One Bossy Date: Chapter 21

I try to stop my heart from leaping right out of my chest.

It’s no big deal.

It’s just a warm, sunny weekend at the beach.

It’s just a break from reality with a gorgeous, complicated man and his adorable sausage dog.

It’s just a man I’m hopelessly falling for.

When we finally park the SUV he’s rented by the little cabin and I step out to stretch my legs, I’m instantly back in Lanai. The warm sand and rolling waves rival Hawaii, and so does the tingly glow he breathes into me with every glance.

“Enjoying the view?” he whispers against my neck, grabbing my shoulders.

I melt into his grasp and tilt my head, staring up into his sparkling blue eyes.

God, this man.

He has no idea how exquisite the view really is.

And just before we kiss, Andy unleashes a flurry of barks from his carrier.

“I think you’d better take someone for a walk,” I tease, turning in his arms and brushing my lips against his.

The sausage barks his agreement.

“See?” I giggle.

Biting back a smile, Brock marches over and opens the kennel once he’s got the little beast leashed. After he’s had his potty break and sniffed every flower under the soaring cedar trees in front of the cabin, we start collecting our luggage.

Brock barrels through the front door with his hands full and drops the bags just inside the door.

You can practically see the whole thing from the front door.

It’s a cozy place with a rustic dresser and bed, cushioned wooden chairs, a modern kitchenette, a jacuzzi tub just out back on the deck, and a spacious bathroom on the other side of the small house.

I look at him, blushing. “Um, sorry, I know this isn’t the usual kind of place you stay—”

“It’s perfect,” he says, catching my eyes.

He walks forward and lays a claiming kiss on my lips while Andy scampers around, exploring the room.

“For real?” I whisper.

“I’ve got you and I’ve got my dog. This place would have to be crawling with bedbugs or sand fleas to suck,” he says sincerely.

I smile so hard I almost break.

“You can pretend to be someone else here, you know.” I’m thinking of Lanai as I reach down to stroke the pup pawing at my leg for attention.

“Better plan. We pretend we’re someone else together. How does that sound, Mrs. Farmer?”

I stand again and close the space between us. “Pretty wild. Especially if you’re saying we’re married.”

The almost shy way his grin lights up his face makes me laugh. He reaches into his bag and pulls out a bag of dog treats, throwing Andy a cookie.

“We’re Mr. and Mrs. Farmer, and Hoover’s our dog.”

“Hoover?” I repeat.

“He sucks up every crumb,” Brock points out.

No argument there.

I lay my hand on his massive arm, loving how hard he is.

“Watch out. That’s a role Andy and I could get into.” My hand drifts to his wrist.

“Me, too, woman,” he growls back, twining his hand through mine.

After a few more kisses, we unpack and then get ‘Hoover’ leashed for a longer walk on the beach.

“There he goes in the sand again. Poor little guy,” I say with a laugh, watching the dachshund-lab struggle through the high dunes. “We should have packed some dog boots.”

He lets go of my hand, opting to drop his arm around my waist instead. “Hoover’s no wimp. You remember the last big snowstorm the city had last winter? I thought he’d dig tunnels all the way to Vancouver.”

I laugh as we walk to the edge of the water.

Massive waves sparkle like silver hills as they churn, crashing against the towering rocky islands just off the shore.

A few bone-white seabirds soar overhead, squawking, and the brave little pupper goes wild, barking and rearing up.

“Easy, boy,” Brock says, kneeling to scratch his ear. “Last time you picked a fight with a goose twice your size, you didn’t come out on top.”

“He did not!”

“He did. This guy thinks he’s a Doberman in a bratwurst’s skin.”

The breeze picks up then, tumbling my hair. Even though it’s warm, the wind has a slight chill to it, and I press myself closer to the safe wall of his chest.

“Hold this.” Brock hands me the leash.

I watch him as he takes off his jacket, drapes it around my shoulders, and stares at me like he’s awestruck.

“What?” I whisper.

“You, Pippa. You steal all my words. Here we are in this gorgeous place, the sun shining down, and I can barely look away long enough to give a damn. You were meant to be my art, woman—and I’m not an artsy guy. I just love the way you look when you’re content and wrapped around me. Love how the wind tries to pull you away and I get to hold on tighter. Love how your eyes shame the sky every time you look at me. Fuck, just like—” He stops, craning his face to my neck, inhaling me.

“Lanai,” I finish, my voice trembling.

What is happening?

I think I know.

I’m afraid to admit it as he leans down, caressing the side of my face, bringing his mouth to mine.

The kiss is gentle and sweet and slowly turns possessive.

I lean in closer, which only deepens it, my heart fit to bursting.

I’m almost glad Andy pulls on his leash, growling at a little crab popping out of a hole in the sand.

I need the distraction.

God, I’m going to need a lot of them if I want any prayer of not having Brock Winthrope bring me to my knees.

Too many unsaid words whisper against my tongue as our mouths play.

I lavish his taste, his feel, his intensity.

Then Andy barks, darting for the crab before the leash jerks him backward.

“He’s as bad as a five-year-old.” Chuckling, Brock backs away from me slowly with a lingering gaze.

“He’s wonderful. He has a pretty awesome owner, even if said owner probably wishes we were in a fancy resort.” I smile, wondering if I need to tether myself to the ground.

A single glance makes me float.

“Bullshit, Mrs. Farmer. There’s nowhere I’d rather be.”

“Yeah? Nowhere besides standing in the cold without a coat and a crazy dog?” I challenge.

He kisses my nose. “What cold? All I feel is fire.”

And I’m grinning until my face hurts as we saunter around with Andy for another half hour or so, letting him bounce after crabs and birds as fast as his toothpick legs can carry him.

Back in the cabin, Andy flops down for a nap while I unpack a massive bag of groceries I threw together at the last minute. And that’s how I find out Brock doesn’t eat all his meals off art deco plates prepared by world-class chefs.

He goes to work making homemade pasta without even looking at a recipe while I whip up my grandma’s classic Bolognese sauce. If I didn’t have fifteen years of practice making it for my dad and Maisy, I’d be intimidated.

But the way he smiles at me over wine later, when we’re in the jacuzzi tub out back, tells me it’s a winner.

So is the way he lifts me up and carries me to bed, all greedy looks and roaming lips that tighten his spell on my soul.

In the morning, I wake up to Andy pawing at the door.

Brock is already hunched over his laptop at the table when I throw my robe on and pad out, stopping next to him.

I reach for his computer and gently close it.

“No working, Crankyface. This is our weekend, remember?”

“Very demanding, Miss Renee. And you call me a tyrant.” With a wicked smile, he swings up and swats my butt.

Even though I’m laughing, I know where this goes.

I don’t even last a second after Andy flies out the door before Brock has me against the wall, his hot breath on my throat, yanking my robe open.

“Hey!” I yell through my laughter. “What do you think you’re—”

A firm hand cups my bare breast. He gives me a feral look.

“What does it look like? Mrs. Farmer, if you won’t let me work, you’ll have to keep me entertained other ways.”

“Hoover’s going to be pissed if you delay his breakfast…” I tease, working to keep my breathing even and pretending my nipple hasn’t pebbled under his touch.

“Hoover doesn’t eat for another hour.” He replaces his hand with his mouth.

Holy hell.

My eyes flutter shut and I slide down the wall with a butterfly sigh.

We never make it to the bed.

He tears down his boxers, shoves his way between my legs, and takes me hard and fast against the wall. It’s a miracle we don’t damage the wood paneling.

Brock drives against my body like the ocean waves slapping the shore, matching their rhythm and the intensity.

I grind out my pleasure through clenched teeth when he empties himself inside me.

God.

When I’m breathless and ragged and still tangled in his arms, it hits me just how insanely lucky I am.

For the rest of the weekend, we live out our fantasies.

We might as well be the Farmers when all the worries of Pippa and Brock are a few hundred miles away.

I’m so high on him I never want to come down.

If I had my way, I’d stay here forever with a thousand stolen kisses, masterful sex, an excitable puppy who never fails to make me laugh, and a man who helps me cook and does it so freaking well.

But if I had my way, we never would’ve had to suffer what came next.

The week after we return from the beach is a blur.

It’s like the afterglow when you wake up from a lovely dream where everything feels fuzzy and unreal.

Everything is going too right for once.

Maisy calls to tell me Dad is up and moving. The marketing campaign Jenn and I put together runs flawlessly, and there haven’t been any new hiccups as Winthrope Seattle preps for the big fashion show.

So, why am I just waiting for the other shoe to drop?

Why do I have that knot of panic in my belly?

Is it just the utter insanity happening today?

I hope.

Brock pulls me closer in the back seat of the SUV. “You’re tense as hell,” he observes.

Without looking at him, I nod.

“Talk to me,” he demands. “You’re a lot of things, woman, and quiet isn’t one of them.”

I smile. “I’m just nervous.”

“About?” He side-eyes me.

Is he kidding?

“Well, not everyone is used to waltzing around with billionaires and gossipmongers.”

He laughs. “It’s a closed event. If the press shows up, Gramps will toss them out personally. I wouldn’t feed you to the wolves, Sunshine.”

“…but what if your grandparents don’t like me? Do you think it’s too soon?”

His piercing blue gaze sharpens.

“Do you think it’s too soon?” He grabs my hand and squeezes. “Because I’ve never been more sure about anything in my life.”

“I’m sure about you.” I close my eyes. “About us. It’s just, if your grandparents don’t like me, or if they think I’m—” I stop, trying to find a diplomatic way to say ‘trashy.’

“They’ll adore you. I promise,” he growls, so much certainty ringing in his tone I can’t even argue.

His arms sweep me into his lap. “And if a one in a trillion disaster strikes and they don’t, it doesn’t change anything.”

I so don’t deserve this man.

My lip trembles.

He has me on the edge of tears.

Instead of crying, I lean in, tilt my chin, and meet his mouth with mine.

He kisses me so sweetly, lending me the courage I need.

Soon, we pull up in front of LA’s most exclusive country club, and he leads me through a throng of well-dressed people with a higher combined net worth than entire countries.

My stomach lurches as we go up the medieval-looking stairs to this castle of a clubhouse.

I so don’t belong here.

As soon as we make it up to the main floor, an older couple rushes Brock.

The man’s lime-green suit with a purple vest and tie gives him away immediately.

Ross Winthrope’s eccentric fashion tastes are almost as legendary as his fortune.

For an older man, he’s still insanely tall, and he looks down and surveys me. Then his eyes flick to Brock, and he chuckles.

“A sweet young thing you’ve got on your arm.” He nudges his grandson with his elbow. “Don’t be shy, boy.”

“This is Miss Piper Renee,” Brock says proudly.

The elder Mr. Winthrope takes my hand and kisses it. “Pleasure. How’s my grandson behaving?”

“Like a total sweetheart—today,” I add, trying to lighten the mood.

“That doesn’t sound like him,” Ross says.

“Some people like me, Gramps. Hard to believe, I know,” Brock says.

“Only because you pay them so well.”

I stiffen at his words.

Uh-oh.

Do they know I work for him? And what would they think if they do, and they also know we’re—

I never finish that thought.

Brock senses my nerves, pulls me closer, and gives me a look that says, are you okay?

I nod.

Then it’s Mrs. Emily Winthrope’s turn. She swats her husband’s arm. “Oh, quit harassing our Broccoli in front of his date.”

“Broccoli?” I grin and meet Brock’s eyes.

He sighs like a tortured man.

She grabs my hand and closes it between both of hers.

“How long have you known Brock? Tell me everything.” But before I can answer, she drops my hand and pats Brock’s cheek. “Oh, it’s so nice to finally see you out with a woman.”

“Uh, thanks, Grandma,” he mutters.

“Are you serious about her?” She smiles and waves a hand. “You must be. She shares one of my dearest passions.”

Mrs. Winthrope nods at me, and at first I don’t follow. But I notice her eyes sweeping to my neck, and I reach up and pull out the tiny silver sparrow necklace I’ve worn since I was sixteen.

“It’s a cheap, sentimental thing, ma’am. But I love jewelry too.”

The old lady smiles and laughs, the lines deepening under her eyes as she looks at Brock. “Do you want to tell her or should I?”

Brock exhales sharply. “Grandma’s a bird freak just like you, Piper.”

“Oh!” I’m floored. “Seen any good ones lately?”

“Kindly don’t get her started,” Ross groans, giving Brock a miserable look.

But Mrs. Winthrope ignores him and launches into this awesome story about the raptor center she funded in the southwest to help rehabilitate the California Condor. By the end of it, I’m grinning from ear to ear.

I think the two men muttering to themselves are wishing the condors went extinct by the time we’re through and finally look at them again.

“Don’t muck this up, dear,” she whispers in Brock’s ear. “If you’re smart, soon I won’t be the only crazy bird lady in the family. When are you proposing?”

“Grandma—”

“Don’t be coy with me. You never would have brought her to meet us if you weren’t—”

“She has ears, you know,” he bites off harshly.

I don’t know how I hold it together.

I’m dying, trying not to laugh.

Fortunately, Ross takes his wife’s arm and gestures. “Is that the Hargroves over there, love? We really should go say hello and hear about that new rhino sanctuary they’ve started.”

“Hear about how many bragging rights their donations buy, you mean? Bah.” Mrs. Winthrope flashes her teeth in an awkward smile. “Please excuse us. If you find me later, I’ll tell you all about the time Ross and I were stranded with a mob of emus in Queensland.”

With her husband pulling on her arm, they disappear to the other side of the room. Halfway to the other couple, Ross Winthrope turns back and winks at Brock.

I giggle behind my hand and say, “Wow. That was close. You got lucky.”

“Sorry about that,” Brock says. “Give her half a chance, and she’ll talk until she’s sprouting a beak.”

“Why? It went better than expected, Broccoli.”

His eyes snap to me, twin blue flames.

“Sunshine, if you ever call me that shit again, I will take you over my knee,” he says.

Oh, he’s mad.

And why does that sound so enticing?

A glamorous-looking couple approaches us then and slaps Brock on the shoulder. “Small world, Winthrope. Did your grandparents drag you out here?”

“Anything for conservation.” He waves a hand in front of me. “This is Piper Renee. Piper, this is Lincoln and Dakota Burns from Haughty But Nice.”

“Nice to meet you,” I say, gushing a few words about how much I adore their clothes.

I step back and listen to Brock making small talk with them. Haughty But Nice can’t wait to show off its latest wares, and he assures them the Winthrope Seattle is the perfect venue.

My phone vibrates in my bag.

I frown.

Hopefully it’s not anything with Dad.

Even though he’s on the mend, the old worries linger.

My phone buzzes impatiently again.

I glance over at Brock, hoping to catch his eye and signal my need to slip away. But he’s still gabbing and they’re talking about—Edgar Allan Poe?

I wonder what I missed, but there’s no time to worry about it now.

“Well, I see your grandparents are here from across the pond. I won’t keep you.” Lincoln wraps a protective hand around his wife’s waist. “We need to mingle anyway. One of the rare times I can get my little poet out of the house.”

Dakota throws back her head and laughs, her blond curls rippling. “Would you stop? We went out with Wyatt and Meadow for those stupid cinnamon rolls last week.”

They walk away, totally caught up in a conversation only they understand.

“Guess who we saw coming off the dance floor?” Ross Winthrope asks, reappearing next to us with his wife.

“Who?” Brock asks.

“Basil Von Grant from Harriet Hotels. He thinks he’s taking first place at the awards this year,” Ross chuckles. “Can’t fault a man for being the eternal optimist, I suppose.”

“Not happening.” Brock shakes his head. “That award is ours.”

Ross nods. “It’s certainly nothing to stress over. Our reputation—”

“Is better than ever,” Brock finishes too quickly. “This will be our fifteenth year in a row. I’m not letting you guys down.”

Emily nods. “We’re proud of you either way, but winning is always better.”

Wow. I wonder if Brock’s competitive edge actually comes from his grandmother.

Then my phone thrums again, stealing my attention.

Jesus, I need to get out of here.

I reach over and gently touch Brock’s shoulder. “Someone keeps texting me. I need to make sure it’s not Maisy.” I nod politely to the elder Winthropes and make my escape.

The large balcony is closer than the exit, so I make my way over and push through the doors. Cool air hits me in the face as I fish out my phone.

Four missed texts from Jenn.

Holy crap, Pippa. Are you okay?

Of course, they show up in reverse order, so I’m going to have to keep reading to find out why I wouldn’t be.

Again, I’m so sorry.

My heart stops. Why is she sorry?

Please don’t be mad at me. I just thought it would be best if you heard it from me first, if you haven’t already.

Huh? What is she talking about?

Hey, I know you’re busy, but there’s something you should see. The local tabloids and gossip blogs are going crazy and since it’s about you…

I tap on the link attached and my entire world shatters in slow motion.

EXCLUSIVE: WINTHROPE HEIR DIPS HIS PEN IN THE COMPANY INK; JUNIOR COPYWRITER GETS AHEAD!

Right under the cursed text is a picture of Brock and me, our lips locked with Andy’s leash tangled around us. We’re right outside his house in the back. I think it’s from last week.

I don’t need to read further to know what this story is about.

He just told his grandparents the company’s reputation is on the way back up.

Now that’s a lie.

All because I’ll be the reason Winthrope loses the award, helpless fodder for Seattle’s brutal tabloid gossip mill.

What do you even do when your life detonates with a problem you never imagined?

My first instinct is lie down and die.

But as I stand in the cool night air, trying not to panic, struggling to figure out what the hell my next move should be, I wait for a miracle that never arrives.

Instead, I look up and see Brock rapidly approaching. He’s still smiling, meaning it’s my job to obliterate his happiness.

“You ran off so fast I lost you in the crowd! Everything okay?” he asks.

I nod because I don’t know how to find the words.

There are no right words for this.

He comes closer, though, concern flashing in his eyes.

I instinctively throw a hand up to stop him.

I don’t know why.

It’s not his fault, but I don’t want to confirm all the ugly rumors here in front of everyone.

“Piper, you’re pale. What the hell’s going on? Is your father okay?” He reaches for me again.

I stagger backward, bumping the railing behind me and hating myself with a passion.

“Sunshine, be careful. We’re on a second-floor balcony.” He’s quiet for a minute. “Have I upset you?”

“No, we just… Can we please go back to the hotel? Now?”

He eyes me slowly, as if he’s trying so hard to read my mind and failing. “We can, but you need to tell me what’s got you rattled.”

With a deflated sigh, I hand him my phone.

The blog post is still on the screen in all its hellish glory.

He stares at it for ten seconds before his face flushes red with anger.

Then he grabs my hand, pulling me along, even before he says, “Let’s get the fuck out of here. When I find out how he did this, he’s dead.”

I almost believe him.

But even if he means that literally, I can’t bring myself to tell him it doesn’t matter.

We’re already two dead, miserable creatures walking, and I can’t fathom how we’ll ever find our way back to life.