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

This woman is baffling as hell.

I’ve never met anyone quite like her, and it’s pissing me off.

So much I’m hard-pressed not to show how much it irritates me.

Usually, I regulate my emotions well. It’s a necessity when you’re CEO overseeing billions and a Foster, considering how many idiots I’ve interacted with who will judge you based on rumors.

Honest business doesn’t let you show your cards, let alone your innermost demons and desires.

My poker face is normally impeccable.

I smile when appropriate, rattle off the right script, and shake hands with the greediest corporate dunces America ever coughed up without batting an eyelid.

All fine and dandy.

I don’t enjoy that aspect of the job, but it doesn’t matter.

I do it anyway without breaking a sweat.

I know what’s expected.

It’s not like I can’t handle being unable to read some people.

Hannah Cho taught me that no matter how often you see some folks, no matter how well you can predict their behavior, you can’t always read their minds.

Again, fine.

But Destiny Lancaster?

She’s a different scenario altogether.

For starters, I’m used to people sucking up. When you’re this rich and this connected, most people are interested in impressing you.

Not her.

That makes me sound like an arrogant asshole—and it might be a little true—but that’s what I expected. I thought the influencer we hired would be giddy about the opportunity.

Not pissed because I didn’t meet her expectations.

Hannah assured me she was the one, and her platform and attitude seem right, but she’s not the gushing type. That’s such a surprise I don’t know what to do with it.

“The lobby looks nice,” she says before we exit it.

The lobby. The fucking lobby.

“I’m glad you approve,” I clip.

She glances at me but says nothing as I take her through Home Shepherd’s relevant floors. When my people see me coming, they pretend to be hard at work, averting their eyes, and she glances at me again.

I pretend not to notice.

From the incisive way she takes everything in, it’s clear she understands what she’s seeing. A well-oiled kingdom with a religion of efficiency and excellence in everything we do.

Of course, she never compliments me on any of that.

Fair, when I never compliment her elegance, her poise, her figure, her carefully controlled expressions and tone as she greets names I struggle to remember.

Everything she says is thought out.

I think she’s taking reams of mental notes with those light-blue eyes. Whenever she looks at me, her expression frosts over.

But sometimes, when she watches someone else, she reminds me of the sporty girl in the Instagram shots. The one I shouldn’t be so eager to see again.

Stop it, you fuck.

She’s not here to smile and look pretty and certainly not for your amusement.

But when she does?

Goddammit, I’m shredded.

She’s so bright and lovely I can’t look away.

If Destiny Lancaster’s superpower is blinding the world with her sweetness, she’s already given my miserable eyes third-degree burns.

Even if I wonder how much is real and how much is just her being diplomatic.

Every face she wears is for profit. For effect. To sell herself to the company.

From what I’ve seen, she knows what she’s doing. She’s too controlled to let anything slip.

Everything I see is for show.

Everything.

I can’t forget that.

Mark Cantor, the intern, works on the ninth floor. So after the whistle-stop tour, I lead her over to where he’s sitting.

Normally, the Director of Corporate Giving has this office, but in her absence with Mark picking up the slack, he’s temporarily in here like he owns the place.

He grins behind his bushy beard as we approach and practically knocks the chair down as he hurries over to shake my hand.

“Mr. Foster! Always a pleasant surprise,” he says like the talking golden retriever he is.

Seriously, the kid is such an ass-kisser he’s probably got a lip balm subscription.

I nod at Destiny next to me.

“Mark, this is Destiny Lancaster. She’ll be leading our Young Influencers program and you’ll be working with her. Destiny, meet Mark Cantor.”

Mark transfers his hyperactive handshake to her.

“So nice to meet you!” He smiles at her, charming in an irritating, clean-cut way.

It’s hard to pin down what annoys me most about him when it isn’t his impeccable work record.

Probably the fact that he’s always so eager to please, fawning over anyone he thinks might be able to forward his career. He’s known around here as the bagel boy for showering the office with breakfast and pastries a few times per week.

But he’s a working beak with a bright future, and Destiny smiles back at him, clearly pleased.

“Hi, Mark,” she says warmly, shaking his hand. He blinks a little, probably more dazzled by her than he has any business being. “Apparently, I’m going to be working with you?”

“Yeah! I’m filling in for Rachel,” Mark explains. “Otherwise, you’d be working with her. But I have to say, I’m pumped for the help. I’ve seen your Instagram. Awesome work! Cool dog, too.”

Destiny laughs and eats it right up.

I flatten my hand against my thigh to prevent it from becoming a fist.

Little ass-kisser, and this time it’s an ass he has no business being around.

“Thank you. It’s nice knowing I have any kind of reach. Sometimes, you wonder,” she muses.

“You kidding? You’re on fire.” He waves a hand frantically. “Have you decided on a charity yet for the big prize?”

“Not yet.” Her lips thin thoughtfully. “I definitely want to take my time and make the right choice.” She shoots me a sharp glance, and her lips curl into a humorless smile. “After all, it’s not about the money, but how it’s used.”

“Oh, for sure,” Mark says, desperate to please as always.

“Thanks, Mark,” I say sharply, ready to put this conversation out of its misery. “When you’re working, you’ll be in here with him, Miss Lancaster. The room is big enough to share, I trust.”

“Sure,” she says, glancing around. The office isn’t massive by any means, but it’s perfectly comfortable, and there are two chairs at a large wraparound desk.

Mark smiles at us both. “I’ll make you a space, Dess.”

Brown-nosing prick.

He’s known her for all of sixty seconds and he’s already resorted to nicknames?

I don’t know what it is about him, but sometimes he really grates on me.

Or maybe it’s just this woman injecting a baffling heat in my blood that feels too much like jealousy.

Absolute fucking nonsense.

“We should get going, there’s more to cover,” I say, giving Mark a quick nod.

Destiny trails after me, scanning the environment as I lead her to another person she’ll need to know.

“This is Carol Garcia, our Senior Product Manager,” I say. “Carol oversees our product lines from discovery to development, then beta testing and launch. Carol, meet Destiny Lancaster.”

Carol smiles.

At first glance, she might not look like much, but she’s a powerhouse in a lean, short package. She makes a point of being intimately acquainted with all of our products in a way no one else at this company is.

I wouldn’t go as far as to say she’s invaluable—because no one truly is—but she does an excellent job of being necessary.

“Hi, Miss Lancaster,” she says. “It’s great meeting someone who gets to represent the fun side of Home Shepherd.”

I grit my teeth.

True or not, ‘fun’ is not the word I’m looking for.

We’re a security company for fuck’s sake.

“Call me Destiny. Please.” She extends a hand and they shake.

“You’ll be working under Mark in Corporate Giving, but if there’s anything you need, just let me know. I’m always happy to help.”

“Well,” Destiny says, flashing me a quick glance, “that depends if I’ll be involved in any of Home Shepherd’s products. Or if any of them are involved in charity work, I guess.”

“If you’re interested, you could take a look at our process,” Carol says.

“Miss Lancaster is here to learn more about our charity endeavors,” I remind her, clearing my throat.

“Oh, of course, Mr. Foster. But that’s a good thing to get young people involved in, too. Did you know we’re expanding into security services for campus safety?” Carol beams at Destiny and prattles on at length about our Home Away school initiatives.

I’m not entirely sure why she doesn’t bother me the way Mark does, even when she talks like a chipmunk on speed. Maybe it’s her efficiency and honest passion. Carol does the work of three people. She’s due for a raise and I make a mental note to revisit it.

“Thanks,” I say, waving Destiny onward. “I’m sure you two can get more familiar another time.”

Carol sends Destiny a wink I pretend not to notice, and we head back to the elevators to the top floor. Mine.

Only my office and Hannah’s desk are up there, though sometimes I think we’re wasting space.

“I was wondering,” Destiny says, “how involved you are in defense technology?”

Finally, a question worth asking.

“We draw the line at doing business with anyone funding active wars of aggression,” I tell her curtly. “Both in the U.S. or internationally. Believe me, we had offers left and right from both sides of the latest European crisis. I rejected them all.”

“You did? Wow. It’s so political. Everyone wants everything in black and white. Nobody can stand it when you don’t choose their side.” A tiny smile curves one corner of her mouth as she nods, apparently pleased.

“My money and my morals were better spent on helping the people who fled that war. They had no say in it, after all. I had zero interest in helping anyone precision-target their drones into better murder machines.”

Are her cheeks red as she quickly glances away?

Damn.

An odd satisfaction pulses through me before I remember I don’t give a shit about how she sees what we do here.

This is about my vision for the company. Her opinions aren’t welcome beyond charity and positive influencer content.

“I know the security focus and our technology edge makes it seem like we’re involved in defense schemes. The truth couldn’t be more different,” I tell her. “We’re solely focused on domestic security for earning our keep. We want to make normal people feel safer, wherever they are.”

“You do purchase military technology,” she says carefully. “I did my homework.”

“We do. Old technology,” I emphasize. “We take the existing tech and repurpose it. It’s a form of war-to-peace recycling, and because military-grade weapons and sensors are more advanced than you’ll find on the market, our products are always better.”

“But you’re careful about who you sell to, aren’t you?”

“Always. That goes from who we buy from, too. I have a long list of nations and NGOs I never accept as suppliers, and they’re not always the ones you’d think.”

Her eyes widen.

She nods politely and sends me a curious glance.

“So were you in the military then? You can guess I read a little about you… But there wasn’t much in your Wiki bio, honestly, not after—” She stops cold.

I feel the way my shoulders stiffen.

My past is no one’s business—especially not hers—even if my money and family make me a prisoner to human interest.

I just wonder which nightmare is hanging on the tip of her tongue.

After your dead wife?

After your meathead mobster fuck of an uncle almost got you killed?

She’s wise to shut it.

The very last thing I need today is this little streak of sunshine prodding me over shit that happened long before I ever founded Home Shepherd.

She waves a hand like she needs to physically clear the air.

“Let me ask you this—have you ever thought about using your tech for wildlife conservation? Like Carol suggested?” she asks.

“How?”

“Well, for starters, so many endangered species need surveillance that won’t disrupt their natural habitats,” she says. “A lot of conservationists can’t even find them. That’s seriously like half the battle, sometimes. I’ve been on those ships. One time in Alaska, they spent eight of the twelve days just looking for the right pod of whales. I know it’s a niche market and probably not big money. But with lots of grants floating around, there is a market, and it’s crazy underserved.”

For the first time, I stare at her without any irritation.

She makes a damned good point and it catches me so off guard I need a second just to process.

“You’ve done some research into this,” I say.

She flushes. “I’ve lived it. It didn’t exactly click that there was a solution until we were talking to Carol. It’s worth looking at, is all I’m saying.”

I nod, stopping just short of admitting this little firecracker might give me something more than grief.

“The technology in the field is good, but it could always be better,” she says, turning and looking up at me.

Baby-blue eyes and flecks of green, different from mine. They’re suddenly lit up and sparkling the way they do in her photos and video shorts.

I want to fucking hate it.

The way she looks, the easy enthusiasm that doesn’t feel like a soundbite, or some kind of clumsy olive branch meant to win me over.

“Just think about it, maybe?” she whispers. Then she gestures with her hands. That animated passion leaks into every word. “Being able to monitor these animals would make it so much easier to really help them.”

I don’t let myself leap at her idea, so I just nod again slowly, clutching my cards to my chest.

“I’ll run it by Rachel when she returns from leave. Perhaps we’ll set up a cross-department conference with Lyndon, my research head.”

“Please do. It could have huge effects, and it would work freaking miracles with marine life. Underwater conditions are so harsh on the equipment, and the investment just hasn’t been made into improving it.”

She’s right about one thing—with niche-level profits there’s niche-level motivation to develop more durable research tools.

As I’ve discovered, most conservation groups aren’t billion-dollar corporate conglomerates, either. They don’t have the money to pile into new inventions when they’re busy in the field or begging for the few scraps they do get from their wealthy benefactors.

It would have to be sustainable, too, but also affordable enough for individuals and organizations.

“Oh, and I was thinking,” she goes on without giving me time to think through the implications. “You recently announced a prototype for the first silent civilian drone, right? The one coming in the next quarter or two?”

“You have been busy, Miss Lancaster,” I say dryly.

My eyes flick down her body.

My blood heats viciously at the thought of her undressed and hunched in bed with her phone, reading my stupid bio and company history.

A young woman wasting precious minutes of her life on me.

“Obviously.” She smiles sheepishly. “I like to know what I’m getting involved in.”

And who, she doesn’t add.

Fuck.

She has me by the balls.

I’m sincerely impressed, no matter how grudgingly.

“What about the drones? You have ideas, don’t you?” I have to ask.

“Well, I was thinking… they could be insanely useful for tracking endangered species without scaring them.”

“They’re not designed for remote surveying, but perhaps.” I look down into her face, trying to ignore her glowing excitement. She really is disturbingly attractive. “What are you suggesting? Be bold and say it, Miss Lancaster.”

“A new line of business,” she says immediately. “Maybe even a new product line? You’d be filling a gap in the market and contributing to conservation.”

It might be a market gap, yes, but it won’t be a highly profitable one.

Most conservation efforts operate off grants, donations, et cetera. I’d have to essentially give the damn equipment away for any of these groups to deploy it.

And judging by the way she’s already framed this whole idea, she’s bitterly aware of that.

It all comes back to what she said before in my office, about how money should be used.

We both know I have enough of it.

I’ve also never been brutally profit driven at the expense of all else—and it’s not like Home Shepherd isn’t profitable.

I can afford to take a loss on a single project, particularly if it’s billed as experimental.

In other words, her suggestion has merit. It could be viable.

Still, I have no intention of telling her on the spot, even if I’m impressed by the fact that she’s come up with this after less than two hours in the building.

“Just think about it,” she says.

“I will.”

“You’ll consider thinking about it or actually consider it?” she presses.

I scowl at her, hating that I almost smile.

Coffee brat.

“I’ll consider thinking about your proposal, Miss Lancaster. If you’ll lay off ever thinking I respond well to smart-assed demands.”

For a second, it looks like she’s about to smile, too.

The corner of her mouth twitches, and her eyes warm, and God help me, she’s more magnificent than ever.

Then I had to go and run my mouth.

She turns away, the fragile beginnings of the smile dying as she looks at the floor.

“So, what will I be working on while I’m here then, if I’m not working directly with you all the time?”

Damn.

I don’t know how she keeps doing it, catching me off guard.

At this point, I should be prepared for her bullshit, and the sharp, uncompromising note in her voice when she asks.

“For the corporate end, you’ll be working on grants and featuring a new product line,” I say. “Mark will give you the technical details of how our corporate giving program should work in tandem with our product development team for this.”

“What, because you don’t know?”

I ignore her.

“Hannah will also give you access to the corporate system for the internal templates you’ll use for your proposals.”

She frowns. “Wait, what proposals?”

“The new product line you proposed, Miss Lancaster. You’ve got three days to sell me on this idea, drones for wildlife surveillance. I expect you to show your work in excruciating detail.” I pause to enjoy the stunned look on her face. “If I like it enough, you can present your proposal to the entire board.”

Fuck me senseless.

The way she looks right now with her eyes wide and mouth parted shouldn’t be as enticing as it is.

I allow myself a few more seconds to suppress the intrusive thoughts of the sexy kind before I wheel around and stride away.

Time to escape while I still can.

Five missed calls from Vanessa Dumas that afternoon.

Every time I glance at my phone, another one appears, a buzzing middle finger flicking me between the eyes.

The only reason I haven’t blocked her number is because I want to keep the call logs as legal evidence of harassment or blackmail, should she be so stupid to escalate this further.

She’s been texting me, too, and her messages all range from apologetic to subtly threatening.

Telling me—and her audacity is something—that she knows I wanted it. That I was giving her ‘signals’ for months.

I should have sued her for sexual harassment the morning after she threw herself at me in the limo.

Then again, I never wanted to make this bullshit messier than it needed to be.

Hindsight is twenty-twenty.

I pick up the phone and bark into it.

“Miss Cho, get Miss Lancaster an access badge ASAP and make sure she has a computer set up in Mark’s office.”

“Yes, sir.”

“I want a complete background check on her. Everything.”

“A background check?” I can hear Hannah frowning.

“Did I fail to make myself clear?”

“No,” she says after a moment. “But may I ask why?”

“Because I’ve entrusted her with a high-level proposal. She’s not an employee. However, she should go through the same scrutiny as anyone else I’ve ever put in that position.”

Because I want to know more about her is what I don’t say.

Also, something doesn’t quite add up.

The Lancasters have money. More than ever, judging by the hyped success of Wired Cup’s big rebranding push years ago.

What I don’t understand is why she, their daughter, is apparently left behind.

Why?

If you look at her Instagram, you might think you’re getting a sporty, down-to-earth, fresh-faced girl who came from an average upper middle-class background in Ballard. Mostly makeup free, enthusiastic, passionate about her causes.

But here in the office?

This was a cool, sharp-witted professional.

Perfectly comfortable in large settings like this, facing down assholes like me who are used to being intimidating.

At no point was she overwhelmed by the scope of what we do. She even took time to research our future endeavors before she walked through my door.

I want to know why she left her family money behind for a life of clawing at charity prizes. Why is she doing all this on her own?

What’s Destiny Lancaster’s real story?

“Have you ever thought you might have trust issues?” Hannah asks blandly.

I sigh. “Don’t you have things to do? Places to go? Important people to pester?”

“Not particularly,” Hannah says dryly. “But fine. I’ll make up something so you can dismiss me and dodge the question.”

Goddammit.

“I could have you fired for that, you know,” I say.

“I know. But you won’t.”

She’s right.

Because for all the myriad ways her attitude gnaws at me, I can’t afford to lose her.

“I’m cutting your pay,” I snarl.

“What was that? A performance bonus, Mr. Foster? For all the good work I do? Thank you so much!”

“Find some work to do that doesn’t involve my personal life, Hannah. I want that background check by tomorrow morning.”

I can almost hear her smile as she ends the call, leaving me alone with a grinning Instagram pic of Destiny on my screen.

Fuck.

If she weren’t posing with the dog and its big, goofy husky grin, I’d swear she posted this pic purely to torment me.

I drop my head into my hands and groan, wondering what I did in a past life to deserve this fate—fuck, this Destiny—certain to drive me mad.