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

Some people just don’t know how to keep things simple.

I lean back with a scowl that’s melting my face, the executive leather chair creaking under me as I watch the latest sludge interview on my tablet.

My blood pressure is already surging to levels that will make my doctor yell at me.

Some people do not know how to keep things fucking simple.

We were business associates. Professionals.

Nothing more, nothing less.

Vanessa Dumas promised me from day one of this stupid arrangement that she was unfussy. Uncomplicated. Oh so easy to work with.

She was, to the best of my knowledge, a smart woman with an eye for strategy who understood our mutual potential to lend each other a hand.

Yeah.

Everything I thought I knew was dead wrong.

She doesn’t know the meaning of the word professional.

On the screen, it’s the typical gaudy crap. The interview room is plush with a red sofa and white walls and a hostess with a giddy smile like she’s just walked onto the set after three shots of vodka.

The blonde hostess—Martha Rubina—is clearly doing her damnedest to prevent age from stampeding all over her face with plumped lips and an artificially tight forehead.

Opposite her, Vanessa has made a special effort for this spectacle. Curling her hair, wearing too much stoplight-red lipstick.

She licks her lips as her gaze flicks at the camera and then away nervously.

Fake nervously.

“So, can you tell us how it all started with Shepherd Foster?” Martha asks, leaning forward like Vanessa’s answer is the most interesting thing since Al Gore invented the internet.

It’ll be a lie, of course.

I’ve read the headlines.

Not that good old Martha will mind.

She wants a story, viral links, and water cooler talk for the next week, and Vanessa knows how to deliver.

“Oh,” Vanessa says breathily. A voice she never bothered using with me when she knew that airy, giggly shit wasn’t my thing.

Hell, she knew she wasn’t my thing.

Our ‘relationship’ was a casual forgery from day one—I made that clear from the outset.

I needed a plus-one to shut up the press and fend off swarms of real single women.

She needed a lifeline with my connections, and the networking at the various events I’m obliged to attend were perfect. Preferably without a thousand nasty rumors swirling in my wake.

I thought I had a woman on my arm who would dissuade the real gold diggers and shit-rakers from the tabloids, and she had her chance to send her career into the stratosphere.

Win-win—or so I thought.

I even covered all the damn expenses. Couture designer gowns, ego slaying shoes, glittery handbags big enough to swallow an elephant, the works.

The entire steaming enchilada.

No, she wasn’t getting me, but I was never on the table. Dating is the last fucking thing on my list of experiences, right next to eating fried wombat and a nice bout of hantavirus.

When I laid my cards out, I made that perfectly clear.

Vanessa knew precisely what she was getting into. With me, it’s always strictly business.

Absolutely no romance.

I have a reputation for not getting involved, and I gave her zero indication it would be different with her pretty smile.

I knew better. I’m too smart to fall into the fake-love-turned-real trap that claims so many other billionaires in this town.

When I needed a fake girlfriend, I intended to keep her fake and at a safe distance.

But I watch the way she smiles so innocently, my lip curling with disgust.

How did I miss it?

For all the arranging and agreeing we’d done, I never saw it coming.

I never once imagined she’d ambush me in the back of my limo.

She was the one who threw her leg over my lap and thrust her tits in my face like Thanksgiving dinner.

The memory makes my teeth grind.

We’d been at a movie premiere—some indie flick gone big—and the only reason I was there at all was because the producer, Dane Jacobs, also headed Homes for Seattle, one of the charities my company supports.

I went because I had to, and I brought Vanessa as a favor.

A fucking favor she repaid by telling me she had so much more to offer if I’d just get over my rules and let her ride my cock all the way to happily ever after.

And damn, did she offer.

My skin crawls at the thought.

It’s not that she’s not attractive. Most men would go to war over a woman like her with straight red hair that’s almost auburn and naturally plump lips.

Still, attractive doesn’t mean insta-love.

It certainly didn’t mean I wanted to get it on in the back of a car with a relationship prop after an event I had little interest in.

On the screen, she flicks her hair over her shoulder as she tells the world her version of our relationship—how we met, which is almost true, and what happened after, which is where the lying starts.

“I didn’t even think he was interested in me at first,” she says slowly, teasing out her words. “I mean, look at him. He’s gorgeous and brilliant and so wealthy, right? I didn’t mind his past—and he hates when people talk about that, so I won’t.”

Fuck, I might just break my own jaw today.

“We kept running into each other at charity events,” she continues, batting her eyes. “But one day… one day, he pulled me aside. Shepherd kissed me and told me that he thought we could really be something special.”

“Wow. That sounds so romantic,” Martha the host says, batting her lashes back at the liar.

I snort, unable to help myself.

Bull. Shit.

“Oh, it was! I thought I was the luckiest girl.” Vanessa’s smile drops. “We went everywhere together. I mean, you’ve seen it…”

The screen changes to a press photo of the first time we went out together, over eight months ago now.

I remember that night. The first time in ages the cameras were aimed at me, but I wasn’t the focus. Also the first time in a good, long while they had something else to talk about besides my soaring star in business or dark whispers about my past.

“This is you, right?” Martha asks.

Vanessa’s laugh is more like a trill and annoying as hell. “Yes! Although I don’t know what’s up with my eyebrows.”

“So what happened between you two? You looked so happy!”

“Everything. Everything I ever dreamed of, being swept up by a man like him. It was almost like a movie, falling so fast and so hard. There wasn’t time to slow down and think until—well, I can say now, I suppose. After six months, Shepherd asked me to marry him.”

“No!” Martha gasps, feigning shock.

Like the producers didn’t have a written statement from Vanessa and an approved bullet point list of subjects before they agreed to put her in front of a camera.

“Yes, yes, and I was just as surprised as you are now. But I loved him so much, I… I just wanted to be with him forever. You know how it is. Obviously, there was no other answer.” She sighs, her face crumpling. “I thought he was just as serious about me. I thought we’d be happy together.”

“What happened?” Martha’s face lines with concern.

Vanessa glances down. “I still don’t know, really. Maybe he met someone else? Or maybe he just got bored with the sex,” she says, pulling at her finger like she’s searching for a phantom ring I never gave her.

Damn, she’s deviously good.

If my desk wasn’t topped with solid marble, my fist would be going through the thing right about now.

“You mean it was that abrupt? He just dumped you with no explanation?”

“Without a word,” Vanessa says dramatically, her voice rough.

God Almighty.

If this is her acting debut, she’s killing it at my expense.

“I don’t know what happened, Martha. I don’t know. Sometimes, I think it was all an act, whenever he said he loved me. He’s a cold man. It isn’t all his fault, no, but he’s so… so heartless to do what he did. I never knew anyone could be so cruel.”

“Funny. I never knew anyone could be so damn annoying,” I mutter, muting the interview.

Enough.

Like I’d ever consider being chained to a backstabbing creature like her for more than five minutes, never mind a lifetime.

How the hell is history repeating itself like this? Another fucked up black hole rumor mill for Shepherd Foster, CEO of Home Shepherd and apparently Bad Luck Inc.

This time, it isn’t even true.

I never wanted anything to do with her.

I should’ve listened to my gut and never made this goofy-ass arrangement in the first place.

I should’ve known. My life isn’t a rom-com movie where I’d actually fall in love, so it had to end in tragedy instead.

“Well, give it to me.” I tap the screen with my index finger. “How far has this crap spread?”

Hannah Cho, my assistant, jumps to attention by my desk.

She’s been waiting patiently while I fume for the past five minutes. If I didn’t know better, I’d say her spine must be steel.

“Too far to stop it,” she says. “You’re watching her on the biggest morning gossip show in North America, which means it’s too late to scrub the internet. Too many eyes have seen it, saved it, tweeted it, and sent it to TikTok.”

Wonderful.

“You are now Shepherd Foster, brilliant CEO and cunning heartbreaker. Congratulations.” She pauses for a breath. “In some eyes, I’m sorry to say, an abuser of women.”

“I never touched her once, dammit,” I growl.

“Emotional abuse, sir.”

“I was never emotionally involved with her. The whole arrangement was fake as hell.”

“Oh, no doubt. I knew it from the second she claimed you went all Prince Charming on her. That’s… not you, Mr. Foster.” She nods intently. “Regrettably, I’m afraid you’ll have a hard time convincing the internet. The reality of the ruse won’t win you many sympathy points, either.”

I wince because she’s right.

The age of social media means no secret stays sacred for long, and some lies never have an expiration date.

Worse, it’s the age of the ambush.

I didn’t know what Vanessa Dumas was doing after I brushed her off until it was already public knowledge.

“What are our options? Anything yet from PR?” I demand.

Vanessa’s perfect, red-lipsticked mouth moves on the screen as she tells another lie I don’t care to listen to. No doubt she’s squawking about how wonderful she thought we were together, and how she was so sure we were madly in love.

Hannah hesitates. “I’m afraid—”

“There must be favors to call in.” I push my chair back and pace across the rug in the center of the floor, all slate-grey to match the building’s décor. “We have a few friends in the media. Maybe even at the network that signs Martha Rubina’s paycheck.”

“…it’s already live and approved, sir. You’d need to bring out a big stick and make a lot of noise to put the cork back in this bottle.”

Yeah, and Legal would love to whack me with a big stick if I even consider lawsuits over this, considering it was my own ham-fisted idea that started it.

“A press conference then,” I say. “I’ll go straight to the people. Tell my side of the story, set the record straight, and be just as loud as she is.”

Hannah only tucks her hands behind her back, which I know from experience means hell no before she says a single word.

“No, sir,” she clips. “If you push back, you give them more attention. The more you protest, the guiltier you’ll look. And considering your past…” She clears her throat.

“Don’t say it. Believe me, I know,” I snap. “The louder I bleat, the more people will go digging, and then I’ll be one big open wound.”

I’ve been dealing with this fuckery for my whole adult life, ever since the day I flipped and helped take Uncle Aidan down. And that was before the goddamned mess with Serena.

My particular past required moving a goddamned mountain when there were guns and bodies and the whole world knew my uncle was an Irish mob boss. Never mind the whole tragic dead wife thing.

I resist the urge to throw something at the wall.

“So, what then? You want me to stay silent while she drags my name through the mud for the thousandth time?”

“I want you to be the bigger person, Mr. Foster. Billionaire CEOs don’t acknowledge petty rumors,” Hannah explains patiently. “Doing so will just give them fuel.”

“Yeah, yeah. Above the fray and all that.”

I drag my hands through my hair and bite back all the caustic words I want to hurl at Vanessa, who’s still running her mouth.

The smug smile on her face behind the crocodile tears tells me how much she’s enjoying this.

What the hell happened?

I just wanted it to be fucking simple.

“There is one more option, I think.” Hannah clears her throat. “It’s clear Vanessa Dumas wants something. I suspect she’s using this for leverage to get her foot in the door with TV execs to launch her career.”

That’s the problem.

No one uses Shepherd Foster.

“I was helping her career. That was the whole deal,” I grind out. “Bringing her to these events gave her attention she wouldn’t have had. If it was too slow or she couldn’t figure out the rest, that’s hardly on me.”

“I never said it was, sir.”

“Well, I’m not buying her silence, Miss Cho. She’s cost me enough.”

“Obviously not.”

I stare at her.

She’s been with me long enough to know I’d rather fight a pack of wolverines with my hands tied behind my back than roll over for anyone. Maybe some parts of a man’s bullheaded upbringing never die.

Besides, if anyone finds out I paid off Vanessa with favors, won’t that be worse?

“No deal. I’m not bribing her with more favors or anything else. I won’t stoop to sleazy backroom tactics.”

Hannah doesn’t blink.

I’m not my damned uncle, is what she really hears.

“Of course not, Mr. Foster. I’d never imply it.”

I glare at her, but her expression doesn’t change.

She’s a hard woman to read, and normally, that’s what I like most about her.

Today, it’s one more uncertainty.

Fuck, she’s the best assistant I’ve ever had, and that’s partly because she’s impervious to any of the crap I throw at her.

If I didn’t know better, I’d say she’s a biological android, flawlessly programmed to be professional, polite, generous, and capable.

Not warm, necessarily, but I don’t need buttery smiles.

When it comes to an executive assistant, I need efficiency, and Hannah’s skills are almost terrifyingly so.

I know she’s not here hashing out the bad news without some defense percolating in her brain.

Idle gabbing is not how Hannah Cho does things. She’s solution-oriented like a crossbow hunter is arrow-oriented. She’s already mapped out all the possibilities of how this might go down today, tomorrow, and for the next three years.

“Will you sit?” I say, gesturing to the chair. “Tell me what you’re really thinking.”

Hannah perches on the edge of the chair. Her bob is glossy, not a hair out of place, and the lace blouse emerging from her pant suit clings to her neck. She’s severity itself, no-nonsense and simple, which I like. The only piece of jewelry she’s ever worn is a silver chain necklace from her grandmother with a small dangling swan.

“I have an idea,” Hannah says. I knew she would. “One that doesn’t involve a poorly thought out press conference or any weakness on your part. Perish the thought.”

I drum my fingers. “Go on.”

“It involves the new Young Influencers program.”

“The what?” I frown at her, drawing a blank.

She sighs like she expects my total cluelessness.

“The latest goodwill program Home Shepherd sponsors. It allows young social media influencers interested in philanthropic work to shadow the CEO for several months so they can gain the executive experience helpful in running a nonprofit.”

What the hell?

I agreed to that shit?

“Right,” I lie. It doesn’t tickle the faintest memory, and I can’t believe I signed off on something so time-consuming, but fine.

“It’s intended to give our young influencers an inside view of leadership. They get to see how philanthropy programs at our level work, plus a chance to enjoy your insights,” she explains.

“I understand the concept.”

“Yes, sir.”

On my tablet, Vanessa is still yammering about the broken vow that never happened.

I try not to snarl as I turn it off and push it aside.

“Look, you know how I feel about influencers,” I say.

It’s almost the same world I despise, all rumor mills and pretty faces with ulterior motives.

The worst kind of fame and infamy.

It’s repulsive, the way they leech off people for views. Anything for a leg up.

“I do, Mr. Foster,” Hannah says coolly.

“So tell me why I don’t remember authorizing this program,” I growl. “And while you’re at it, remind me when I’d ever agree to spend time with a social media addict.”

“You didn’t, sir. Because I just came up with it.”

I stare at her blankly.

She’s too good.

That also explains a few things. Although not why she thinks this is a good idea.

“I’m going to give you two minutes,” I say curtly. “I warn you, Miss Cho, I’m going to take a lot of convincing.”

Hannah smooths an invisible wrinkle from her pants and looks up at me, her deep brown eyes opaque. In the years we’ve been working together, I’ve never managed to get a good reading on how much I annoy her.

I suspect that’s how she likes it.

But this rips me out of my comfort zone like a car collision. I want to know why she thinks it’s a good idea.

Disregarding my time limit, she takes a minute to collect her thoughts, steepling her fingers before she starts.

“Frankly, we need a fresh approach to our public relations, especially when they involve you. Due to the nature of these rumors—and the ugly fact that we didn’t catch them before they were splashed out in the open—we need to think creatively.”

“And you think some vapid influencers are the answer? That is creative,” I say sharply.

“I understand you’re not the biggest fan, however, they have a lot of leverage with their reach. You could use it to your advantage. We’ll also thoroughly vet our candidates to ensure they’ve been involved in charitable causes before.”

Yeah, right.

I snort again. “What makes you think any of them would say anything positive about me?”

“Because they’ll all be clamoring for a spot in this new program. Even if there’s a scandal hanging over you, sir, that doesn’t diminish Home Shepherd’s power and prestige,” she says smoothly. “Especially if the reward for successfully completing the shadow apprenticeship is a sizable donation to the charity of their choice.”

“I see.”

I hate that I can’t argue.

I hate that it doesn’t sound half-bad.

And Hannah knows it as she gives me a serene smile. “Rather brilliant of you to think of something so gracious, huh?”

I fold my arms and eye her sourly.

Have I mentioned I hate this shit?

Some airhead who spends their days posting ten second puppy videos from animal shelters following me around, yammering and demanding selfies.

Godawful.

Any influencer with a working brain will want something I can’t give. I don’t buck up and smile for the same cameras that might as well shoot me in the face.

They’ll drive me mad in a matter of days.

And what, them talking about a marvelous work opportunity is going to cut through Vanessa’s bullshit?

Remind the world for the millionth time that I’m clean and kind and all that happy crap?

“You’re still skeptical,” Hannah says.

“How could you tell?”

“Consider it an engineered distraction,” she throws back. “No, you can’t address Vanessa’s accusations directly and come out on top, but you can remind people of what you’re doing here. Under your fearless leadership, Home Shepherd has done a lot of good for this world.”

“They won’t forget Vanessa that easily. They never do. Not since Aidan Murphy and the trial of the century,” I grind out, the memory so foul I can chew it.

“They will when her story doesn’t change—or especially if it does—and you don’t give it the time of day.” She leans forward. “Keeping your head down and doing what this company does best is your response, Mr. Foster. I don’t think you appreciate just how much weight these influencers have.”

Too much.

Still, it’s the best of several bad options, and Miss Cho has a point.

My fault, really, for not realizing Vanessa isn’t a stable woman who takes rejection nicely. I should have prepared for this when she didn’t respond to my nice email and an offer for one more all-expense paid trip to the conference of her choice just to show her there were no hard feelings.

I just don’t know how Vanessa thought I would ever be seduced.

Hell, Hannah handled most of our correspondence, and my assistant isn’t exactly a grinning cupid.

But this whole influencer scheme will only be temporary.

It’s an honest way to manufacture some good news with the name Shepherd attached for the press.

Me, I can sacrifice a little time if it solves the Vanessa Dumas problem and lets me focus on real work again.

I’ve been meaning to expand the corporate philanthropy program, anyway.

Right now, we’re posting record numbers thanks to our watchful lights. Every high-end home in North America wants a custom porch light that doubles as a solar-powered door camera.

It doesn’t feel right funneling all that money into my pockets. They’re heavy enough as it is.

Maybe it’s the guilt that comes with growing up a mob boss’ nephew.

Maybe it’s my atonement for sins I didn’t commit.

Or maybe it’s just me doing what I always do best—running from any whiff of drama. Anything and everything that gets in the way of honest money and fresh ideas.

Regardless, I don’t have time for an ongoing stew of rumors.

“Fine,” I say. “If you think it’s a good idea, I’m not about to argue with you.”

“Excellent choice, sir.”

I glower at her.

Hannah doesn’t even blink.

“If you’re going to pick someone from social media to follow me around like a lost puppy, at least make sure they’re squeaky clean,” I warn. “I don’t give two shits who just as long as they’ll get the job done.”

She allows herself a small smile.

“Of course. Have I ever let you down?”

I don’t dignify that with an answer she doesn’t need.

She already knows the reason I keep her on is because when she’s in charge, I can take my hands off the helm.

That’s hard when I hate relinquishing control.

“Wipe my calendar for the weekend. I’m going to clear my head,” I say, pushing my chair back and shrugging my suit jacket on. The evening sun is big and orange, hanging heavier and lower as it slips below Seattle’s glossy horizon.

If I’m going to get out of here before sunset, I need to get moving.

As always, she takes everything in with a polite nod. “Another one of your excursions, sir? I can’t say I blame you.”

“Yes. I’ll be back Monday.”

“I’ll have some candidates ready for you then.”

“Good.” I switch off my computer and leave my tablet on the desk without a second glance.

God, what a fucking headache.

Why did I ever drag myself out of witness protection when it was all said and done with Uncle Aidan?

I have regrets.

If I’d kept the name Billy Jordan, I could’ve had a nice, boring life in Gilbert, Arizona. I could’ve been married and settled on a nice middle-class income with a couple orange trees.

No criminal baggage.

No Serena and her mess.

No fucking billions and cutthroat women thinking they’ll have the cleavage that’s able to restart my heart.

Instead, I’ve got Shepherd Foster’s problems and money and no fucking orange tree whatsoever.

Like I said, I have regrets a mile long, and there’s only one thing that ever gets my mind off them.