7. Lilly
CHAPTER 7
LILLY
I put down the box and the bag.
Damn.
Seeing my possessions sprawled out around the luxurious room really hits home the mind-boggling fact that I’ve moved into my nemesis’s mansion.
If someone had told me this yesterday, I wouldn’t have believed it. I would’ve claimed that I’m incorruptible—that no matter how much money he’d throw at me, I’d stick to my guns.
Turns out, all it takes to wear me down is enough money to purchase a purebred dog on a daily basis.
Whatever. I’m here, so I might as well make myself comfortable.
The problem with that is that it took me years of careful consideration to decide the optimal place for each my things back at my small shithole. There’s no way in hell I can replicate such a feat here in the measly twenty minutes I’ve been allowed.
Before I can panic, I remind myself that my priority are the things I’ll need on a daily basis—like my clothes. I can find a good spot for the video games at my leisure—assuming Bruce allows me any.
I scan the room. There’s a dresser and a closet, but at home, I only had the latter.
Where should my clothes go?
I pull out my laptop and start a pros and cons spreadsheet for the dresser option.
In the pros row, I put the fact that all of my stuff is foldable. In the same row, I add that a dresser is a luxury I didn’t have back home, so it might be nice to utilize one.
On the cons side: my stuff could get creases.
Jumping back to the pros: a dresser is closer to the bed, so it would be faster to take things out in the morning.
Wait, there’s a con I mustn’t forget: the closet will let things keep their shape.
Hmm. There was that moth that time in my old room, but I’m not sure if they’re more likely to eat things in the dresser or in the closet.
My phone beeps.
Great.
It’s the timer I set in order to make sure I’m not late—which means I haven’t unpacked a single thing in the allotted time.
Fine, I’ll admit it. Sometimes, I find it hard to make a decision. But hey, at least it would be hard for a shyster car salesman to take advantage of me—not unless they were willing to field my million questions and wait a year for me to choose the hypothetical vehicle.
Opening the door, I take a step into the hallway—which is when a furry, tiny creature whooshes out from between my legs.
Wait a second.
I totally forgot that Colossus was in the room with me. I wonder what he was?—
Oh, shit. What is that pink thing he’s got in his maw?
Please, no.
But the truth is inescapable. He’s got The Squirrel.
“Wait!” I shout.
Without turning or stopping, he wags his tail, which makes his opinion clear:
I’ve always wanted to chew a squirrel, but I’m happy to play this human-chase-puppy game instead.
The worst part is he’s headed for the kitchen.
No. Embarrassing myself in front of the movers was bad enough, but if Bruce sees that sex toy, I’ll simply?—
I hear voices coming from the kitchen, one female and three male.
Oh, fuck.
Has Bruce gathered his staff to introduce me to them?
“Please, Colossus,” I shout. “Stop!”
He wags his tail harder and speeds up.
I’ll consider trading this toy for an oatmeal cookie. With peanut butter.
Right. A treat. I pat all my pockets, but I have nothing even remotely edible.
Grr. If I were already working with Colossus, I would probably be able to bluff him by holding my hand out like I’ve got a treat, but it won’t work yet.
What kind of a shitty dog trainer am I? I gave the dog a chance at my boxes—and I don’t even have a treat in my pockets.
The kitchen is looming ever closer.
As I sprint, I pray to Anubis, the Egyptian god with a canine head. Please stop that puppy. I’ll do anything. I’ll always carry a treat from now on and watch the puppy carefully… and even foreswear masturbation. At least with toys.
Nope. Colossus doesn’t stop his mad dash.
Panting, I stumble into the kitchen, where the whole team is waiting for me, as I feared.
Should I pray to Anubis again, this time for the floor to swallow me?
A guy in a chef’s hat with orangish hair and a similar shade of spray-tanned skin has a spatula in his hand, so he must be Chef Foxposse. Spotting the running puppy, he backs away as if he were afraid of dogs… or sex toys.
Johnny Cash and Mrs. Campbell are here as well, and they’re gaping at Colossus’s maw—so I can’t hope they haven’t noticed.
My cheeks burn so hot you’d think I’ve shaved them with a pizza cutter and used pepper spray as aftershave.
The only one who leaps into action is Bruce. He grabs a cookie from the tray, crouches, and sternly says, “Drop that.”
Chef Foxposse drops his spatula just as Colossus releases The Squirrel.
The toy rolls on the floor. If anyone hadn’t already gotten a good look at it, they have now.
Oh, and it’s vibrating. Because of course.
“Here.” Bruce breaks off a piece of the cookie and rewards the puppy with it.
Colossus attacks the treat with an excitement that other dogs reserve for bacon, peanut butter, and cats.
This is my chance.
I leap forward to grab the toy, but Bruce snatches it before I get there and stashes it in his pocket.
Halting in my tracks, I catch my breath. I figure I’ll need the power of speech to tell him off after he fires me.
Bruce looks at his watch. “Now that everyone is finally here, let me start the introductions.” He gestures at me. “This is Ms. Johnson, Colossus’s trainer.”
“Please,” I manage to squeeze out. “Call me Lilly.”
Ignoring me, Bruce says, “Ms. Johnson, meet Chef Foxposse, Mr. Cash, and Mrs. Campbell.”
Each of the aforementioned individuals bows when their name is called.
Bruce glances at his watch again. “I have a meeting. Get acquainted while I’m gone.”
He turns on his heel and strides out of the room. Colossus glances longingly at the table where the cookies are, but when they don’t magically fly into his mouth, he races after Bruce.
As soon as Bruce is out of earshot, everyone seems to exhale a relieved breath—which is as you’d expect when in the house of a dictator.
I clear my throat. “Nice to meet you all.” Please don’t ask about The Squirrel. Pretty please.
“Hi, Lilly,” Chef Foxposse says with a smile. “You can call me Bob.”
Huh. Chef Foxposse definitely sounds posher than Bob.
“You know me already,” Johnny says and twirls his mustache.
He and Bob look at Mrs. Campbell.
She sighs. “If Mr. Roxford isn’t around, you can call me Prudence.”
“Good point,” Bob says. “I’d also like to keep things formal when the boss is around.” He grins at Mrs. Campbell. “That’s just prudent.”
The housekeeper rolls her eyes, then turns to me. “He’s a much better cook than he is a comedian.”
“Speaking of,” Bob says. “For dinner, would you mind having ricotta gnocchi with white truffle?”
Is he kidding? “That sounds wonderful.” Like a dish in a fancy restaurant.
“How about grape panna cotta for dessert?”
“Even better.”
Damn it. Even though I ate on the way here, my mouth is watering.
Looking pleased, Bob asks, “In general, which foods are your favorite?”
Johnny and Prudence exchange looks. I guess the chef asks this of everyone.
“I don’t have favorites.”
“Well, what kinds of foods do you like?” he asks.
I shrug. “I don’t know.”
Bob looks confused. “How could you not know?”
“Never decided,” I admit. Not for lack of trying. “Whatever foods I try, I like.”
“I’m asking so that I can make something to your taste,” Bob explains. “So we’ll have to narrow that down.”
I shrug. Unless he’s a psychic, this is a tricky undertaking when it comes to me.
“What’s your favorite breakfast?” he asks. “That should be easy, right?”
I sigh. “I could never pick.”
He takes off his hat and scratches the top of his balding head. “Do you at least have a preference between savory and sweet?”
“I like both.” That’s the best answer I can provide without whipping out a spreadsheet.
He pulls a paper out of his pocket and glances at it. “How about Eggs Benedict?”
“I love it.” My mouth waters even more.
Bob glances at the paper again. “How about buttermilk waffles?”
“That sounds wonderful.” If he keeps this up, I’ll start drooling like a bulldog.
Bob grins. “There you go. Two days’ worth of breakfast is now settled. The eggs will be served with homemade smoked salmon and my take on hollandaise sauce. The waffles will be served with caramelized apples, apple cider glaze, vanilla whipped cream, and cinnamon streusel topping.”
When is dinner again? This is what it must be like for the food-motivated dogs that I train.
Johnny curls the left side of his mustache. “Those are the breakfasts you’re making for Mr. Roxford, right?”
Bob shrugs. “She’s undecided, so why not make my life easy?”
“I don’t mind,” I say. “What else is he having?”
Bob hands me the whole menu, and everything on it sounds amazing, so I agree to it wholesale and hand the paper back.
Bob pockets the menu. “Thanks. If only Prudence and Johnny were so easy.”
Johnny releases his mustache indignantly. “Most of the things on that list would give me heartburn from hell.”
“And I’m watching my figure,” Prudence says. “Unlike Mr. Roxford, I don’t sweat for an hour in a boxing ring every day.”
He’s into boxing? Thanks, Prudence. Now instead of fantasizing about all those meals, I’m salivating at the image of sweaty Bruce.
I clear my suddenly thirsty throat. “So what’s the food situation? Is it served at a specific time?”
“You can eat anytime if you’re willing to use the microwave.” He wrinkles his nose. “But if you want your meals fresh, which I highly advise, you should get on Mr. Roxford’s schedule.”
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.”