Page 68 of One Bossy Disaster

He doesn’t skip leg day like most guys or... any day, really.

He’d be less intimidating if he had skinny chicken legs or basic biceps or a narrower chest.

Honestly, that would make this entire thing easier if he was just a walking attitude without the Michelangelo looks.

The attitude isn’t a total turnoff when he’s not all supervillain.

The way he rushed in when my dumb face got stuck under the kayak—

God.

No, the man isn’t half-bad when he tries.

And that confession feels like it might cost me everything to admit.

Before this morning, I came here expecting to see the bosshole everyone in the company knows, up close and personal.

A cold, unfeeling, perfectionist lump who never developed enough patience to hold his shit together without screaming the minute I upset him.

Oh, he has high expectations and a low tolerance for failure, for sure—but although he’s grouchy, he’s never cruel with his criticism.

He’s never off the mark.

I consider myself a fast learner, but even when I make mistakes as we ply the waters, he corrects them firmly yet politely.

No big sighs.

No passive-aggressive eye-rolling.

No pointed comments about how I should be picking up on this faster.

That helps me relax and improve at my own pace.

By midday, we’re paddling along at a reasonable clip.

Sure, my arms and lower back are burning, and my palms might be a little chapped by sunset, but I barely notice.

It’s too fantastic out here with a clear view of Washington’s soul.

A hundred shades of green, imposing rock rising from the sea, picturesque yachts and sailboats and a few massive cargo ships gliding around us lazily in the distance.

The wind carries the songs of nature, birds and fish and hikers and fishermen laughing from the shore.

Shepherd certainly doesn’t get any less gorgeous as the day wears on.

The sun sweeps high overhead as we go, traveling north past Harstine Island into North Bay.

The sunlight dances off the waters like it’s pointing to sin, toying with the dark hair on Shepherd’s head.

The rest of him is highlighted in the ruby red glow of evening reflected on the water. He’s a silhouette shadow of the gods.

And those gods make me watch him kayak, gracefully moving through the water so effortlessly with every mile.

Now I know how your average Greek girl felt watching Hercules work out.

I lean back in my seat, tipping my head back and closing my eyes as I wipe my brow. When you’ve been under the summer sun long enough, it heats you up.

“Enjoying yourself?” His voice is wry yet gently amused, and suddenly next to me.

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