4. Bruce
CHAPTER 4
brUCE
When I need to calm down, I like to read, box, or cook.
Reading is out because I don’t think I can concentrate on a book right now. Boxing seems wrong in this particular context: I’m angry at a tiny creature, and a female at that, so if I found myself picturing her face on the punching bag, I’d have to hand over my man card.
That leaves cooking, and I know just the thing I will make—the oatmeal cookies that Colossus and I love.
I’ve got to hand it to the dog. When food is involved, his IQ suddenly rivals the combined scores of Lassie, Scooby Doo, and Cujo. As soon as I pull out the first ingredient, rolled oats, he gets super excited, and I’m sure he’s sleuthed out what’s about to happen.
Ignoring him for now, I take out flaxseed, zucchini, almond butter, and maple syrup—ingredients cleared by the vet.
The dog whines.
“Fine.” I hand him a little taste of each of the ingredients, and he devours them like they’re the first foods he’s ever tasted.
“Now wait,” I say sternly and proceed with my work.
By the time I’ve made the batter, I already feel calmer. I’m not even sure why I got so riled up in the first place. My best guess is because it’s been a while since I’ve dealt with someone as disagreeably unprofessional as Lilly. I’m her client, yet she speaks to me as though she hates my guts—but we only met today.
At least, I think so.
No, I know so.
She’s not the kind of woman I’d forget. Not with those fluffy eyebrows arched above those greenish hazel eyes, and that feistiness.
For some unfathomable reason, my lips curve into a smile, and my cock gets hard.
I look down. What the fuck, cock? What’s with this reaction? Do you think Lilly and I are a couple? Are you hoping that makeup sex is on the horizon?
I can’t think of a more ridiculous notion than the two of us dating. I mean, Lilly’s attractive, in a gamine sort of way, but who cares, given how contrary she is? Also, not that it matters, but I don’t plan on dating anyone while the cryptocurrency project requires all of my time and energy. Either way, once I do get around to dating, it won’t be someone like her. Prickliness aside, she’s my employee, and therefore out of the question. She’s also a decade younger than I am and is at an age when all she probably wants to do is take selfies at nightclubs, post said selfies on her social media, and obsess about the likes of Justin Bieber or whoever the girls are squealing about these days. And she’s way too dainty. I’d feel like a fucking ogre if we did anything… which we won’t.
Fuck. That image doesn’t help with the fucking erection.
Maybe opening a 375-degree oven will help?
Nope. Unbelievable.
I stick the cookies in and set my phone timer to ten minutes.
The puppy sits patiently, hypnotizing the oven.
I step around him and lock myself in the adjacent bathroom.
Motherfucker. My cock is still hard, despite everything. You’d think I was the hormone-driven twenty-three-year-old instead of Lilly.
I try thinking about government banking regulations. Nothing. I switch my focus to IRS audits. Still hard. I bring out the big guns—people loudly chewing and slurping their food.
Unbelievable. Even that doesn’t help.
Gritting my teeth, I fist my cock—the one surefire way to get rid of this nuisance.
As I go on, I do my best to finish in ten minutes while keeping images of Lilly from my mind’s eye.
The time limit is a success.
The image suppression is a huge failure.