One Bossy Disaster: An Enemies to Lovers Romance (Bossy Seattle Suits)
One Bossy Disaster: Chapter 3

I almost make it to the elevator when Miss Cho catches up with me, her tall heels beating the slate tiles like a drum.

For a hot second, I glare.

I’m tempted to order her back into my office to clean up the mess she’s made and find a suitable candidate.

Definitely not the nosy blonde mouse from the beach who never learned how to mind her own damned business.

Unfortunately, despite the fact that I call the shots, Hannah Cho can be incurably stubborn when she wants to be. She knows she’s too good at oiling this machine called Home Shepherd and that makes her essentially irreplaceable.

“Are you going down, sir?” she asks politely.

I grunt in response.

She takes that as a yes, stepping into the elevator after me just before the doors shut.

Fuck it, I could run.

The thought of punching the button, stopping on some random floor, and bolting is remarkably appealing.

I could throw all caution to the wind and leave the elevator mere seconds before the door shuts and find another way out of this building. There’s no way she’d be able to catch up in those heels.

Still, I stab the button for the first floor with unwarranted viciousness and deflate, leaning against the chrome rail with my hands stuffed in my pockets.

Beside me, Hannah stands rigid, gripping her oversized white tablet.

We both know what this is about as we stare at the bright-red numbers ticking down on the elevator screen in acid silence.

I know what she’s doing, dammit.

Waiting me out.

Hannah has this way of radiating silent disapproval that would wear down a heart of iron—and all she has to do is wait for me to crack.

Works like a charm every time.

Right now, she probably has a thousand arguments against my knee-jerk reaction.

All the reasons why we should keep an impulsive, self-righteous lick of good looks and appalling manners on.

I have one better reason why we shouldn’t.

It’s a small fucking world.

Not nearly large enough to share it with a woman who interrupted a private moment, a personal eruption.

Hell, a woman who tried to care.

Only eight more floors to go.

The doors ping open and a man looks in. One look at me and he backs up, deciding he’d rather wait for the next ride than join us.

Sensible.

It takes all my willpower not to join him.

Seventh floor.

Sixth.

I set my jaw and finally look at her, casting a suspicious side-eye.

Hannah keeps her gaze dull, fixed on the screen counting down floors. Her eyes don’t even twitch under my scrutiny.

“I could fire you right now, you know.” I tap my fingers against my bicep. “Don’t go thinking your job has divine protection. I’ll explain it to God himself if that’s what it takes to—”

“Of course not, Mr. Foster,” she says blandly. “You’re well aware I earn my keep here every day.”

Damn her, I am.

“I didn’t ask you to follow me,” I snap.

“No.”

“And yet you know I have no intention of bringing it up. Decision made and done. Get her out of the building.”

Finally, she looks at me with one eyebrow raised. “Really, sir? That’s rather impulsive. I think it would be a mistake and you should reconsider.”

If she was anyone else, I would have chucked her overboard years ago for insubordination.

“Miss Cho, I don’t need you to come charging in and questioning my executive decisions,” I growl. “I’m also not sure why I agreed to this Young Influencers gimmick after all. We have an entire team of PR specialists for image concerns. Instead, I trusted your plan and you delivered one hell of a punchline.”

“And you were very rude to the poor girl. Will you at least tell me why?”

My jaw tightens.

Fuck, here we go.

Every time I consider how to explain my ugly encounter with the girl on Alki Beach, it sounds a little dumber in my head.

Yes, I was an undiluted asshole.

Her only sin was persistence.

The first time she came at me with her concerns that I might drown was forgivable. Still, the fact that she continued, and the way she kept watching me as I pushed into the waves…

Whatever.

That’s not the fucking point.

“Did you not see her?” I clip.

Hannah’s cool gaze snaps to mine, unflinching.

“I do have eyes,” she says calmly. “She’s quite attractive. Is that your concern?”

“Ridiculously attractive, yes, but that’s not it, exactly.” I inwardly groan, still unsure how to tell her my beef without sounding like a total lunatic. “Also, Destiny is a ridiculous name.”

The tiniest hint of a smile curls her lips. “Well, I can’t be blamed for choosing that.”

No.

I glare at my reflection.

I wish the attraction factor was just convenient cover.

When Hannah first came up with this idea, I never imagined her selecting someone so goddamn gorgeous. Let alone so annoyingly familiar.

Ridiculous name or not, she’s elegant. Polished. Cool and sleek and so simply, yet fashionably striking that she probably turns grown men to stone when they pass her on the street like a little Medusa.

All blonde hair, slender neck, and frosted blue eyes. Model-perfect with a young body shaped like raw temptation.

On Alki Point, I couldn’t see much beyond a pretty face I wanted to evict from my personal space.

It’s worse today when she’s in my office without the wind tossing her hair and a windbreaker hiding her body.

The dress she wore had one of those tiny black belts around her waist, just in case I missed the way her hips curved. Like any hot-blooded man could ever miss those hips.

Her type of gorgeous has its own gravitational field.

A force of nature I have zero interest in fucking with.

“You saw her pictures,” Hannah reminds me in a tone that suggests she knows I never did more than glance at her résumé and certainly didn’t bother checking out her socials.

“I’m disappointed, Miss Cho. I trusted you to pick someone suitable.”

“And I did. I know you found it—rather unexpected, sir. But appearance was never a qualifier for the position. In fact, I’d argue that her being attractive is an unintended perk.”

“A perk.” I give her an ice-drenched look. “I beg to differ. What about a man? Isn’t there a male influencer somewhere?”

“Not with her followers or qualifications. She’s picture-perfect and squeaky-clean with an innocent, fresh face.”

Innocent? Her?

Bah.

A fresh face, for sure, forever glowing with minimal makeup. Worse, I’m sure Destiny knows exactly how pretty she is.

The last time I banked on any woman’s innocence, just look how that turned out.

“Not to mention her family connections,” Hannah continues. “The Lancasters—”

“The coffee people? Wired Cup? As in Cole Lancaster?”

She nods.

That makes a little more sense.

Destiny dresses like someone familiar with high fashion, which becomes second nature when you come from money. The Lancasters have a vast regional coffee shop empire stretching from Montana to Hawaii and they’re well known in these parts.

Wasn’t there even some drama with her old man and his wife years ago? Some sort of headline-grabbing rescue story?

I can’t remember.

“Yes, the coffee people,” Hannah says. “But that’s not the point.”

“Then what the hell is?” I rake my hand through my hair.

Goddamn.

She doesn’t seem to notice my irritation intensifying like a grease fire. In the five years she’s worked for me, I haven’t been able to provoke a single negative response from her.

Believe me, I’ve tried.

Not deliberately, but I’m the kind of boss who would try anyone’s patience.

“Don’t worry, I did some digging into her motivations. She’s sincerely renounced her family’s money in favor of doing honest nonprofit work,” she says. “That’s another reason she stood out in a field of well-qualified candidates. For Miss Lancaster, this isn’t just about raising her own profile.”

“So?” I demand.

She sighs patiently as we walk through the lobby.

“So, if you’re seen working with her like a perfect gentleman, while she publicly vouches that you have no ulterior motives as a funder and mentor, then perhaps she’s it. Your golden ticket out of any alleged escapades with Vanessa Dumas.”

Shit.

I hate that it makes too much sense.

I rub the back of my head as we sweep through the lobby, twitchy bystanders parting for us like Moses and the sea.

Unlike my office, this lobby is all white and gold and busy as hell.

Interns with coffee in their hands and harassed expressions on their faces hurry toward the elevators, lanyards around their necks swinging.

Normally, it’s the kind of chaos I enjoy because it’s productive.

Today, I can’t even bask in the joy.

“Look, Mr. Foster, all you really have to do is be decent for a few weeks with her,” Hannah says. “Is that so hard?”

Miss Cho, you have no frigging clue.

“I don’t appreciate the insinuation that I can’t,” I say, though it’s a valid one, considering the way I’ve already handled this Destiny situation.

Like a magnificent asshole.

Hannah side-eyes me.

“I’m sorry, sir,” she says, though she doesn’t mean it. I think she just gets her kicks from calling me ‘sir’ when she’s right and waiting for me to admit it.

Infuriating.

If I had a real leg to stand on, I’d have already argued back, but I don’t.

So I fold my arms and watch the comings and goings of busy people rather than look at her. Everyone looks like they’re already five minutes late, but there’s lots of idle chatter in the air.

Hannah waits calmly, just as she always does.

I drop my arms and she nods in acknowledgment.

“Your shareholders are already feeling jumpy,” she reminds me.

“What else is new? They’re human fleas.”

She pauses, choosing her words carefully. “Well, after other events in Seattle and certain CEOs going off the rails with erratic behavior, they’re rather keen to avoid any disasters with Home Shepherd.”

I sigh.

“Even if I did engage in a relationship with Miss Dumas—which you know I didn’t—it was fake. Hardly in the same realm as buying a billion-dollar company for three times its value and then crashing it with no survivors,” I snap.

“Of course it’s different, sir. I’m just saying, it would be a shame if your stocks were to fall any more thanks to this, and people start making noise about your ouster. What’s Home Shepherd without Shepherd Foster? You just need to reassure them that you’re still thinking. You’re not going feral.”

“People are too goddamned focused on billionaires’ lives,” I mutter, scrubbing a hand through my hair. “Except when their goofy antics end in a happily ever after, of course. Just look at Brock Winthrope or Miles Cromwell. Shit, if I’d tossed out my brain and married Vanessa damned Dumas, no one would care what I did after that. They’d have our photos posted to a few wedding blogs and call it a day.”

“…the trouble is that you and marriage don’t mix, so it’s a nonstarter. Never mind how Miss Dumas would make an objectively terrible partner.”

Right.

That still doesn’t mean my private life is up for grabs—although no one in the media ever gets the memo.

They’re always on the hunt for new juicy scandals, and Vanessa has thrown them a hunk of red meat.

But without the public fascination with billionaires and what we do with our dicks, this crap would’ve died on the vine already.

As it stands, they’re still talking about it online.

Still poking at my darker past in an effort to exaggerate rumors of the present.

If Legal hadn’t assured me the fake relationship would come to light in any litigation—making me look even worse—I’d have shut Dumas up with crushing damages in a heartbeat.

“I agree it’s unfair,” Hannah says. “But this is the reality of the situation, and it’s very much worth doing damage control. Since we have a perfectly good cause lined up… why don’t you learn to crack a smile and play along?”

Play along?

Play the fuck along?

Isn’t that what caused this problem with Dumas in the first place?

Hannah smiles unevenly as I pin her with a look.

If it were anyone but Destiny Lancaster, this wouldn’t be so impossible.

If we didn’t already have a sour history, maybe I’d give this more than a second thought.

Never mind the fact that Miss Lancaster is disturbingly attractive. The kind of face that could be splashed on billboards all across the US, beautiful and classy and unfussy.

It’s a real fucking problem.

Frankly, I don’t trust attractive women.

After Vanessa—who doesn’t have a dime on this girl—and every other woman who’s fucked me over in the past, I’ve made it a policy not to trust their motives blind.

Plus, Destiny is an influencer on top of it.

She thrives on public perception and personal brand popularity, regardless of whatever noise she makes about not being in it for the fame and followers.

Again, I see shades of Dumas.

Acres of beauty wrapped in an ego, designed to sell a product and market herself.

Only, this could be worse because Destiny is five times prettier than Dumas and probably just as accustomed to using her looks to get ahead.

That’s not something I ever want to be a part of again. Not after the latest meltdown.

“I understand the theory behind it,” I say. “While I admit I didn’t pay much attention, I’m certain she wasn’t the only applicant. We had over four hundred, didn’t we?”

Hannah hands me her tablet. “Just take a look, Mr. Foster. One more time. Read her profile. You can spare me five minutes.”

“Three minutes.” I snatch it away from her and scroll through Destiny’s Instagram.

Damn.

This isn’t the same little fireball who ambushed me with my kayak.

Not the girl I saw in the office, either, barely holding in her real thoughts, all polish and cool professionalism.

In these bright photos, she’s outdoorsy and candid, grinning at the camera with a ponytail and baseball cap on a trip to the Cascades.

I fight the urge to admire the dirt streaked on one cheek.

It’s too messy and natural-looking to be pre-planned. Same goes for the creases in her clothes that really look like they were left there by a hard day of hiking.

Besides, I’m pretty sure no phony influencer would be caught dead with a husky in their face, slobbering all over their sunglasses. The dog’s dried drool still shows up on the lenses a few pics later.

The photos are well chosen and authentic, I’ll give her that. All flattering natural light and stunning backdrops.

She also isn’t using her assets, posing in a bikini or some skintight jean shorts like most influencers might if they’re using sex appeal to sell their brand.

Still, I’m naturally skeptical.

There’s got to be a few skin pics somewhere here, right? A bikini set or a link to a certain ‘Fans’ site where desperate men drunk on good looks will throw money at her for a chance at getting in her DMs.

But no, the more I scroll, the less skin I see.

There’s a trip to Alaska a year ago. Whale tracking, by the looks of it, and she’s stuffed in a bulky orange jacket on a rickety science ship.

The woman’s out there in the wild, taking selfies at safe distances from wildlife while she’s out jogging in the brush among the bears and foxes. No dog this time.

She plies the seas with researchers, willing to be wet and miserable to save creatures who don’t know their entire species is under the gun.

When it flips to Hawaii, I flick through long posts about endangered monk seals. From the comments, it looks like she actually gets people to pay attention to the plight of the animals beyond the adorable images. Her write-ups are thorough, informative, and attached to cute animal pics intended to tug on the heartstrings.

The same lanky husky shows up in the later shots, a smaller puppy then, frequently licking her face.

I keep scrolling, gritting my teeth.

Yes, I’m still searching for that inkling that she’s not a good person. One more walking ulterior motive like everyone else with good looks who plays up their generosity and good deeds.

I’m annoyed that I can’t find it.

No smoking gun.

It’s just as infuriating how much she glows in every photo.

Not because of her makeup or layered clothes hiding a body made for sin, but because the vast majority of her shots are so natural.

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I stop on a familiar picture of Alki Beach from the day I went out kayaking and tap on a Reel next to it.

In the video, she’s still red-faced from yelling at my stubborn ass, the wind tossing her hair back in a messy ribbon that slaps the side of her face.

Somehow, she’s still got her shit together enough to talk at length about harbor seals.

This version of her, all wind-swept hair and bright smiles, is almost hotter than the tall, dressed-up bombshell I just chewed up in my office.

Yeah, fuck.

There’s a disarming sweetness about her that’s too appealing to simply gun down and send her packing like I want to.

It shouldn’t quell my paranoia so easily.

Yet, it’s oddly reassuring to see all this evidence that her energy is, actually, focused on the environment.

“Do you see it now?” Hannah taps the top of the tablet, clearing her throat.

“She’s… not as bad as I initially thought,” I admit grudgingly.

“See? I promised you I’d pick the best person. That’s her. No sign of greed or glad-handing whatsoever. Miss Destiny Lancaster truly is our best candidate for shining you up, sir.”

Fucking sigh.

I know she’s telling me the truth.

She always does.

I’m just trapped in my own stubborn jackass of a brain and I know it.

Still, I can’t just unceremoniously kick this girl away.

Especially when her sterling image is exactly what I need to sideswipe the Dumas scandal and redirect Home Shepherd’s reputation from the personal mud flying around.

If this woman—startlingly pretty and all about philanthropy—can reassure the public that I’m not a bodice-ripping mafia brat intent on fucking and dumping everything I don’t get killed, she’ll shut down the rumors.

She’ll make people forget and I’ll look like Mr. Fucking Clean.

It’s too perfect.

What I need, what Hannah wants, and what Destiny offers, all tied up in one neat package.

There’s a touch of smugness in Hannah’s smile as she reads the capitulation on my face. This is what I get for hiring a PA who’s too capable.

Snarling, I shove the tablet back in her hands, and she tucks it against her chest.

“Fine. We’ll keep Miss Lancaster for now. Go put her to work, keep her busy, whatever. Just don’t let her go anywhere.”

“Yes, sir,” she says as I head back to the elevator. “Oh, and purely my personal recommendation, but a little apology might not hurt.”

Sure.

About as much as a little kick in the nuts.

“Whatever. Just stop gloating, Miss Cho.”

“Gloating? Perish the thought, Mr. Foster.” Her smugness remains.

“I only agreed to this because it’s the right thing to do. Also, I maintain we could have easily replaced her with someone equally suitable.”

Someone less pretty and considerably less intrusive.

Even a little less pretty would do.

A girl with big ears or missing teeth, or a Wyoming farm boy with a nose fatter than a carrot.

“Of all the applications we received with the criteria we set, Miss Lancaster’s brand was the best fit, Mr. Foster. That isn’t just coming from me. I put together an eight-person committee who—”

A raised hand signals that I’ve already heard enough.

The best.

I’m starting to believe it.

I don’t fucking want to.

Just like I don’t dare give Hannah Cho any response that makes her head bigger than a hot air balloon as I turn and stalk back toward the elevator.

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