22. Lilly
CHAPTER 22
LILLY
As I dress and apply makeup for the zoo trip, I catch myself feeling overly excited—like I’m prepping for a date.
What the hell? Is it because I learned that Bruce is single? Or because he shared his dating woes with me—assuming you could even consider what he told me “woes?”
I curb my enthusiasm somewhat, but I still end up looking my best—and why not? Maybe there will be a cute zookeeper at the gorilla exhibit.
By the time I get to the kitchen, the chef is explaining the dinners he’s packed for all of us, including Colossus. He’s even chopped up a cucumber for treats and baked tiny cookies.
Colossus looks longingly at the cooler where his treats are stashed.
“Didn’t you just have breakfast?” Bruce asks him.
Colossus tears his eyes away from the cooler and stares up at his human with a gaze that would melt the hearts of Cruella de Vil, The Wicked Witch of the West, and Martha Stewart combined.
I want a snack now. It’s been ages since breakfast. Ages, I tell you. How can I be expected to function on such an empty stomach?
Bruce shakes his head ruefully, walks over to the cooler, and pulls out one of the cucumber bits.
Okay. He’s not bothering to keep it a secret anymore—he’s crazy about the puppy—and that’s as sexy as the boxing.
He would probably deny it if I accused him of being in love with the dog, but I know the signs. I’m starting to show some of them myself.
“The limo is ready,” Johnny informs us and picks up the cooler.
When we get inside the limo, I point at a bag-like contraption attached to a seat and ask Bruce what it is—though I have a theory.
“A car seat for the dog,” Bruce says, which is what I figured. “Custom made and crash tested.”
There you go. Another sign that he adores this dog.
Also, did he crash another limo to test the doggy car seat? I wouldn’t be surprised. If there are multiple ways to do something, Bruce will go for the one that costs the most.
After strapping Colossus into the contraption—there are harness-like straps and everything—Bruce descends into the adjacent seat, tells me to “buckle up,” and does the same himself.
I presume he wants me to sit as close to my charge as possible—which just so happens to be right next to Bruce as well. So I take that seat, fully ready to be told to move a few seats away if Bruce demands it because it’s almost comical for us to be so close in an otherwise empty limo.
Nope. Bruce either doesn’t care or is okay with my proximity.
Then again, I’m not sure I’m okay with it myself. I’m still getting intermittent flashbacks to him boxing, plus we’re close enough for me to feel the heat radiating from his powerful body and to detect the yummy scent of cucumber on his fingers, which makes me want to lick?—
“How badly am I interrupting your curriculum with this trip?” Bruce asks, bringing me out of my hormone-inspired reverie.
I shrug. “It’s not like I’m helping Colossus cram for his finals.”
Colossus must know we’re talking about him because he wags his tail.
I’ll take the finals if a cookie is on the line. And cucumber. And belly scratches. But mostly the cookie.
The limo pulls out, and we ride in silence for a minute or two. I get the feeling it feels companionable to Bruce, even if it seems awkward to me.
“What do you do for fun?” I blurt and then instantly cringe. Despite our date-like destination, this isn’t a date—but the question is date-like.
To my relief, he doesn’t chastise me for prying. Instead, he furrows his forehead, acting as if “fun” is something you have to contemplate as hard as the meaning of life, the universe, and the number forty-two.
“Define ‘fun,’” he finally says.
I chuckle with an accidental snort. “Fun is something you do to enjoy yourself.”
“Well… I enjoy my work.”
“No,” I say. “I enjoy training dogs, but I can’t say ‘work’ if someone asks me what I do for fun. I’d say video games. Or going bowling with my cousin. Or going to the beach to watch the sunset. That sort of thing.”
He rolls his eyes. “Fine. Reading.”
I match his eyeroll. “You don’t say. Let me guess—you like The Witcher books. I must be psychic.”’
“I enjoy cooking,” he says grudgingly.
“Now that’s more like it,” I say but privately wonder why anyone with a private chef would want to cook. Though maybe I wonder that because I can’t cook to save my life and don’t enjoy it. “Anything else?”
He shakes his head. “I don’t have time for anything else. There are one hundred and twelve waking hours in a week, and I work eighty of them. Of the remaining thirty-two, I spend seven on exercise and about twenty-one on eating and other bodily functions. That leaves only four hours of free time, which is about half an hour per day. Most hobbies require a greater time commitment, but reading is perfect, as is cooking when you don’t have to.”
I’m not sure if I should mock or pity a billionaire who has so little fun in his life. “What about taking walks on your giant estate?” I ask. “Fishing in the lakes you own, or kayaking? How about watching movies in your personal movie theater? Or swimming—be it in that giant pool you own or your private beach? Or how about?—”
“No time,” he says. “But I might do all of those things. One day.”
I exhale an exasperated breath. “It’s like all your money is wasted on you.”
His jaw muscles tick. “If I were interested in having fun, I wouldn’t have all this money.” He gestures around the fancy limo.
I wave his point off as if it were an irksome fly. “If you don’t stop to have fun, what’s the point of making all this money? And besides, your parents are rich, so you would have money even if you didn’t work like a maniac.”
He scoffs. “I think you misunderstand the difference between billionaires like me and millionaires like my parents.”
I can’t believe he said that with a straight face. “I’m sure said difference is not as vast as the difference between millionaires and people like me.”
“Wrong,” he says. “If you make a middle-class salary, you can make a million in twenty or so years. To make a billion, it would take twenty-two thousand years.”
“I think we’ve found your hobby,” I say. “Useless math and hoarding more money than you could possibly spend.”
He smirks. “The proletariat has spoken again.”
“So has the bourgeoisie,” I retort with a huff.
The limo stops, and I sneak a peek out the window.
That’s not the zoo. Given where we are, we haven’t actually left the enormous estate yet.
“That’s the helipad,” Bruce explains.
I unbuckle my seatbelt. “The helicopter is a dead giveaway.”
“Sorry it took so long to get here,” Bruce says. “I should have built the helipad closer to the house.”
“Yeah, I hate it when I have to drive to my helicopter too. What does a chopper have to do with the zoo?
He smirks. “It will get us there.”
I unbuckle Colossus’s seat. “You realize we just drove almost half the distance it would’ve taken to get to the zoo.” As in, he’s taking the whole “do it the most expensive way” much too far.
Bruce unbuckles his seatbelt. “We’re not going to the Palm Beach Zoo.”
“Oh?”
“I prefer the one in Miami.” He holds the door for me as the driver grabs the cooler.
“Miami?” I whisper to Colossus. “I was half expecting him to say we’re headed to Zoológico de Chihuahua—in Mexico.”
Exiting the car, we head over to the helicopter where a pilot is already waiting.
“Has Colossus ever flown?” I ask Bruce as we take our seats.
“A few times,” Bruce says. “I think he likes it.”
Huh. Should I admit that I’m a helicopter virgin?
Nah.
I just strap in and swallow my overexcited heart back into my throat.
The motors roar, and we lift off.
The noise is so deafening that speaking isn’t possible—not that I mind since all I want to do is gawk at the glorious scenery below.
To my shock, Bruce takes out the Nintendo Switch and starts playing The Witcher 3 .
Spoiled much? Even if I’d ridden this helicopter a thousand times, I’d still want to be looking out the window—and I’m that video game’s biggest fan.
All too soon, the helicopter lands right in an empty parking lot that’s not at all a helipad. No doubt only the likes of Bruce get permission to do something like that.
Unstrapping, we leave our fancy ride behind and head over to the zoo entrance.
I walk Colossus on a leash, and he must smell the nearby animals already—because he wags his tail excitedly.
Before we can enter the zoo proper, a disheveled, austere-looking older gentleman crosses our path, his expression of disapproval almost palpable.
“Mr. Roxford?” he half-asks, half-states.
“Yes.” Bruce extends his hand. “And you are?”
“I’m Doctor Smith.” He grasps the proffered hand like he wants to keep it. “According to the president, you need someone with a PhD in zoology for your little date?”
Little date? Is that supposed to be me? Also, I hope the “president” is the one in charge of this zoo, not this country.
Bruce rips his hand out of the weird handshake. “Excuse me?”
Dr. Smith wrinkles his button-like nose. “I was trying to say that I have more important things to do than be a glorified tour guide.”
I’ve never seen a worse case of giving attitude to the wrong person. Bruce’s expression turns practically arctic, and I half expect water droplets to condensate on his skin, like on a soda can fresh from the fridge.
“There’s been a misunderstanding,” Bruce says, each word dripping with liquid nitrogen. “We don’t need any help from a pompous fuckwit.”
Like he’s trying to punctuate the words, Colossus growls at Dr. Smith—no doubt picking up on Bruce’s attitude.
“Are you taking that furry rat into the zoo with you?” Dr. Smith asks, sounding appalled.
Colossus looks at Bruce, then at me—clearly unsure if he should escalate the growl to a bark at this juncture.
I’m not a rat. I’d never betray my comrades, even for a cucumber… Maybe not even for a cookie.
“Look, mister,” I say, figuring it’s best to prevent Bruce from knocking this idiot out and then having to pay a seven-figure settlement later. “You said you’re too busy—great! Why don’t you go do whatever it is you need to do.” Fucking oneself would be preferable, but I’m not a stickler.
“Right. Just don’t enter any of the habitats,” Dr. Smith says snidely. “And don’t let that thing out of your sight, or something will eat it.” He points at Colossus.
“Super helpful,” I say with an eyeroll. “Now, how about you go shovel gorilla shit—or whatever it is you do here?”
Bruce’s expression warms instantly. He pulls out one of the micro-cookies the chef prepared and gives it to Colossus. Just like that, Colossus forgives everything—and forgets.
With a huff, Dr. Smith turns on his heel and strides away, unsurprisingly walking like he’s got a broom up his ass.
“After you,” Bruce says, gesturing for me and Colossus to enter first.
We do, and despite a slightly annoying start, I feel myself getting excited.
The excitement grows stronger when Bruce reveals that he has rented a two-person golf-cart-like cycle so that we can pedal around the zoo grounds instead of walking.
“Why?” I ask.
“You know how much Colossus likes to mark his territory?” he asks.
I nod.
“We won’t get far if we traverse the zoo on foot, but this should help. Do you mind?”
“Of course not,” I reply, and it’s almost true. If I did mind, it would be because of how date-like this mode of transportation feels. Or maybe romantic would be a better word?
“Great.” Bruce secures Colossus in the cycle’s compartment that is usually meant for children. “Do you want to be the one driving?”
I graciously take the side of the cycle that has a fake steering wheel. “Since you’re paying, you might as well get to drive.”
Then again, he is usually chauffeured everywhere, so perhaps?—
Nope.
I can tell he’s excited to be the one driving. How else to explain the enthusiastic way he begins to pedal, moving the two-seater without my help?
I start to help him after a minute, but we stop very soon, next to an exhibit that appears empty at first—with just a moat surrounding an island with an Indonesian temple in the center.
Colossus’s little nose becomes hyperactive, so there’s clearly an animal to be sniffed, if not seen.
And then, I spot one.
A tiger.