almost came to blows. It was a lot like the way you paddled a few times today. Like you’re angry at the whole world. If you won’t talk about the kiss, about—whatever that was—will you at least tell me why you’re so pissed?”

I know I’ve gone too far before the words are out.

Before he gives me a dark look and pulls back, dropping my phone onto my lap.

“It’s not the world I’m angry at,” he says abruptly, turning his back as he stands. “Stretch yourself out and let’s set up camp.”