Page 109 of The Billionaires

The puppy likes the ones my chef makes, but he loves my own recipe as if it were laced with opiates.

She rises to her feet. “Does he like peanut butter?”

“He’d sell his soul for it. Then again, he likes anything edible—and many inedible items as well. So far, I haven’t come across anything he doesn’t like.”

She cocks her head in a way that reminds me of Colossus. “Even citrus?”

I snort. “He adores oranges. Begged for a lemon too, but I heard they can cause stomach upset, so I didn’t give him any.”

She glances at the puppy in disbelief. “What about vegetables?”

“Cucumber seems to be his favorite food.”

She gives me a skeptical look. “What about greens?”

I feel illogically proud as I say, “I’ve given him arugula, spinach, and kale—and he’s chomped it all down.”

“With no stomach upset?”

“None.”

“Wow,” she says. “That’s great. Food-motivated dogs make a trainer’s life easier.”

Before I can warn her about overfeeding Colossus, my housekeeper runs in, my ringing cellphone in her hands.

“I’m so sorry, Mr. Roxford,” she says. “This thing keeps going off.”

Judging by the ringtone, it’s someone from the office, and they wouldn’t dare bother me if it weren’t something to do with the cryptocurrency we’re developing—my passion project at the moment.

“I’m going to take that.” I snatch the phone and look at my new employee. “In the meantime, you can decide when you’re going to move in.”

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.

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