Total pages in book: 144
Estimated words: 147415 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 737(@200wpm)___ 590(@250wpm)___ 491(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 147415 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 737(@200wpm)___ 590(@250wpm)___ 491(@300wpm)
God, I don’t think it’s just the photos I’ve been scanning from the internet rumor mills. I can’t believe it didn’t hit me sooner.
But to be fair, I only argued with the kayaking maniac for a few minutes and his posture is everything.
It’s the way he stands with those big shoulders bowed and that arrogant little curl of his lips.
The faded scar lashing down one tanned cheek I barely noticed until now, the huge folded arms—it all signals a man who’s wrapped in pure aggression.
“What’s this? Is this a joke?” His glare flicks from me to Miss Cho, who’s standing right behind me.
What?
My jaw drops. This man looked me dead in the face and had the audacity to call me a ‘what’?
Oh, hell no.
“The young lady selected for the inaugural Young Influencers program, sir,” Cho says coolly, not even remotely ruffled.
It’s like she expected this.
Like she deals with his attitude all the time.
Well, what else? If she works for him, she knows he’s a titanium jerkface.
“If you recall,” she continues, “we made our selection recently and she’s finished the press material. I forwarded you her résumé, social profiles, and application.”
“I remember,” he snaps.
“This is our winning candidate, Miss Destiny Lancaster.” Miss Cho gives a small sweep of her hand like she’s presenting a lowly peasant to a Roman emperor.
It’s so tiresome.
At least Foster looks at me for longer than three stormy seconds this time before he decides he wants to rip my head off.
His gaze burns with a braising contempt as it travels down my body.
Oof, forget my head.
It’s more like he’s ripping off my clothes so he can judge me.
Mind, body, soul, and everything in between.
I have to fight the urge to cover myself with my hands, and I’m not the type of delicate flower who ever wilts under a man’s eyes.
Only, I can’t just flick this guy off for giving me an angry eye-fucking I never asked for and go about my day.
I’m frozen as he drinks me in, his strong throat working. I swear the sound of him swallowing echoes through the room.
Yeah, I can’t take this anymore.
“Well?” I clear my throat loudly, coughing into my hand for emphasis.
His nostrils flare before that stern gaze snaps back to Miss Cho.
“Find someone else,” he snarls.
Then he strides past me, brushing my elbow without an apology.
What, what, what?
The door slams behind him.
He’s gone without a single word meant for me.
Miss Cho looks like she’s holding in a sigh she’s too proud to release. She holds up a hand with a thin smile, looking exasperated, but in a patient way.
The woman might be an undercover saint if this is normal when it comes to babysitting Shepherd Foster.
“Please give me a moment. Sometimes Mr. Foster needs to be managed.”
My mouth threatens to drop and I hold it in place with sheer willpower and clenched teeth.
Foster’s assistant has just told me he needs to be managed? After insulting me in the worst way possible?
“Don’t worry,” she says. “Wait here and I’ll be right back.”
Then she leaves, following Foster out and stranding me in his cave of an office.
My whole head is ringing, pinched between humiliation and outrage and total confusion, but mostly one question that keeps blasting on repeat.
Girl, what the hell did you sign up for?
3
A Little Like Destiny (Shepherd)
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.