“That could’ve gone better.”

Of course, he thinks that. Nothing I do ever seems to make him happy. I, on the other hand, thought the meeting was fruitful and productive. But this man—who also happens to be my boss’s boss and the owner of the company—is only ever broody and perpetually sour with me.

I don’t spare him a glance.

I’ve been traveling alone with him for days. I’m tired, sweaty, and I need to get home. But more than anything, I hate that I’ve allowed all of this to get me down.

Usually, I’m a “the margarita is half-full” kind of gal. I always appreciate a partly-cloudy day because some rays are better than none. If I go out to eat and the meal is divine but the service is lacking, I’ll still call it a great night out.

Even the worst of times make me look back and appreciate the best moments in life.

My Gran taught me this. She might be a no-nonsense southern woman, but she also doesn’t dwell. “Dwelling will only make your skin sag, darlin’,” she’d tell me. “Trust your Gran. Your skin will droop soon enough. No point in dragging it down sooner than necessary.”

Gran is the most beautiful person I know and I certainly don’t want my skin to wilt sooner than gravity can do its heinous work, so I made the decision a long time ago to be like my Gran.

I choose happy.

I always offer a smile to strangers. Because, really, in a world full of ugliness and divisiveness, there’s no universal language more effective than a bit of joy worn on one’s face when given freely to another.

But my boss’s boss doesn’t share my outlook on life—especially toward me. It doesn’t matter how many priceless gifts I direct his way, I never get anything more than a frown in return.

Or a furrowed brow.

Or a clenched jaw.

Or narrowed, brooding blue eyes.

And despite his surly disposition, those blue eyes are beautiful. They’re framed by long, dark lashes that match his inky hair—hair just long enough that it bends and turns into the sexiest male waves I’ve ever laid my boring, brown eyes on. I know this because I’ve studied every curved lock on his head, cataloging it into the file I’ve labeled The Boss’s Boss I keep in the back of my brain. I’ve also memorized the distinct bone structure of his cheeks, the vastness of his shoulders, and his hands.

I love hands. They tell so much about a person and my boss’s boss has great ones. They’re not the hands of a man who works in an office all day, every day. His are calloused, veined, and he’s got a scar running down the top of his thumb that disappears up his left wrist. I want to ask him how he came about that scar, but his sour temperament has never encouraged such a personal question.

“Did you hear me?” Gabriel Blackburn bites. He takes such a tone, I can’t ignore him any longer, so I look over as we bump along the rocky, dirt road as we make the long trip back to town.

He’s taking up more than his fair share of the backseat with one arm stretched out over the back bench while he leans into his door, his large frame shifted toward me. The breeze blows through his unruly hair since the windows are down as we speed through the rainforests of Nicaragua in the Nissan SUV that’s probably over twenty years old. Our driver, Armando, and security guard, Sergio, are in the front and I hear them muttering in Spanish about the “asshole” next to me.

That asshole would be my boss’s boss.

Dammit, his wavy-hair game is strong today, thanks to the humidity. He’s got a pesky curl that’s fallen onto his tense forehead. Just like always, I want to touch it, wind it around my index finger, and give it a good yank since he’s always so irritable.

After our long week and knowing what I have in store for me once we get back to the States, I’m struggling to hang on to my positive vibe. It doesn’t matter how much I love Central America—the land here is as beautiful as its people—I might as well be holding on to my happy nature with the cheap dental floss … the kind that always frays and gets stuck between my teeth.

I’m that over it.

But instead of losing my temper, I do what I always do—I find my happy. Mustering a lame smile, I do my best to speak over the roar of the engine and wind whipping through the car. “I thought it went very well. They’re pleased with our new rollout—I’d even go so far as to say we surpassed their expectations by integrating our internet security products into their new accounting and payroll software. They renewed our services for another year, which is what we came to do. How could it have gone better?”

I’ve been at my job for only four months, but I’ve worked in sales in the tech industry for two years. I landed this position, not only because I’m good with clients, but also because I’m fluent in Spanish. Marketing reps are a dime a dozen in the industry, but my bilingual resume—and I’d like to think my winning, upbeat personality—sets me apart. So here I am, peddling our business and internet security software to all of Central America.

The Director of Marketing hired me. I didn’t meet Gabe until after I started. My boss was supposed to accompany me on this trip, but he came down with the flu days before we were scheduled to leave. When I found out Gabe stepped up to take his place, I thought I’d die.

Gabriel “Gabe” Blackburn is all business, but since he’s the owner and CEO, I guess he doesn’t have to worry about winning anyone over. I hear he’s a techie at heart—a computer engineer and software programming guru who just happens to live inside the perfect male body.

Really, I shouldn’t let him upset me. It’s better he has a salty personality. If he were to be charming on top of beautifully rugged, I’m not sure how I’d get through the day or focus on my job.

He catches my eye when he moves, rolling up the sleeves of his linen shirt to expose his tanned forearms that are almost as nice as his hands with that mysterious scar teasing me.

He shakes his head and I know he’s glaring at me even though I can’t see his blue eyes behind his aviators. Then he bites out, “I had no idea what was going on and you didn’t once translate for me.”

I raise my brows. “We discussed my plan for the meeting and all we hoped to accomplish. It went smoothly and they didn’t have any questions I couldn’t answer. I even upsold them on products they hadn’t planned to purchase. You never asked me to translate for you and, quite honestly, it would have made the meeting all,” I pause to shrug and shake my head, “awkward.”

This was our last client to visit this trip. So far, we’ve been to Mexico, Belize, and Honduras, but those clients were mostly fluent in English. Today, not so much.

Despite his annoyance, I’ve seen a different side of him with customers on this trip than he’s ever shown me in the office. Gabe Blackburn can turn his personality meter up to charming, with a strong side of sexy intelligence and the clients melt into a pile of big, gloppy goo in his strong, veined hands. But today, he was forced to sit at my side, not understanding a word. He wouldn’t have been able to charm the salt off a margarita glass if he’d had the chance.

He wipes his forehead before running his hand through his hair and flips off his sunglasses. The heat is oppressive. We aren’t exactly in business dress, but more Central American business attire. I’m in a Carolina blue wrap dress with chunky sandals. Gabe is wearing a light pair of khakis with a long-sleeved linen dress shirt left open at the neck.

Not done complaining, he continues, “I like to interact with clients. I want them to know I’m involved in the process, not just sitting back at the office not giving a shit what they need. Why do you think I’m here, Lillian? Trust me. This is no vacation.”

“I’m sorry,” I offer, even though I’m not sorry at all. This is no vacation for me either. I haven’t seen the beach once and I’ve ordered dinner in my room every night to avoid him. Traveling and spending all day with him for an entire week is more than enough. When our days have ended, he’s barely offered me a pained “See ya tomorrow” and gone straight to his room.

I could use a fruity drink in a coconut shell right about now—the little umbrella would be the happiest thing I’ve encountered all week. I can tell Gabe’s invested and passionate about the products his company puts out, but I’m not lying. It would have been awkward if all I did was sit there and translate. “I’ll do better next time. I’ll make it a priority to make sure you’re heard.”

He scrapes his scarred hand down his face and looks out the window as we bounce along.

“You’re welcome,” I go on and he looks at me with a scowl. His winning personality has really clawed its way through my be-happy mantra over the last six days, causing all my deeply ingrained etiquette lessons to dissolve as fast as my deodorant in this rainforest. I’ve had it. “You’re welcome for the prosperous week. By my figures, I’ve not only maintained your sales from the last year, but I’m up by sixty-seven percent. You might turn on the charisma for clients, but I’d like to think everything I’ve done over the last four months to build these relationships has contributed, so you’re welcome, again.” I shift to face him and lean forward. “You’re also welcome for my helping you order lunch the other day when there was no menu. And I said I’d do a better job at translating next time, for which most people would offer a thank you, to which I would respond in turn with a very sincere you’re welcome.”

My last word comes out on a huff because the car jumps and jerks. Neither of us is wearing a seatbelt—because there aren’t any—and I reach to hang onto the first thing I find, which is his rock-hard thigh. Both our bodies shift and it’s only a second before we right ourselves, but when I look up, Gabe’s eyes are on me and they’re not pissed like I thought they’d be after my tirade. Nor are they apathetic or impatient.

They’re fiery—as hot as the afternoon Nicaraguan sun that’s been beating down on us all day. His intense stare drops to my hand that’s still wrapped around his thigh—closer to his manhood than his knee, unfortunately—and with a mind of its own, my hand flexes, feeling nothing but muscle.

Oh, shoot. I think I just felt-up my boss. Well, my boss’s boss.

I’m like a horny teenager, copping her first feel, rather than a twenty-six-year-old businesswoman.

I release his leg. Not quite sure what to do with my hand at this point, I scoot toward my door, as far away from Gabe as I can get and mutter, “Sorry.”

Gabe cocks his head. “Really? Could’ve sworn you were welcome.”

Dammit, he’s going to fire me for copping a feel and for being rude.

“I’m sorry about that, too,” I say, genuinely this time and fan myself from the stifling heat and the feel of his thigh closer to his cock than his knee. “Really sorry, actually. I think it’s the heat.” Who am I kidding? It’s him and everything else swirling in my life right now. “Or the long week, I don’t know. I’m on edge and lost my words. It won’t happen again.”

Through all this, Armando and Sergio have begun talking faster and their words catch my attention. Gabe moves his focus from my lame apology to our driver and security guard. “What are they saying?”

Sergio doesn’t give me time to translate and looks back to both of us, demanding in his deep accent, “Roll up the windows.”

The crank on my side of the car is rusty and stiff. Gabe rolls his up before I do and growls, “What’s going on?”

I look out the front windshield as we slow through the heavy tree cover.

“Go,” Sergio demands as he bangs on the dashboard.

Armando doesn’t go. Armando continues to slow and starts to argue with Sergio so quickly, I can barely pick up mere phrases because their dialects are strong. I only catch curse words.

My body jolts when Gabe repeats from beside me, “What’s going on?”

I look over at him and realize all these months when I thought he was irritated or angry, I was wrong.

This is Gabriel Blackburn angry.

“Go!” Sergio screams and gives Armando a hard shove to get his attention.

“What the fuck,” Gabe growls and before I know it, our old Nissan Pathfinder jerks to a complete stop and we’re forced to brace ourselves on the seats in front of us. All the air leaves my body when I look through the bug-splattered windshield. Standing in front of us is a group of men. Four scary men dressed in black and green and brown—all carrying very large guns.

Sergio shifts low and reaches for something as he growls in Spanish, “Drive through them!”

“Holy…,” I whisper and look over at Gabe.

He doesn’t take his eyes off the men standing sentry in front of us, but I know he’s talking to me when he murmurs, “Make yourself small and do exactly what I say.”

My eyes go big when he surreptitiously reaches for his ankle and, after yanking up his pant leg, produces a gun hidden in an ankle holster.

What the heck?