9. Lilly
CHAPTER 9
LILLY
When the garage door closes, I gape at the puppy at my feet. “Did I dream that, or did Bruce and I almost kiss?”
Colossus cocks his head.
Kiss? Is that kind of like butt-sniffing? Either way, I’m not an expert. Now—on a completely unrelated note—can I call you two Mom and Dad?
No way was that an almost kiss. He probably wanted to bite my head off—literally. Even when I’m at my most attractive, I’m no billionaire bait, and with the hideous helmet he’s making me wear, no sane male would want to come anywhere near me.
I scan the gorgeous landscaping, the pathways, the gardens, and the lakes in the distance.
All empty.
Good. No one is around to witness my shame.
Someone clears his throat from behind a sphere-shaped bush.
So much for no one seeing me in the dorky headgear.
The guy who steps out is about my father’s age and has the most weather-beaten skin I’ve ever seen outside of pirate movies. “Hello,” he says. “I’m Mr. Hornigold, the landscape architect.”
Is that a fancy term for “gardener?”
“I’m Lilly,” I say. “The canine instructor.”
Colossus growls at the newcomer. Crap. I’ll have to socialize him quickly, or else this will only get worse.
“I know who you are,” he says. “Mr. Roxford wanted me to tell you that if the puppy does a number two, you don’t need to pick it up. One of my people will do it.”
“Got it,” I say with a forced smile.
Seriously, though? How rich do you have to be to have “people” who clean up after your dog for you?
The growling intensifies.
Not good.
“Hey,” I say to the gardener. “Do you mind helping me with the dog’s training for a minute?”
Looking reluctant, he nods.
“Here.” I toss him a piece of the cookie. “Please hand it to the dog on an open palm.”
Kneeling, he does as I say, but he looks so scared you’d think he were dealing with a rabid pit bull.
Colossus stops growling and approaches the cookie.
“Yes,” I croon. “Being friendly pays off.”
The puppy eats the cookie and sniffs the guy’s hand for a second.
“Can I go now?” the gardener asks.
“Yes. Thank you.”
As the man departs, Colossus looks at me with a confused expression:
I thought he was evil incarnate, but that cannot be. Oatmeal cookies are like crucifixes—they ward away evil.
Grinning at him, I tug lightly on the leash and say, “Let’s go.”
With a tiny huff, Colossus pitter-patters over to the nearest patch of grass, plops down on his stomach, and begins ripping apart a dry leaf.
“That’s cat behavior,” I tell him sternly. “Doggies walk.”
He ignores me.
“Let’s go.” I tug on the leash again.
Nope. He clearly hasn’t been trained to walk on a leash.
I sigh. It sucks that I have to escalate the situation so soon, but I can’t help it. I take out another piece of the cookie and show it to him.
Just like with the gardener, the change in the dog’s demeanor is instant. Leaping to his feet, he locks eyes with me like a crazed hypnotist and wags his tail.
“Good eye contact,” I say. “Usually, I have to train puppies to do that.”
He wags his tail harder.
Does that mean I get the cookie? Please, pretty please? Pretty pretty pretty please?
Still holding the treat, I take a step forward, then another, dangling the morsel as bait.
The dog takes a few steps too, eyes never leaving the object of his desire.
“Good boy,” I say and give him a tiny crumb.
Getting the picture, he walks some more, eyes still not on the road.
About a block later, nature finally calls, and Colossus runs up to a palm tree and hikes up his little leg comically high.
“Good boy,” I gush. “Such a good boy.” I give him a bigger piece of the cookie to get my point across.
He makes satisfied growly sounds as he devours his reward, then walks over to a patch of grass and does a more serious bit of business.
“Yes. Good job,” I exclaim enthusiastically and give him more cookie.
Again, he attacks the treat ravenously, like he’s been starving for a week.
Hmm. He just might be the most food-motivated dog I’ve ever met, which will make him easier to train.
Despite what the gardener said, the urge to clean up after the dog is strong, but I resist.
“Now we can go home,” I tell Colossus, then lure him back to the garage with a few more chunks of cookie.
Removing our punky gear, I take him back into the house. He immediately zooms away, and I have to run to catch up.
“Dude!” I shout. “Where was this energy on the walk?”
He doesn’t stop.
I chase him all the way to the library, where he runs up to Bruce, who is sitting in a comfy recliner and reading a book.
Damn it. How is it that the book makes him look even sexier? This is particularly odd since I’m more of a gamer than a reader.
Spotting the dog, my icy employer full-on smiles again—and it’s as magnificent as before.
I clear my throat.
The smile vanishes so fast I start to doubt it was there in the first place, and he puts the book away before I can glimpse the title.
“I only get to read for a few precious minutes per day,” he growls. “Is it too much to ask not to be disturbed?”
“Colossus ran here after our walk,” I say defensively. “Did you want me to just let him roam the house unsupervised?”
“How was the walk?” he demands, ignoring my question.
“Informative,” I say. “Among other things, I’ll have to teach Colossus how to walk like a proper dog.”
Bruce rubs his temple. “I thought he just didn’t like walking with me.”
“You’ve walked him?” I ask.
Bruce rises to his full massive height and folds his arms across his powerful chest. “Why is that so surprising?”
“Because you’ve got people for everything. Why not this?”
“I’ve walked him on a regular basis.” With the angry way he grits out the words, it’s a marvel Colossus doesn’t whine again. “Like I said, I thought it was something about the way I was holding the leash.”
I purse my lips. “How were you holding the leash?”
Bruce rolls his eyes. “How am I supposed to show you that?”
Hmm. “I think you could benefit from a lesson I give all my clients.”
They all find the lesson somewhat odd, but he doesn’t need to know that.
He narrows his eyes. “A lesson in dog walking?”
“Exactly. A walk is a collaboration between the dog and the human. If both know what to do, it works best.”
He checks his watch. “Can you cram this lesson into twenty minutes?”
I nod. “We’ll need the leash and some space—ideally carpeted.”
“Follow me,” he commands and returns to the garage for the leash. Afterward, he takes me to one of the few closed doors in the house.
“You’re not coming in,” he says sternly to Colossus before opening the door.
The puppy cocks his head and shows no sign he understands.
“The command is ‘stay,’” I say. “And he doesn’t know it yet.”
With a sigh, Bruce crouches and with a straight face says to Colossus, “The rug in this room is a seventeenth-century antique and costs millions.”
What? I don’t think I want to step on such a thing, let alone allow a puppy to do so.
“I have an idea.” I take a cookie piece and crumble it in my hand. “This will keep him busy.” I toss crumbs all around the corridor, and Colossus goes berserk trying to collect them.
“Nice trick.” Bruce opens the door and allows me to enter first.
I hesitate. The carpet looks to be Persian, with a pattern of circles and leaves.
“Can I step on it?” I ask, hovering my foot over the edge.
“Without shoes,” Bruce orders and takes off his own loafers to demonstrate—in case I’m that slow.
Shit.
Am I wearing that sock with a hole in it?
I slide my sneakers off to check.
Yep.
Only one solution here—I take the socks off too.
Bruce stares at my bare feet in confusion. “Is that for the lesson?”
“Sure,” I lie and step on the carpet.
Wow. It feels so warm and comfy under my feet you’d think it were made of clouds.
Maybe this is where the legends of flying carpets came from?
“What now?” Bruce demands.
I take a breath. “Now I’ll pretend to be the dog—and you’ll walk me.”