Prudence looks around furtively. “Just make sure not to eat in front of him.”
Johnny pales and nods at this so profusely his mustache flaps like butterfly wings.
“Why not?” I ask.
The three of them exchange odd glances, but not a single one explains.
Not that it’s hard to figure this one out. We’re the help and should eat downstairs with our own kind, like they do on Downton Abbey. The fact that this is Florida and there is no downstairs is irrelevant.
“Before the boss comes back, can we talk about Colossus’s food?” Bob says pleadingly.
“You cook his food?” I ask worriedly. Dogs have different nutritional needs than humans, and I doubt they teach that at culinary school.
Bob nods. “I do. Had to consult a veterinary nutritionist and everything.”
Whew. “So… what did you want to talk about?”
He pulls out a paper and hands it to me. “Do you think he’ll like these?”
I goggle at it. The paper is another menu, and the dishes on it are as fancy as what he’s making for Bruce. The good news is the ingredients listed sound safe for dogs. “I think Colossus is going to be thrilled about this.”
“I hope you’re right,” Bob says. “I wish I could see his reaction as he eats.”
My hand flies to my chest. “You haven’t seen him eat?”
“That dog doesn’t like anyone but Mr. Roxford,” Bob says defensively. “If I’m around when he eats, he growls at me.”
That’s resource guarding, a common problem for dogs and something I’ll have to teach the little guy not to do.
Prudence looks at Bob reassuringly. “When I take the puppy’s bowls for a wash, they’re always sparkling clean. I doubt he’d lick the plates so much if he didn’t enjoy the food.”
“Maybe not,” Bob says, but he doesn’t sound too sure.
“Give me time,” I say. “After a little bit of training, I’m sure he will let you watch him eat.”
Bob takes a step back. “Only if Mr. Roxford allows it.”
Tyrant strikes again.
“Since we’re talking about food for the dog,” I say. “What can I use as treats?”
Bob pulls out a big box filled with goodies, including some of the oatmeal cookies.
“Just email me a tally of the treats,” Bob says and hands me his card. “Mr. Roxford wants me to subtract the snack calories from the meals.”
That’s taking controlling to a new level, but in this case, it will be beneficial to Colossus’s health.
“Let me call myself from your phone,” Prudence says. “I don’t have a business card.”
After I give her my phone, Johnny’s mustache puffs up proudly. “I do have a card.” He hands it to me. “And if you need to email Mr. Roxford, send your missives to me.”
Bob looks around furtively, then conspiratorially whispers, “Johnny’s job is to strategically pepper words like ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ into Mr. Roxford’s emails.”
Johnny tugs angrily at his mustache. “I do a lot more than that. Who do you think organizes—”
“Gentlemen.” Prudence hands me back my phone and nods pointedly in the direction Bruce went.
Faces panicked, the two men hush, and just in time.
Colossus runs back into the kitchen, tail wagging when he spots me, and Bruce follows, his chilly expression a huge contrast to the dog’s happiness.
“I trust the introductions are now completed?” The question is really a command to shut the fuck up.
We nod—I reluctantly, the others obediently.
Bruce grunts approvingly, then states, “Everyone except Lilly is dismissed.”
Bob, Johnny, and Prudence scatter like cockroaches.
Wow. Too bad Johnny isn’t able to make Bruce’s speech more polite, like he does with his emails.
Once we’re alone, Bruce’s expression turns impossibly colder.
Great. I get special treatment.
A litter of butterfly-sized puppies collectively wags their tails in my belly as I ask, “Should we talk about Colossus’s curriculum?”
Instead of answering, Bruce crosses the distance between us. Then his hand dives into his pocket, and I half expect him to pull out a gun and shoot me.
At this close range, I wouldn’t stand a chance.
When I see what he actually pulls out, it’s worse than a weapon.
It’s my vibrator.
Fuck.
With all those introductions, I managed to forget about it, but now a new wave of embarrassment turns my cheeks the shade of a baboon’s butt.
Bruce shakes The Squirrel accusingly. “Colossus could have choked and died.”
Chapter 8
Bruce
Lilly looks down bashfully at the dog, and her blushing face makes me think of spanked butt cheeks—for some unknown reason.
Damn it. The last thing I want is to turn into a spanking-obsessed billionaire cliché.
“You’re right,” she says. “Setting down the box with the toys was an oversight.”
She has a whole box of this stuff? I’ve never been this simultaneously infuriated and turned on, not even when I saw a naked woman in the crowd of Occupy Wall Street protestors years ago.
Taking a calming breath, I thrust the toy into Lilly’s tiny hand. “Make sure this never happens again.”
I would forbid her from masturbating completely, but I don’t need the HR rulebook to know that is not something that is under my control… unfortunately.
“I’m sorry,” she mutters, her face turning even more gorgeously red.
Was that an apology? From her? I’d better sell all my orange juice futures because it’s going to snow here in Florida.
Lilly takes a decisive step back. She must’ve realized we were standing so close to each other that she was at risk of inhaling polluted-by-me air.
With a loud gulp, she shoves the toy into her pocket.
Finally. Seeing her hold it was much too interesting for my cock—which is all the more inappropriate given that the thing put Colossus’s life at risk.
“I have treats now.” She shakes a box in a clear attempt to discharge the tension in the air. “If I need to get something out of his mouth—something that will not be my fault next time—this will help.”
Colossus looks up at her with that expression he’s mastered: a mixture of starved and worshipful. I have no doubt he can smell the oat cookies inside the box and wants them. Badly.
Resisting the urge to snatch the box from her hands, I force calmness into my voice as I say, “Do not overfeed him.”
She hides the box behind her back. “Bob already explained your thoughts on this—which are sound. I’ll keep track of the treats and coordinate with him to adjust the little one’s calories.”
I’m annoyed that “Bob” talked to her about something that was on my agenda.
Wait, am I jealous?
No. This is a lot like when Bob looks glum whenever I tell him I’ve cooked something. No one likes their job encroached on.
“So.” I sit on the nearest barstool. “You started to talk about your plans for the training. What are they?”