Page 124 of The Billionaires

Johnny pales and nods at this so profusely his mustache flaps like butterfly wings.

“Why not?” I ask.

The three of them exchange odd glances, but not a single one explains.

Not that it’s hard to figure this one out. We’re the help and should eat downstairs with our own kind, like they do on Downton Abbey. The fact that this is Florida and there is no downstairs is irrelevant.

“Before the boss comes back, can we talk about Colossus’s food?” Bob says pleadingly.

“You cook his food?” I ask worriedly. Dogs have different nutritional needs than humans, and I doubt they teach that at culinary school.

Bob nods. “I do. Had to consult a veterinary nutritionist and everything.”

Whew. “So… what did you want to talk about?”

He pulls out a paper and hands it to me. “Do you think he’ll like these?”

I goggle at it. The paper is another menu, and the dishes on it are as fancy as what he’s making for Bruce. The good news is the ingredients listed sound safe for dogs. “I think Colossus is going to be thrilled about this.”

“I hope you’re right,” Bob says. “I wish I could see his reaction as he eats.”

My hand flies to my chest. “You haven’t seen him eat?”

“That dog doesn’t like anyone but Mr. Roxford,” Bob says defensively. “If I’m around when he eats, he growls at me.”

That’s resource guarding, a common problem for dogs and something I’ll have to teach the little guy not to do.

Prudence looks at Bob reassuringly. “When I take the puppy’s bowls for a wash, they’re always sparkling clean. I doubt he’d lick the plates so much if he didn’t enjoy the food.”

“Maybe not,” Bob says, but he doesn’t sound too sure.

“Give me time,” I say. “After a little bit of training, I’m sure he will let you watch him eat.”

Bob takes a step back. “Only if Mr. Roxford allows it.”

Tyrant strikes again.

“Since we’re talking about food for the dog,” I say. “What can I use as treats?”

Bob pulls out a big box filled with goodies, including some of the oatmeal cookies.

“Just email me a tally of the treats,” Bob says and hands me his card. “Mr. Roxford wants me to subtract the snack calories from the meals.”

That’s taking controlling to a new level, but in this case, it will be beneficial to Colossus’s health.

“Let me call myself from your phone,” Prudence says. “I don’t have a business card.”

After I give her my phone, Johnny’s mustache puffs up proudly. “I do have a card.” He hands it to me. “And if you need to email Mr. Roxford, send your missives to me.”

Bob looks around furtively, then conspiratorially whispers, “Johnny’s job is to strategically pepper words like ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ into Mr. Roxford’s emails.”

Johnny tugs angrily at his mustache. “I do a lot more than that. Who do you think organizes?—”

“Gentlemen.” Prudence hands me back my phone and nods pointedly in the direction Bruce went.

Faces panicked, the two men hush, and just in time.

Colossus runs back into the kitchen, tail wagging when he spots me, and Bruce follows, his chilly expression a huge contrast to the dog’s happiness.

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