13. Lilly
CHAPTER 13
LILLY
I feel like an ass that no dog would ever want to sniff. Jerk or not, this guy has a real condition, and here I am, mocking him about it.
Misunderstanding my silence, he says, “Misophonia is when someone has negative responses to certain trigger sounds. Think nails on chalkboard. In my case, it’s chewing and slurping.” He winces as he says the last bit.
“I know that,” I say. “I took a DNA test, and one of the reports explained what it is and told me I’m unlikely to have it.”
He nods. “TENM2 is the gene involved. I haven’t done that test, as I’m not sure what the point of such a report would be. If you have what I have, you know it.”
Yep. Feeling worse by the second. How does he go on dates with that hot woman from the video if he can’t tolerate the sounds of people eating? How does he attend holiday dinners with his family? Or go to business lunches?
“I’m sorry,” I mutter.
He shrugs. “It’s not your fault.”
“I meant, I’m sorry for giving you shit about it. Also, I’m sorry I started eating here in the kitchen when I knew it was your dinnertime. I wasn’t thinking.”
Or maybe a part of me wanted to piss him off. Or see him—but I’m not going to psychoanalyze myself right now.
He darts a glance at my plate. “To be honest, for some strange reason, seeing you eat didn’t trigger anything.”
Huh. “Has that happened before?”
He shakes his head. “The dog’s eating doesn’t bother me, but that’s about it.”
Should I feel special, or did he just compare me to a dog? “Well,” I say. “If you want to eat together, I’d be okay with that.”
Wait. What am I saying? What am I going to do if he takes me up on this? But of course, he wouldn’t. Spending time with me is the last thing he’d?—
“Okay,” he says without missing a beat.
“Okay?”
He sets his plate near mine on the bar. “Let’s try this. If I get irritable or?—”
“You’re always irritable.”
He blows out a breath. “Look who’s talking.”
“Sorry,” I say. “Go on.”
“If I feel symptoms, I’ll up and leave.”
“All right.” Who knew that instead of yelling at my nemesis, I’d end up having dinner with him?
I take my seat, put food in my mouth, and chew self-consciously. He seems to be okay, but I ask, “How do you feel?”
“Great,” he says.
Dare I ask if it’s thanks to my company?
“I’ve always been jealous of people who can eat during work meetings,” he continues. “Meals are my least productive times of day—while I’m awake, anyway.”
So, there you have it. It’s not my company he’s enjoying—the workaholic in him just loves the opportunity to multitask. A better question is: why does this bother me so much? I don’t know, but my words sound stiff as I ask, “Is there anything related to training that you wanted to discuss?”
“Socialization,” he says. “You mentioned it earlier. I want more details.”
Done with his demand, he fills his mouth with gnocchi—and damn, something about the way he chews makes me hungrier.
“Let me explain why it’s important first,” I say. “Properly socialized dogs have less anxiety and therefore lead happier lives. They are also more pleasant to be around because they don’t react negatively when they encounter certain situations.”
He swallows his food. “You’ll socialize him then. What does it entail?”
I smile at Colossus—who’s sitting and looking up at us, clearly begging for food. “Not sure if this counts as socialization, but he needs to be comfortable with as many new smells, sounds, sights, and textures as possible.” We don’t want him to be like Roach, who refused to step on sand because of my oversight in this area.
Bruce nods, urging me to go on.
“He also needs to be introduced to lots of people, one at a time at first, then in groups. Since he loves food, these people can give him treats, so he forms positive associations.”
“Okay,” Bruce says, but he looks less pleased about this—probably because he’s a misanthrope and what I’ve just described involves having people around.
“These people need to be as varied as possible,” I say. “Think different fitness levels, ages, ethnic backgrounds, disabilities, and even different types of clothing. If you don’t expose Colossus to diversity, you could end up with a dog who barks at people in wheelchairs, or at kids, or at anyone who wears sunglasses while holding an umbrella.”
“Makes sense,” he says. “Do these people need to come to the house?”
I shake my head. “The most natural thing would be to meet them outside, which is neutral territory. But this being a private estate, I’m not sure if?—”
“I’ll make some arrangements,” he cuts in. “What else?”
“Same idea when it comes to animals,” I say. “You don’t want him stressed out if he meets another dog, or a cat, or a squirrel.”
He scratches his chin. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“That’s the gist of it.” I finish the rest of my food and look for his reaction to my chewing.
Nothing.
I put down my fork. “Anything else?”
He glances at Colossus, who’s begging for all he’s worth. “I want him to make it through the night without an accident.”
I fight the urge to toss the little beggar a treat. “Until his bladder is mature, he has to be walked at night.”
“You’ll do it then,” Bruce declares.
“I was planning on it,” I say. “Where does he currently sleep?”
Bruce eats another morsel, then says, “In my bedroom.”
In. His. Bedroom? But that would mean?—
Never mind that, actually. Why is the bigger mystery. Also, how come?—
“The damn dog whines if I don’t let him in there,” Bruce says defensively, answering one of my million questions.
To give myself a chance to process this, I take my plate to the sink, rinse it, and then stick it in the dishwasher.
“Don’t do that next time,” Bruce says. “Mrs. Campbell will clean up.”
I roll my eyes. “I was raised to clean up after myself.”
He scoffs. “Why use the dishwasher then?”
“How the hell am I going to walk him at night if he’s in your bedroom?” I blurt.
Bruce’s eyebrows snap together. “How about you set an alarm, walk over, and take the dog out?”
“From your bedroom ,” I say, overenunciating the last word.
Leave it to a man to take this long to realize the problem with this scenario, but judging by the “oh” his lips form, I think he’s finally got it.
“There will be nothing inappropriate,” he says.
He doesn’t have to sound that certain—like I’m the most unfuckable woman he’s ever met.
“Do you sleep naked?” I demand—and promptly blush.
He sighs. “I don’t have to.”
Oh, the images. The salacious, mouthwatering images. “Yeah. No nakedness.” Even though I’m already regretting the demand.
“Anything else?” he asks. “What side should I sleep on?”
Not dignifying that with a reply, I eye the two big cups on the counter that are filled with a thick liquid—half of it white and the other red.
“That’s the panna cotta,” Bruce says when he notices where I’m looking. “If you like it, you can have mine.”
Is this him being nice?
I grab a spoon, make sure I capture both colors, then stick the gooey goodness into my mouth.
Wow. So good.
The dog gives me a pleading look.
Give that to me. It looks like a liquid cookie. I’ll do anything—even let you brush my teeth afterward.
I shake my head. There are grapes in the red part of this dish, and those are toxic to dogs.
Looking at Bruce instead of the puppy, I take another spoonful, and this time, I inadvertently suck the yumminess from the spoon with too much ardor, which results in a slurping sound, albeit a very faint one.
Bruce flinches like he’s been struck and leaps to his feet, fists clenched.
Colossus tucks his tail between his legs and whines pitifully.
“I’m so sorry,” I mutter and push the rest of the dessert as far away from me as I can. “That was an accident.” One I should strive to avoid while in his company, for the same reasons as belching, picking my nose, and farting.
Bruce closes his eyes, takes in a deep breath, and lets it out meditatively. “You weren’t testing me?”
“No.” I point at my burning cheeks. “Does it help that I’m embarrassed?”
He sits back down and takes another calming breath. “Fewer and fewer people consider it rude to slurp at the table. Next thing you know, we’ll turn into Japan.”
I let my eyebrow ask the obvious question.
“The Japanese consider it acceptable—and maybe desirable—to slurp things like ramen, soba, and udon.” He shudders. “They also sip soup straight out of the bowl.”
“I take it you’re not going there anytime soon?”
“Never again,” he says. “For good measure, I avoid traveling to Asia in general—and during teleconferences, I make it a rule not to allow eating of any kind.”
“I understand if you never want to eat with me again,” I say. “Though, if you’d like, I could simply forgo liquid desserts and soups while I’m in your employ.”
Why am I still talking? What makes me presume he’d want to eat with me—the help—again? Nor do I want that, not really, not if?—
“No milkshakes either,” he says. “And if you have a drink, use a straw—but stop about three quarters of the way through, and then get a refill or pour it out.”
“What about raw oysters?” I ask.
He wrinkles his nose. “After giving me a lecture about norovirus, hepatitis A, and salmonella, the chef has been cooking oysters.”
“The horror,” I say. “Rich people without raw oysters? Next thing you know, he’ll ban caviar.”
“Caviar is not raw. It’s salted, and therefore on the menu from time to time,” Bruce says with a straight face. “But the chef is against sashimi—even if someone were to catch and kill the fish right in front of him.”
I chuckle. “Do you even trust sashimi—it being from Japan and all?”
Before he can reply, there’s a loud feminine gasp from behind me.
Oh, shit. Is that the girlfriend from the video call?
No.
It’s Prudence. She’s staring at the panna cotta that I started as though it were an explosive device, and I now know why.
“I think I’d better walk Colossus,” I say sheepishly. The last thing I want is to get into the reasons why I broke the biggest household taboo on my first day.
Bruce’s icy demeanor returns—which makes me realize it was missing toward the end of our conversation.
“Come,” I tell the puppy.
He doesn’t move.
Ah. Right. There’s food nearby.
“Here.” I take out a piece of cookie.
Oh, boy. I have the furry one’s eerily focused attention now.
Give it. Give it. You can’t pull that out and not share. I’ll die of starvation right here, right now, I swear.
“You can have this once you get your harness on,” I singsong.
I’m not sure if he understands, but he follows me to the garage and waits patiently while I put on his accoutrements.
“Good boy.” I give him the treat, and he nearly bites my fingers as he greedily devours it.
“You’ll have to learn how to do that more politely,” I say and put on my goofy headgear.
When we return to the mansion, Colossus dashes away as soon as he’s free—and I chase him all the way to the library, just like the last time.
Bruce is there, reading again, only this time I manage to spot the name of his book, which prompts me to excitedly exclaim, “You’re reading The Witcher ?”
Bruce snaps the book closed with irritation—and I recall him saying he only allows himself to read for “a few precious minutes per day.”
“Yes,” he says, voice less prickly than I expected. “ The Witcher is my favorite book series.”
“Wow,” is all I can say.
Bruce picks up the puppy at his feet and puts him on his lap. “Are you a fan of Andrzej Sapkowski?”
I frown. “Who?”
With an eyeroll, Bruce points at the book cover.
I feel stupid, since of course, I should have figured he’s talking about the book’s author. “If he had anything to do with my favorite video game of all time, then yes, I’m a fan.”
“What game?” Bruce scratches Colossus behind his ear, causing the little furball to close his eyes in bliss.
I gape at him. “You’re kidding, right?”
Bruce shakes his head.
“You’re a fan of the books about the Witcher, yet you’ve never played the games?”
He sighs. “Narrow it down for me. Are we talking card games, board games, or?—”
“Video games,” I say. “Hear of those?”
He cringes. “Yeah. They’re what your generation replaced books with.”
“You’re not seventy. We’re the same generation,” I say. “The first ever video game was created in 1958. That’s far in the past, even for a relic such as you.”
“Fine,” he says. “You like The Witcher video games.”
“Specifically, The Witcher 3 . Or more specifically, the best game of the 2010s. Yes, I was already alive back then.”
He shrugs. “Never heard of it.”