3. Lilly
CHAPTER 3
LILLY
I pick up my jaw from the floor as the lady from Downton Abbey skedaddles, and “Mr. Roxford’s” long legs carry him away.
Move in? For puppy training? Is he insane, or has my hearing gone haywire?
I pull my phone out of my purse and reread the ad that got me here.
Oh, wow. Near the bottom, it says this is a live-in position. Since all I’d wanted was one interview, I hadn’t bothered reading that far down.
I peer at Colossus. “Do you know why he wants a live-in?”
The tiny puppy sits on his butt and gives me his full attention—something I usually have to teach other dogs.
Does the sea of pee pads not give you a clue, or are you going to shame me by making me say it? Oh, and if I do say it, can I please, please, please have an oatmeal cookie? With peanut butter?
Right, of course. Puppies go potty at night. A lot. Also, the “many inedible items” was most likely a reference to the dog’s ripping and consuming of the pee pads… or toilet paper… or gravel.
Yep. Puppies are like clumsy vacuum cleaners with teeth. And alarm clocks without a snooze button. Still, hiring someone to train a puppy around the clock is something only a billionaire would do.
An evil, greedy billionaire who’s made his fortune stealing homes from ordinary people like my parents.
I grit my teeth and remind myself to be patient. I will tell him off. Any minute now. As soon as he returns. I should’ve told him off already instead of gabbing with him about my training methods, but the super-cute puppy threw me for a loop.
At least I think it was the puppy, and not the fact that the man I’ve hated for the past year has turned out to be way too good-looking in real life—if you’re into the whole tall, dark, muscular, symmetrically featured, blue-eyed rich jerk with an icy vibe thing.
Which I’m totally not.
It’s the puppy. It has to be.
Said puppy wags his adorably bushy tail. I crouch and give him another belly rub, whispering, “It’s not your fault your daddy is a monster.”
A monster who needs to be told off.
I get my note out and review the most salient points.
Yeah. Here we go. No more indecisiveness.
As soon as Roxford comes back, I’m going to hit him with my words.
Then again, maybe I should locate him right now, rip his phone from his hands, and let him have it. Alternatively, I could tape this note to the front door and skedaddle. Or even take the job and?—
A clearing of a throat brings me back to Earth.
Damn him. Even his stupid throat is hot—all muscly, sinewy, and with a prominent Adam’s apple that just begs you to give it a lick or a nibble.
“Here.” He steps so close to me that a hint of lemongrass and lime pleasantly tickles my nostrils. “Since I was in my office, I printed the contract you are to sign. Assuming you find the rate acceptable.”
I scan the stack of papers he’s handed to me until my eyes land on said rate, at which point I nearly drop the document.
Given Roxford’s propensity to throw people out of their homes, I assumed he’d be cheap, offering minimum wage at best. But I was wrong.
Veterinarians don’t get paid this much. Neither do gynecologists, urologists, or proctologists. Nor high-end escorts… as far as I know.
It’s the kind of money where I’d be an idiot not to at least consider forgetting why I actually came here—and most of my other scruples and principles as well.
No. What am I thinking? I can’t possibly train the puppy of the man responsible for the loss of my childhood home. That would be like sleeping with Hitler. Or bathing Putin. Or clipping Mel Gibson’s toenails.
But the money…
And there’s no sleeping with or bathing the enemy involved…
Unless… wait a sec. Going back to escorts and proctologists, is it possible he’s expecting something from me that isn’t puppy training? Or at least not the kind of puppies I normally work with? I’ve heard there’s such a thing as BDSM puppy play…
Holy crap. Is this why this is a live-in position with a contract?
Is this mansion where his Red Room of Pain is?
How insulting… and yet bizarrely tempting.
No, not tempting. Disgusting—that’s what I meant.
Although, come to think of it, there’s a real Chihuahua puppy in front of me, so?—
“Well?” he demands, narrowing his icy eyes. “Does this work for you?”
“The pay seems reasonable,” I manage to squeeze out. “But—so there’s no misunderstanding—what services do you expect from me in return?”
He looks at Colossus. “I want him to earn the dog equivalent of a PhD in Rocket Science… from Harvard.”
“You mean, turn him into a service dog?”
Why is a part of me disappointed about the lack of sketchy sexual favors?
Roxford gives me a look that implies I’m a total idiot. “What kind of a service dog could a tiny creature like Colossus become?”
“Oh, you’d be surprised.”
“Surprise me then.”
“He could warn diabetics of low blood sugar, stave off anxiety attacks, and so on.”
He eyes me dubiously. “And you can train him to do those things?”
I don’t think this is the time to disclose that while training service dogs is my goal in life, I currently don’t have much experience. Instead, I opt for my most impressive achievement. “Well, my cousin is a fertility consultant who owns a Yorkie not that much bigger than Colossus, and I taught her how to tell if a woman is ovulating.”
For the first time, the corners of his eyes crinkle in a hint of a smile. “You taught the dog or your cousin?”
“The dog, but if I had enough lychee macaroons, I bet I could train my cousin as well—assuming she’d be okay with getting all up into her customers’ crotches.”
He full-on smiles, and it’s glorious. If you could bottle that smile, I bet it could cure many sad things in the world, like depression, anxiety, and constipation. Too bad you can almost hear the creaking as his facial muscles bend in an unfamiliar-to-them way. I doubt he unleashes this smile more than twice per year.
“So…” He sheathes the glorious smile much too soon. “How about you start by teaching him the equivalent of grade school?”
“That would be learning to potty in proper places, plus things like ‘sit,’ ‘stay,’ ‘wait,’ and ‘drop it.’”
He glances at the ocean of pee pads splayed out to the horizon. “Make the bathroom part your top priority.”
If I were a dog, my hackles would be rising. “Do you always bark orders at people without so much as a ‘please’ and ‘thank you?’”
He gives me an unapologetic stare. “If you want pleases and thank-yous, we’d have to communicate via email… and I’d have to halve your rate.”
Wow. “No, thank you .”
“Great. Then rid me of the pee pads in the house by the end of the week.”
“End of the week?” I snort. “That would be tricky even if I moved in today .”
He doesn’t miss a beat. “Then you are moving in today.”
I gape at him. “What? No! I have other clients. I have my own place, so I’d need movers. I?—”
He waves his hand dismissively. “I’ll have my assistant find your clients someone else. I’ll also have him hire movers for you in an hour.”
Shit. He’s serious.
There’s no way I can move in today… can I? I haven’t even decided to take this job. In fact, I know I shouldn’t take this job. Even if he weren’t the man who deprived my parents of their home, I’d need at least a week to evaluate all the pros and cons. The latter are countless—and the asshole boss is just the tip of the iceberg. There’s the overly cute Chihuahua that I might develop feelings for if we spend any more time together—which is bound to lead to a heartbreak similar to what I experienced when I lost Roach. There’s the?—
“If you move in today, I’ll give you a sign-on bonus,” the aforementioned asshole says. “Your daily rate times one hundred.”
My jaw hinges open.
“And if you get rid of the pads by the end of the week, you’ll get another bonus—your daily rate times a thousand.”
Holy puppy pee. I know he’s bullying me with the money, but I can’t say no to these kinds of numbers. Service dog trainer school and certifications aren’t cheap. Neither is my parents’ rent, which I’m helping them with.
In fact, he’s offering the kind of money that would let me help them with a down payment on a new house.
My heartbeat picks up pace as excitement sizzles through my veins.
It would be the ultimate poetic justice if I used his money to help the very people he evicted.
But no. I can’t possibly make this decision so impulsively. I have to think it through. I have to decide if this makes sense. I am not a “seize the moment” kind of person. I like to think before I act, to analyze all the potential implications and?—
His face darkens with impatience, his arctic eyes turning colder as he stares at me, and I blurt in panic, “If I say yes, where am I going to stay?”
His gaze is pure ice now. “If?”
“Yes. If.” I raise my chin, ignoring the sweat trickling down my spine. “I’m not staying in a cupboard under the stairs, à la Harry Potter.”
“You will stay in the biggest guestroom.” He gestures into the distance, where, possibly miles away, is my room-to-be. “Any other demands?”
Now that I’m closer to making a decision, I feel a modicum calmer. “I refuse to call you Mr. Roxford.”
His face is hard to read, so I have no idea if he’s kidding when he asks, “How about ‘sir?’”
I scoff. “Hell, no. And before you ask, forget things like ‘master,’ ‘mister,’ ‘my lord,’ ‘big cheese,’ ‘monsieur,’ ‘se?or,’ ‘pan?—'”
Did he just growl?
“Call me Bruce.” The name is said through his teeth. “I presume you want me to call you Lilly ?”
I swallow hard. I like how he says my name—even if he is trying to make fun of it.
“That’s correct… Bruce .” Ugh. Why does his name on my lips feel so forbidden and intimate? I reach for my snark with effort. “And when you do say my name, try not to sound like you’re eating a lemon.”
He bares his teeth. “Let me show you to your room.”
He leads me deeper into the mansion. The pee pads crunch under our feet, and I hear the pitter-patter of Colossus following us.
We pass a library bigger than the one in Beauty and the Beast . The room after that is filled with an armor collection that wouldn’t look out of place in a museum. We keep walking, and I keep gawking, especially when we pass what appears to be a small movie theater.
He stops walking suddenly, so I bump into him, and Colossus bumps his little wet nose into my heel.
“Here.” Bruce opens a set of tall doors.
Tail wagging, Colossus rushes inside the room and disappears under the California king-sized bed.
I stare. The luxurious guestroom is double the size of my whole apartment, with furnishings reminiscent of a fancy hotel and the high ceilings of a cathedral.
Bruce steps in and opens another door. “This bathroom will be yours.”
The bathroom is five times the size of the one I have back home.
“This will work,” I say in an understatement of the century. My own accommodations for guests are a pull-out couch and a freebie toothbrush I got from the dentist.
He closes the bathroom door. “I’ll have the movers clear the room and bring your things.”
Clear the room for my things? “No need, thanks.” That would be like swapping a sleek Lamborghini for a horse and buggy made by the inventors of the Nissan Cube.
He looks around as if seeing the furniture for the first time. “You want to use the room as is?”
I nod vigorously. “So long as the sheets are clean.”
There’s liquid nitrogen in his gaze. “The sheets are new. So are the towels. Ditto for the toothbrush and?—”
Colossus emerges from under the bed, a moth the size of his face in his mouth.
“No!” Bruce shouts. “Don’t eat?—”
Too late. The little Chihuahua crunches on the moth, then swallows it.
Considering their relative sizes, this would be like me catching and swallowing a pigeon.
“Bad dog,” Bruce says sternly.
Colossus plops on his butt and looks at his human with big, soulful eyes that show zero guilt.
What’s wrong with fluffy sky raisins? They eat clothes, I eat them—this is what my voice-twin Mufasa meant by The Circle of Life. I’d be willing to trade the next one for an oatmeal cookie. Especially a flying cookie.
Instinctively, I place myself between Bruce and Colossus. I imagine a man who could steal my childhood home is capable of kicking a puppy. “Moths are considered safe for dogs to eat.”
“Oh?” Bruce imbues the syllable with so much sarcasm I want to smack him.
“Moths don’t carry any known diseases and are nontoxic.” I know this because Roach loved to eat moths, and flies, and—ironically—roaches too, when he could catch them.
Bruce crosses his arms. “He must listen when I forbid him to eat something.”
“How not tyrannical,” I say caustically.
His nostrils flare. “You don’t think a creature with a brain the size of a walnut could use help when it comes to making such decisions?”
“Size of a walnut?” I examine Bruce’s head with an exaggerated thoroughness. “That would make your skull even thicker than I thought.”
Bruce bares his teeth—which happen to be perfect, damn him. “Is that right?”
“You betcha.” I glare up at him, forgetting all caution. “And if you wanted to eat shit, I’d let you.”
“You know what, Lilly ? Forget the job. You’re fired.”
“Great.” I dive into my purse to pull out the note. If I don’t get the money, I’m at least going to give him an earful.
This might even be for the better, in fact. Inhaling a deep breath, I rattle out, “You are a heartless machine—and the embodiment of what’s wrong with the world. How could?—”
Colossus whines pitifully, stopping me in my tracks.
I kneel fast. “What’s wrong?”
Could that moth be hurting him? He didn’t chew it much, so it’s feasible he could get stomach upset from that.
The puppy looks from me to Bruce, then whines again.
Oh, shit. I know this behavior. He?—
“He doesn’t like the arguing,” Bruce mutters under his breath—which is what I was about to conclude.
I feel terrible. Of course, the puppy will pick up on the hostility in the room. Dogs are social beings, after all. I was behaving like a Bruce.
“Everything is okay,” I croon to Colossus. “Bruce and I were just speaking with passion.”
The puppy calms down impressively quickly. When I would accidently get Roach into these types of situations, he’d mope for a couple of minutes.
Even though Roach is long gone, I feel a pang of guilt about the fights I had with my ex in front of him. I don’t feel as bad about today’s situation because the blame rests on Bruce.
Speaking of, I get up and narrow my eyes at him. “Any chance you could not be your awful self around the puppy after I leave?”
“You’re not leaving,” he says through his teeth. “The dog likes you, and I have no idea why.”
“Wait, what?” I gape at him. “Are you saying…?”
“Forget what I said. You still have the job. For now.” He looks as if the words cost him more than this mansion.
My heart leaps—and not just because of the money. In no time at all, what I’ve feared has come true: I’m already so attached to this Chihuahua that leaving him alone with his cold-hearted owner isn’t something I’d feel right doing.
“That is, if you can behave yourself,” he adds before I can breathe out a sigh of relief.
It takes everything I have to stay calm for Colossus’s sake. “Behave myself?”
“You will be cordial from now on. Or you are out of here.”
Deep breaths. I can do this. “On one condition.” My voice is a touch sharper than I intend. “Same goes for you.”
He gives me an incredulous stare. “I wasn’t the prickly one.”
“No?” I take another deep breath and let it out. “See? I let that go.” Even though I could’ve told him that if he opened the Wikipedia page under “prick,” he’d see his own picture.
“It’s a start,” he says. “Now, will you deign to answer my earlier question?”
Stay calm. “Which one?”
He glances at his fluffy ward. “Can the dog be taught to not eat something I don’t want him to?”
“Yes. That’s what I was talking about earlier when I mentioned the ‘drop it’ command. Just bear in mind, it’s much easier to make a dog drop inedible objects.”
“Understood.” He gestures around the room. “Why don’t you examine everything and put together a list of what you need brought here?”
More like, he’s finding it too hard to stay cordial with me past that one question.
And that’s fine.
I feel the same way.
I’m already looking around when Bruce leaves and Colossus dutifully follows.
Wait. The puppy went with him? Either it’s Stockholm syndrome, or he really isn’t so bright.