Page 179 of The Billionaires

“But what about tonight?” The petulant tone increases. “We just flew all this way and?—”

“Theodora, dearest, what’s the point of arguing?” a booming man’s voice chimes in. “You know how Bruce is about Mesopotamia.”

Having heard enough, I pick up Colossus (who seems to be afraid of his grandparents) and waltz in. “I heard the word Mesopotamia,” I say with a smile. “That’s the cradle of civilization, isn’t it?”

Bruce’s eyes crinkle. “Lilly, meet my parents, Mr. and Mrs. Roxford, or as you’d insist on calling them: Ambrose and Theodora.” Turning to his parents, he says, “Lilly is the dog trainer I told you about.”

Merely a dog trainer? Fine. “Pleasure to meet you,” I say and resist the odd urge to curtsy. I’m not sure names like Ambrose and Theodora sound any less formal than Mr. and Mrs. Roxford, but it’s not like we’re at the stage of our relationship where I could give them nicknames such as “A” and “The.”

“The pleasure is ours,” Theodora says and examines me like a pawn shop owner would a cubic zirconia wedding ring. “Though I have to say, you’re smaller than we expected.”

Is that the royal “we?”

“Mother,” Bruce says sternly.

“It’s fine,” I say. “I’m aware of my fun-sized stature.”

Theodora looks me up and down. “Petite women are very adorable and have so many advantages, like dating men of any height. But?—”

“Seriously, Mom,” Bruce says. “Enough.”

What I want to know is, did she write a dissertation on the vertically challenged?

“We have a right to be concerned,” Theodora states, and despite her use of “we,” Ambrose steps away from her and looks extremely uncomfortable. He clearly doesn’t want to be included in whatever she’s talking about. “With her size,” Theodora continues, “she might have trouble giving birth.”

I almost choke on my tongue. “Giving birth? To what baby?” Is she insane enough to have poked holes in Bruce’s condoms?

“A hypothetical one,” Theodora says.

If you could get pregnant from blushing, I’d pee on a stick right here and now.

“The work I do for your son doesn’t involve such hypotheticals,” I say as evenly as I can. “And, if we’re talking random hypotheticals, the situation you’re describing is not a concern for me. Having a pelvis that is too narrow for childbirth has nothing to do with body size.” When she arches a royal eyebrow, I add, “My cousin is a fertility expert, and she also likes to have unsolicited baby conversations.”

“But”—Theodora darts her son a quick glance—“what if the hypothetical father is a large man?”

I think I’d prefer that Colossus bring one of my sex toys out here—even that would be less embarrassing than this conversation. “Baby size doesn’t work like that,” I say. “It’s not the size when grown, but the size of the father and mother as a baby that matters.”

“That’s even worse,” Theodora says. “My daughter, Angela, was a ten-pound behemoth.”

Ambrose places a hand on his wife’s shoulder. “Dear, you’re forgetting that Bruce is a billionaire. He can get her the best medical care in the world, or hire a large-framed surrogate to carry the ginormous baby.” Looking at me guiltily, he adds, “Hypothetically, I mean.”

Theodora actually looks calmer, but it’s unclear if it’s her husband’s words or hand that have done it. My desire to fall through the floor only increases.

“This conversation is over.” Bruce strides over to the fridge and takes out three breakfasts: his own, Colossus’s, and mine. “Here.” He hands me the food. “I believe you have a long training session with Colossus coming up.”

I’m both grateful and annoyed. It’s good to be spared more face time with his parents, but at the same time, is he dismissing me because he hates their assumption that we’re together?

Whatever. I snatch the food from his hands and stomp over to my room.

After our respective meals, I work with Colossus. First, I reinforce some of what he already knows, and then I teach him the “stay” command—which could’ve spared me the earlier kitchen encounter.

After a couple of hours, Colossus decides he’s had enough and plops on his belly to chew a toy as far away from me as the locked room allows.

Fine. I can do my own thing. I pick up The Witcher to read, but my phone rings.

Huh. Like some gossip psychic, it’s Aphrodite calling.

I debate picking up for a moment, then do so, hoping that talking to her will help me make sense of what’s happened.

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