One Bossy Disaster: An Enemies to Lovers Romance (Bossy Seattle Suits)
One Bossy Disaster: Chapter 6

Sharing an office with Mark Cantor isn’t as easy as I thought it would be.

Don’t get me wrong, he’s a nice guy. A bearded marshmallow wrapped in human skin.

A little too eager to please, a little too perma-smiley, but I figured that was just because his boss was hovering over him when we met—and let’s face it, most people would be scared into compliance by Foster’s glower any day.

I’m not sure that man’s face knows how to do anything else.

Does he ever smile in a nice way?

Does he laugh?

I can’t imagine.

Except for those brief moments a couple days ago when he looked at me like he thought what I had to say was marginally interesting.

That’s why he gave me this assignment, isn’t it?

All I have to do is present my proposal to him, convince him it’s a good idea, and if I pass, he’ll let me present it to the board so they can rake me over the coals again.

Ha.

Still, there’s no denying it’s a fantabulous opportunity. I don’t want to blow it.

So I stare at my work laptop and the PowerPoint slides, willing myself to replace the right combination of words that sells them on this high-tech wildlife tracking experiment.

It’s been two days since then.

Two brutal days of wondering how the hell I can convince Foster, assuming this isn’t all some weird power game just so he can take my idea out back and shoot it between the eyes.

Part of me thinks there’s no way this isn’t an elaborate trap.

A trick so he can take me down a peg or two for daring to get in the way of his suicidal kayaking.

I bet he wants to.

I’ve persisted in pissing him off since the minute I got here, and there’s nothing power-hungry guys hate more than being shown up. Or having someone around who doesn’t fear them.

Especially if everyone else around here is like Mark the human puppy.

Or Carol, who seems to view him like the brilliant son she never had. Which is a weird vibe, honestly.

Before I even look up, I know Mark is over my shoulder again, hovering like an overgrown fly. I toy with the idea of asking him to buzz off and leave me alone.

If only a little honesty didn’t make easy enemies.

Though he must not notice I’m visibly annoyed.

He’s relentlessly positive. Almost to the point of denial, like he wants to paint over all of life’s imperfections so he doesn’t have to deal with them.

“How’s it coming, Destiny?” he asks like he didn’t just ask the same question half an hour ago before his coffee run.

Like I’ve written a single thing in that time.

I resist the urge to dig my hands through my hair.

I’m not a single sentence closer to winning over Mr. Crankyface, and I know it.

In fact, I’m pretty sure I’m sucking so bad at this that he’s actively avoiding me. Maybe he has a sixth sense for failure.

I’ve sent him emails, tried to schedule a meeting, and even waited outside his office, hoping he’ll emerge like a hibernating bear so I can prod him with more questions.

If I could just replace out what his top concerns are with an initiative like this, I could nail them.

But he always has a full calendar or he’s just stepped out.

And no matter how pleasant Hannah Cho seems on the outside, she’s quick to politely remind me that Mr. Foster keeps a godlike schedule.

I get it.

He’s a busy man.

But he’s also the guy who gave me this assignment.

He decided to take a chance on me after I triggered him into a tantrum.

Mark shifts his weight, waiting for my answer. I realize I totally tuned out of the conversation before it started.

“Sorry, what?”

“I was just asking about this slide…” He swipes a finger at the screen, which displays a quote from an interview I arranged with prominent marine conservationist, Debra Hollens.

“Oh. Yeah, I decided to pull the best parts from the interview and sprinkle them in,” I say, bringing up the notes, which I transcribed late last night over blueberry tea.

He leans in, close enough to punch me in the face with his cologne, mumbling as he reads.

“Wow. Did she really lose a couple fingers to frostbite going after sea lions?”

I flick my mouse at the photo of Hollens waving, her two missing digits clear as day.

“It was an accident. They ventured too far in an arctic storm. She thought the sea lions were close enough to their camp, but they wandered too far and the wind picked up. It’s like a maze out there and they lost their way. They’re lucky they survived before search and rescue came and nope, no sea lions.”

“Yikes! Talk about a sacrifice for science.” He smiles awkwardly like it’s the funniest thing ever before he notices I’m not laughing. “Uh, shouldn’t that be closer to the front, Dess? It’s a pretty compelling story.”

I suppose he has a point.

“I’ll move things around, yeah. Anything else?” I force a smile, so ready to be left alone.

“Nah, I’m good. Just chiming in to help you out.” He gives me a look like a kicked puppy.

“Thanks, Mark. You’ve put me on the right track and I can take it from here.”

As soon as he shuffles away, I look at the clock.

Barely one p.m.

Ugh.

I knead my knuckles into my eyes until I see stars.

I’m doing the best with what I have.

I had to go begging Carol for help so she’d give me the templates. I did all the research myself, put it together with references.

My interview with Debra Hollens was pure luck, and it was possibly the shortest interview ever. Fortunately, she has a way with words and sharing her life. She’s the type of person where everything they say is interesting.

But her frostbitten tragedy is perfect proof of the many ways this would help conservation efforts—not just the animals, but human researchers.

I’m hoping—no, praying—that it’ll help my case.

With Shepherd Foster, there’s no room for error.

The one mistake he made with that actress has him more strung out than ever.

Also, after more digging around online and getting more details about the woman he supposedly dumped, I think I know why he’s avoiding me.

Vanessa Dumas has a sizable online presence.

Her Instagram following—never mind her TikTok and Facebook page—has ballooned into six figures ever since she came out publicly about the big bad crimes he apparently committed.

It’s not my place to judge, but… she doesn’t look hurt.

She looks like she’s thriving off the attention.

I mean, if I were in Foster’s shoes, I might develop an unhealthy fear of attractive women too. Is that the real reason why he’s avoiding me?

I’m almost sad if it is, if he thinks I’d pull a Dumas.

Besides, he’s not that hot.

Not lose-my-mind-over-him hot.

Obviously, I have eyes and a pulse so I can see he’s attractive. I get why gobs of women might have a crush on him.

They aren’t me.

I’ve been around rich assholes my whole life, and I’d like to think it’s made me immune to the toxic personalities buried behind their outer charms.

And I hate to admit it, but he’s definitely hot enough for someone else to lose their wits.

It shouldn’t be humanly possible for a man so cold to be scorching—but the fact that he’s so forbidding and imposing makes him more attractive.

It’s like a law of physics Newton forgot to cover, wealthy assholes and their animal magnetism.

Foster is a piece of forbidden fruit with arms and legs like tree trunks.

Raw temptation wrapped up in a pretty package, just out of reach.

But that’s not what I’m here for.

I didn’t apply for this gig so Mr. CEO could ghost me and I could waste my time away, stuck on his deliriously good looks.

God, am I as immune as I think?

I shouldn’t have even noticed between all the sniping we’ve done.

He was too busy glaring for me to pay much attention to anything except for the fact that someone apparently set his eyes on fire.

Blue flame. Searingly hot.

Just like the rest of him.

I almost thunk my head down on my laptop. Only Mark watching me curiously from the other side of the desk keeps me from embarrassing myself to death.

“Not going well?” he asks sympathetically.

No.

No, it’s not going well at all.

I’m hung up on the fact that my hot boss is ignoring me instead of just finalizing this dumb proposal and letting fate do the rest.

It can’t be daddy issues.

If anything, the whole dead mother thing should’ve left me with an unhealthy mess of mommy issues instead.

Dad, like Foster, was an infamous grump before Eliza wore him down with her delicious pastries, coffee creations, and sunny smiles.

But Dad’s special.

He raised me, and no matter what, he always showed more warmth at his coldest than Foster.

He also taught me how to focus. I definitely don’t need to give a crap if Foster’s all smiles or frozen stares.

The chance to shadow a CEO was another big reason I applied. It seems useful if I’m ever in a position to run my own nonprofit.

I’ve read through the company’s history. Foster started this venture alone over a decade ago. He had jaw-dropping venture capital interest before he even hired his first employee.

By the time he turned Home Shepherd into a real working company, he was already known for philanthropy from his other ventures.

He created the vast architecture here from nothing but experience and some seed money.

Arrogant suit or not, he’s the sort of man you’d want to learn from when it comes to building empires from ash and bone.

And honestly, bad attitude aside, I’m beginning to think I’d jump at the chance to trade Foster for Mark, who’s finally typing away on his computer, humming obnoxiously to some pop song.

Mark wouldn’t know the nitty-gritty about business if it smacked him in the face. All the pitfalls to avoid, how to make everything transparent and fully focused on doing good vs. just making money.

And Carol, she’s perfectly lovely, but she’s also not going to know the thousand-foot view.

As a product lead, she knows better than anyone what the company does on a smaller scale with its biggest assets, but…

The first time I met Foster, I didn’t think he knew much either.

I thought all the research I’d done about how he’d set up his company meant nothing.

Until he dropped that mile-long list of charities Home Shepherd works with.

Until I dug deeper, talked to more employees, learned more history, and now it’s possible—possible—that Shepherd Foster isn’t just another greedy billionaire with an ego to feed.

Public disclosures show he takes home far less salary than he could, even if it’s still a staggering amount. He has no golden parachute waiting on the other side in offshore accounts and vaporware companies.

By every measure, he pays his people well, triples their 401(k) contributions, and Foster Holdings’ charitable contributions are legendary.

It’s just kept weirdly quiet, without any big fanfare.

Just like charity work should be, honestly, and that’s what bothers me.

Why isn’t he like the others?

Why isn’t the good he does an enormous dick-waving symbol of pride?

I hate to admit it, but I’m as impressed as I am suspicious.

Though the people here seem to want to do honest good without looking for praise and quick leaps up the career ladder.

Of course, the smears from Vanessa Dumas could be true.

I’m not stupid.

There’s a distinct chance he’s a sharp businessman and perfectly generous, but he’s also a womanizing asshole. Maybe that’s why he likes to be so secretive.

But if the rumors are only that, and this actress is blowing everything out of proportion for attention, what does that mean?

Is Shepherd Foster just a workaholic freak who wants to be left alone?

I’m still wrestling with the possibilities as I work until Carol taps her fingers against the door and pokes her head in.

“Hey!” she says. “How’s it going with the big proposal?”

Mark looks up with a scowl, which is weird for him.

“Good,” I lie. “Just fine-tuning the layout now.”

“Nervous?” She gives me a sympathetic smile.

I hesitate. “A little. It’s a quick turnaround. There’s more I’d want to do if I had the time…”

“Don’t overthink it! This isn’t grad school and those suits grade on ideas, not fancy words.”

Oof, yeah.

That’s what worries me.

“The idea part is fine. Mostly. I just wish I had a little more practical experience to point to with something this new.”

“You could always speak to Mr. Foster about it,” she suggests. “I’m surprised he didn’t give you more time. Two to three weeks is standard for a normal internal development proposal, and this is pretty close to that. It’s not usually so tight.”

No, of course.

Because Mr. Foster is a dark prince of all pricks who enjoys making me miserable.

“I bet he’ll make time to see you if you hit him up,” Mark says hopefully.

“Maybe,” I say.

And by that, I mean he will, because I’m not going to allow him to dodge me until it’s time to wow him like a surly professor waiting for my thesis paper.

I have to sell this idea, and that means talking to him at least one more time before I turn it in.

Carol smiles at us both. “Well, definitely give me a shout if you need anything!”

I half wave as she ducks out and the door clicks shut behind her.

“She’s so nice,” Mark says distantly. “Really helpful.”

Yeah.

Shame she can’t help me much here. I give him a quick smile and turn back to my laptop, tightening up my sentences and adding footnotes almost as long as the main presentation at the end.

The evening crawls by as I work and Mark hangs around like a baby monkey, clingy as ever and making flat jokes, throwing out suggestions I don’t need every hour.

I try not to let my inner bitch out while I politely shoot down his help.

He’s not jealous, is he?

Sometimes, it almost feels like he’s poking, asking without really asking why Foster gave me this opportunity like it’s a golden cow and not a Trojan horse meant to drive me bonkers.

When the day winds down and I can’t keep my eyes on the screen for another minute, I wait while Mark packs up his stuff. He hasn’t stayed late yet in the time I’ve been here.

Foster, on the other hand…

Foster must not stumble out of this tower until well past eight o’clock at night. He’s still online in the company chat at least that late, but not open to direct messages.

I check his calendar, which Hannah sent me when I asked when he’d be free. I see his last meetings for the day are all virtual, which means he’ll be in his office.

Nowhere to escape annoying influencers with a burning need to pick his brain.

So I push back from my chair and power down my laptop.

Mark looks up with a bright smile I can’t quite read.

Man, does he ever run out of energy?

He’s twenty-six, like he told me the other day, but he could be nineteen.

“Are you heading out, Dess?” he asks, joining me at the door before I lose myself in the bustle of other tired people heading home. “Want to get a drink?”

Oh, God.

My heart flies up my throat.

…is he hitting on me now?

He doesn’t look like he’s flirting, exactly, but shy, soft boys like him never do. He’s not the kind to wink or make some obscene comment.

“Not yet, I have a few more notes to read through,” I say. “Thanks, though.”

“You’re not leaving?”

I grit my teeth.

It’s none of his business, actually.

“Just heading to the ladies’ room,” I lie, for no particular reason.

He doesn’t need to know how desperate I am to see Foster.

“Oh, well, I can wait for you—”

“Mark, no. I have a busy night. Family stuff.” Another lie, and I ignore his slight pout.

“Ah, okay. I’ll leave you to it. Don’t lose any beauty sleep over this place… it’s so not worth it,” he mutters as he ducks away.

Now, it’s making more sense.

He resembles a put-out little boy, sulking as he heads in the opposite direction from the bathrooms.

When I glance back, he’s gone.

I don’t dare wait any longer and rush up to Foster’s office.

“Miss Lancaster?” Miss Cho says from behind the desk. “Are you here to see Mr. Foster? I’m afraid he’s—”

She’s not fast enough to finish that sentence, much less hop out of her chair before I’m speed walking past her.

She can’t catch me before I rip Foster’s huge black double door open like I’m entering a dark knight’s lair.

Just like before, his office is dark, all chrome and slate and glossy power oozing from every pore.

Only today, the last hints of summer sun stream in through the window, bathing everything in soft red fire.

I have to admit, it’s kinda beautiful as the light spills in against the polished shadow and moody greys. That pitch-black color he seems to love might have a hint of forest green in the light.

The light even gilds Foster himself as he glances up from the screen at the intrusion, his face twisted with surprise.

It’s an improvement.

When he doesn’t scowl, he’s slightly more lickable.

A dangerous thought.

Then his brain catches up with his eyes and his face twists sourly, and all is right with his miserable, grumpy world.

“Do you not know how to knock, Miss Lancaster?”

I shut the door behind me while Miss Cho stands there helplessly.

She doesn’t strike me as the type to listen in, but I don’t want our conversation leaving this room. If I’ve come this far, I deserve a little privacy.

Mostly, because I’m about to do something highly embarrassing.

I’m going to ask this soulless gargoyle of a man for help.

I try to keep my emotions under wraps as I step forward and sink into the chair in front of his desk, steepling my fingers.

If we’re going to do this, I might as well be comfortable.

“You ignored my calls and my emails,” I say flatly.

“I was busy. Did Miss Cho not tell you I’m the boss?” He waves a hand at his screens, his jaw pinched.

“You’re not busy now…”

His scowl only deepens.

“You have no clue what I’m looking over right now to keep this machine running—which I would be doing faster if you weren’t here disturbing me.” He looks past me. “I’ve got this, Miss Cho. Kindly go make sure nobody else barges into my office.”

Hannah exits the room while I bite back my snark. Plus, the burning need to know if he’s ever been polite just once in his life.

“What the hell do you want, Miss Lancaster? You’re here for a reason,” he snarls.

“I need more time.”

The lines on his face loosen.

He doesn’t shake off the anger entirely, and he doesn’t smile, but it’s something.

He clasps his hands together and leans forward.

“If you can’t do the work, you’re welcome to give up now. You’ll still collect your donation to a conservation charity of your choice. I didn’t say that up front, but why prolong this torture for both of us if you won’t pretend to do the job? Take your money and run.”

Bastard.

Just keeping my expression neutral hurts my face.

He won’t win.

He won’t bait me into losing my shit, even as he insults my intelligence, my work ethic, and my person in a single quip.

“Because. I have the chance to do way more good than a one-time donation here. That much is clear from working fifteen-hour days on this proposal,” I explain. I squeeze my fingers together until my knuckles threaten to pop. “It’s not that I don’t have it ready. I’m basically done.”

He raises an eyebrow but says nothing.

God, would it kill him to show some surprise?

“I could turn it in and present it to the board right now if you want. It’s just that I need more time because you need more time.”

“Excuse me?” He frowns. “More time for what?”

“To go to the Olympic Forest with me.”

His chair spins slightly as he jolts back with a snort. “And why the hell would I go tromping through the woods with you, of all people?”

Ouch. Would that really be so atrocious?

“Sea otters,” I throw back simply.

Foster stares at me like I’ve lost my mind.

I’m hard-pressed not to start laughing my head off.

Weirdly, it’s almost cute to see this grouch look so gobsmacked.

Don’t get me wrong, I expected him to be surprised.

No way did he see this coming, though.

Not a chance.

But I never expected his blank look, clearing the harsh scorn he’s been beaming my way from the second I walked through his door.

And holy shit, I didn’t need to notice how blue his eyes are with curiosity.

They’re practically gems set against the sunset spilling in, glowing like sapphires, glinting and transforming his face from Ice King to Judgmental God.

I can’t help it.

I’m staring helplessly as I press my lips together, fighting not to laugh—and failing.

“Sea otters,” he repeats like he’s testing to see whether he misheard me. “You want me to drop everything to see otters? Is that a serious proposal?”

…well, when he says it like that, he really does make it sound off the wall.

“I mean, I’ve been planning an otter stakeout past Olympia for ages,” I say. “If I can’t spot them in person, I’d love to check out their habitat, at least. I love those little guys and—it’s research, okay?”

“Research,” he repeats dryly.

I wonder if he has a button under his desk for security. Am I three seconds from a pack of stoic brutes dragging me out of the building?

“For community reporting to the Washington Department of Fish and Wildlife?” I venture. “They welcome public assistance with sightings and tracking. The otters are endangered and also really hard to replace, so the state’s always keen for any help.”

Finally, it’s getting through to him.

The sour disbelief leaves his face, but although he nods, a muscle in his jaw ticks.

Good.

I’ve gone and pissed him off again, just like I expected.

If I can sell him on this trip, then convincing him to use company resources for animal tracking ought to be a breeze.

“Technically, this is part of my presentation. The perfect chance to demonstrate future applications and observations for your technology out in the wild,” I say, shifting forward so I can balance my elbows on the table and face the music in those glinting blue eyes.

Dad always used to nail me on posture when I was a little girl.

Elbows don’t belong on tables, bad manners, especially in a business setting, and I know that.

I also know I should be prim and proper and remind Foster that I’m not the bad-mouthing kind of pretty girl Vanessa Dumas is.

Also, these are otters we’re talking about.

Debra Hollens and her awesome interview are great material. Perfectly convincing but also a bit predictable.

But the otters—they’re my ace in the hole.

They’re for winning Foster over and bringing this home.

“Just think about it.” I hold up my hands. “Just for a second, okay? I know you’re a nature guy from—um, that morning we met. Say no more.” I beam him a strained smile.

He’s so not amused.

His nostrils flare.

“The otters are notoriously difficult to spot in the wild,” I continue. “And since the government is asking for civilian help, Home Shepherd has a perfect green light. Your drones could change their tracking like nothing else. And if it works in a real field test like this, it could help for way more than just otters.”

I expect him to laugh me off if he doesn’t have me dragged away and unceremoniously dumped in the back alley next to the dumpster first.

Or at least give me a cruel, mocking smile and revoke any chance I ever had at involving Home Shepherd in this scheme.

Instead, he just looks at me like he’s never seen me before.

Which is alarming, because the earlier scowl returns, gaining in harshness like a gathering storm.

I’ve never seen a man look so broody before—which is saying something when I grew up with the broodiest single dad in Seattle.

Then his hand starts moving.

Oh, here we go.

Security and the hounds are coming in three, two, one…

He presses a button on his intercom. “Miss Cho, can you come in here, please?”

This is it.

At least he’s using Hannah to send me into exile nicely for having the audacity to suggest we travel into the wild after otters.

I meet his gaze, daring him to lay into me one last time, but instead he raises his gaze as his EA walks into the room.

“Miss Lancaster has just suggested we travel to Olympia this weekend to see the sea otters in their natural habitat,” he says, utterly impassively.

It hits me that I’m holding my breath.

Because I have no flipping idea what he’s really thinking.

“Well, hopefully. Like I said, they’re pretty rare, and sightings are never guaranteed,” I correct in a small voice. “But if we get lucky, we might spot something.”

His gaze lands on me for a burning second before it shifts back to Miss Cho.

“Yes, you’ve made the concept quite clear. Hannah?”

Oh, no.

He’s using her first name?

It must be serious.

“Definitely not.” She answers a question he never spoke out loud. “I’m visiting family in Portland this weekend, Mr. Foster.”

“All weekend?” His forbidding brows descend lower over his eyes.

“I’m afraid so.” She doesn’t sound like she’s that upset by it. “You’ll have to count me out on this one. However, I can make your travel arrangements. I’ll make sure the lab releases a prototype to you personally.”

Wait. What.

Foster groans.

I stare at both of them in disbelief.

“Does that mean… you’re coming?”

“Yes, dammit,” he mutters. “Although frankly, I have no good reason why I’m actually considering it.”

“Like otters aren’t enough?”

The joke fails catastrophically.

But then something resembling a microscopic smile tugs at his lips.

“Otters,” he agrees. His eyes linger on my face. We’ve been in the office so long the sun’s light has finally dimmed and the automatic lights are brightening, painting his face in softer white-orange hues.

Meaning, I can see every gritty detail.

From my research, I know he’s forty-two. That means he’s seventeen years my senior, but he doesn’t look like it.

To say he’s aged well is like calling Taylor Swift a singer. He’s still young and rough in all the right places. More like a mountain carved gracefully by time than a man who drinks his weight in green juice every morning, running from his own mortality at the crack of dawn and choking down a fifty-supplement cocktail.

His jaw is firm and sharp.

There’s only the smallest hint of salt and pepper in his hair—and I don’t think he dyes it—a distinguished badge of age.

And although there are faint lines around his eyes and mouth and across his forehead, they’re barely noticeable in this light.

Maybe it’s the lighting, though.

It’s got to be the reason.

The only reason why I notice how lush his mouth is, too. His lips look like they could lay down the law or soothe any woman to sleep with tender kisses, and it’s horribly easy to imagine him doing both.

Especially when he’s not scowling.

Um… he’s not scowling now.

My stomach doesn’t quite flip over, but it lurches.

I don’t even hear him at first as he dismisses Hannah and looks at me, his eyes slits as he leans back in his chair.

“One question for you, Miss Lancaster.”

“Yes?”

He blinks and his face goes impassive. “How well can you handle a kayak?”