How To Sleep With The Boss. Janice Maynard

      Libby’s response was immediate: I’ll be ready.

      Meet me out front.

      He wondered if Libby was nervous. Surely so. But he knew her well enough already to be damned sure she wouldn’t let the nerves show.

      At 8:55 he hefted all their gear and headed outside, only to get his first shock of the day. Libby leaned against a tree, head back, eyes closed. On the ground at her feet lay a waterproof jacket. From head to toe, she was outfitted appropriately. Sturdy boots, lightweight quick-dry pants, a white shirt made of the same fabric and an aluminum hiking pole. He came do a dead stop and swallowed hard.

      Every bit of what she was wearing was borrowed. Yet inexplicably she managed to look like a model for some weird amalgam of Vogue and L.L.Bean. The clothing fit her better than anything she had worn so far in his employ. Suddenly, he realized that Dylan was correct. Libby Parkhurst had a kick-ass body.

      When he shifted from one foot to the other, he dislodged a piece of gravel. Libby’s eyes snapped open, her expression guarded. “Good morning,” she said.

      He hated the guilt that choked him. “Libby, I—”

      She held up a hand. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

      They stared at each other for several long seconds. He couldn’t get a read on her emotions. So he shoved aside the memory of her face in Dylan’s bar and forced himself to zero in on basics.

      “Three things,” he said tersely. “The moment you feel anything on your foot begin to rub, we stop and deal with it. A major key to hiking in the mountains is taking care of your feet. Blisters can be incapacitating. Understood?”

      “Yes, sir.”

      Her smart-ass tone was designed to annoy him, but he didn’t take the bait. “Secondly, if I’m walking too fast for you, you have to say so. There’s no need to play the martyr.”

      “Understood.”

      “Lastly, you have to drink water. All day. All the time. Women don’t like the idea of peeing in the woods, so they tend to get dehydrated. That’s also dangerous.”

      The look on Libby’s face was priceless. “Got it,” she mumbled.

      “Am I being too blunt?” he asked.

      She gnawed her lip. “No. I suppose I hadn’t thought through all the ramifications.”

      “That’s what this trip is about.”

      He slid one of two backpacks off his shoulder. “I need to make sure the straps are adjusted correctly for you.” Without asking, he stepped behind her and helped settled the pack into position. With a few quick tugs, he was satisfied. Finally, he moved in front of her and fiddled with the strap at her chest.

      Libby made some kind of squawk or gasp. It was only then that he realized his fingers were practically caressing her breasts. He stepped back quickly. “I’m sure you can manage the waistband,” he muttered.

      “Uh-huh.” She kept her head down while she dealt with the plastic locking mechanism. After a moment, she stared off into the woods. “I’m good.”

      “Then follow me.”

      * * *

      Libby had taken yoga classes from the time she was fourteen, although during the past year, she’d had to keep up the discipline on her own. She was limber and more than moderately fit. But Patrick’s punishing pace had her gasping for breath by the third mile.

      His legs were longer than hers. He knew the rhythm of walking over rough terrain. And she was pretty sure he had loaded her pack with concrete blocks. But if Charlise could do this, so could she.

      Fortunately, the boots Maeve had found for Libby were extremely comfortable and already broken in. Given Patrick’s warning, Libby paid close attention to her feet. So far, no sign of problems.

      It helped that the view from behind was entertaining. Patrick’s tight butt and long legs ate up the miles. She had long since given up estimating how far they had come or what time it was. Since her phone was turned off to save the battery, she was dependent upon Patrick’s knowledge of the forest to get them where they needed to go.

      At one point when her legs ached and her lungs burned, she shouted out a request. “Water, please.” That was more acceptable to her pride than admitting she couldn’t keep up.

      Patrick had a fancy water-thingy that rested inside his pack and allowed him to suck from a thin hose that protruded. Not the kind of item a person borrows. So he had tucked plastic pouches of water for Libby in the side pockets of her pack. She opened one and took a long, satisfying gulp. It took everything she had not to ask how much farther it was to their destination.

      The two of them were completely alone...miles away from the nearest human. The wind soughed through the trees. Birds tweeted. The peace and solitude were beautifully soothing. But a chasm existed between Patrick and her. At the moment, she had no desire to breach it.

      As forecasted, the warming trend had arrived with a vengeance. Temperatures must already be in the upper sixties, because Libby’s skin was damp with perspiration.

      Patrick hadn’t said a word during their stop. He merely stood in silence, his attention focused on the scenery. The trail had ascended a small ridgeline, and through a break in the trees, they could see the town of Silver Glen in the distance.

      “I’m good,” she said, stashing the water container. “Lead on.”

      Her body hurt and her lungs hurt, but eventually, she fell into a rhythm that was almost natural. One foot in front of the other. Zen-like state of being. Embrace the now.

      It almost worked.

      When they stopped for lunch, she could have sworn it was at least seven in the evening. But the sun was still high in the sky. Patrick had a more sophisticated standard for trail food than she had anticipated. Perhaps a certain level of cuisine was de rigueur for his Fortune 500 clients. Instead of the peanut butter and jelly she had expected, they enjoyed baked-ham sandwiches on homemade bread.

      When the meal was done and Patrick shoved their minimal trash into his pack, she finally asked a question. “What do you do if you have someone who can’t handle the hiking?”

      He zipped his pack and shouldered it. “Companies apply to come to Silver Reflections. We have a long waiting list. Most of the elite businesses institute some kind of wellness programs beforehand. They’ll include weight loss, stress management, regular exercise...that kind of thing. So by the time they come to North Carolina, most of the participants are mentally and physically prepared for the adventure rather than dreading it.”

      “I see.” But she didn’t really. Patrick was already walking, so she stumbled after him. “But what about people that aren’t prepared? Do they make them come anyway?”

      Patrick didn’t turn around, but his voice carried. “A lot of top corporations are beginning to realize the importance of physical well-being for their employees as a means to increase the bottom line. If an executive has a physical limitation, then of course he or she isn’t forced to come. But if an otherwise physically capable person chooses not to attend to his or her health and fitness, then it might be a sign that a top-shelf promotion isn’t in the cards.”

      With that, the conversation ended. Patrick was walking as quickly as ever, making it look easy. Maybe Libby had slipped into the numb stage, or maybe she was actually getting used to this, but her aches and pains had receded. Perhaps this was the “runner’s high” people talked about. Endorphins at work, masking the physical discomfort.

      At long last, Patrick stopped and took off his pack to stretch. Libby followed suit, looking around curiously. It was obvious they had reached their destination. Patrick stood on the edge of a large clearing. The area was mostly flat. About thirty feet away, a narrow creek slid and tumbled over rocks, the sound of the water as soothing as the prospect of wetting tired feet in the chilly brook.