Page 123 of One Bossy Disaster

I shift around, wrapping myself more firmly around him.

We just finished our last round of sex maybe fifteen minutes ago. My body still feels warm and content.

“I’m listening,” I whisper.

“We had an arrangement, Vanessa and me. A rotten fucking idea from day one. She agreed to be a prop, to raise her profile by association, all so I could swat down any rumors along with advances from women I had zero interest in. To me, they were always a distraction. It should’ve been simple. She’d accompany me to a few events. Just enough to get our names out there as a couple. I’d give her a chance to make connections for her career. I knew how important that was to her. But one night she let the deal go to her head, or hell, maybe she planned it from the beginning. She tried to fuck me in our car, and I wasn’t having it. I told her the next day the arrangement was done.”

I’m silent, slowly taking it in.

“Wow. And the rest, as they say, is history?” I ask softly.

His warm breath fans across my hair.

“Yeah. She decided to go scorched earth and play it up. Guess her ego couldn’t handle the rejection.”

“I mean, I get why she made a pass at you,” I say, pinching his ass. I didn’t think I’d ever see a male ass so fine. “But she had no right saying all that crap. Let alone accusing you of such crazy, devious things...”

I search his eyes.

Is this just him opening up or new worries talking again?

I feel the way his hold tightens.

Just a fraction, enough to tell me he’s scared of what I could do to him if I ever told the world about this trip.

I press a lingering kiss to his sternum.

“Shepherd, I don’t talk about my sex life, my relationships, any of that on social media. I grew up seeing how much media hatches could piss Dad off, and I’ve never wanted a taste of that. My life is conservation, cute animals, and Molly. End of story.”

When I mention relationships, he stiffens.

I look up, but he won’t meet my gaze.

“Shepherd?”

“Yeah?”

“Are you okay?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

Because he’s stiffer than a board.

But I don’t bother pointing that out when he’s been so honest, so vulnerable. I’m sure he’ll just get that look in his eyes that tells me how much he hates me for noticing too much about him.

For reading him too deeply.

“Okay,” I say eventually. I know my boundaries.

Keep pressing, and he’ll probably shut down, and I don’t want that.

“Is Molly your dog?” he asks, successfully turning the conversation.

I see him holding his phone now, looking at my Instagram.

The guy is a natural.

Because let’s face it, what dog ownerdoesn’twant to talk about their fur baby?

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