Page 113 of The Billionaires

Colossus plops on his butt and looks at his human with big, soulful eyes that show zero guilt.

What’s wrong with fluffy sky raisins? They eat clothes, I eat them—this is what my voice-twin Mufasa meant by The Circle of Life. I’d be willing to trade the next one for an oatmeal cookie. Especially a flying cookie.

Instinctively, I place myself between Bruce and Colossus. I imagine a man who could steal my childhood home is capable of kicking a puppy. “Moths are considered safe for dogs to eat.”

“Oh?” Bruce imbues the syllable with so much sarcasm I want to smack him.

“Moths don’t carry any known diseases and are nontoxic.” I know this because Roach loved to eat moths, and flies, and—ironically—roaches too, when he could catch them.

Bruce crosses his arms. “He must listen when I forbid him to eat something.”

“How not tyrannical,” I say caustically.

His nostrils flare. “You don’t think a creature with a brain the size of a walnut could use help when it comes to making such decisions?”

“Size of a walnut?” I examine Bruce’s head with an exaggerated thoroughness. “That would make your skull even thicker than I thought.”

Bruce bares his teeth—which happen to be perfect, damn him. “Is that right?”

“You betcha.” I glare up at him, forgetting all caution. “And if you wanted to eat shit, I’d let you.”

“You know what, Lilly? Forget the job. You’re fired.”

“Great.” I dive into my purse to pull out the note. If I don’t get the money, I’m at least going to give him an earful.

This might even be for the better, in fact. Inhaling a deep breath, I rattle out, “You are a heartless machine—and the embodiment of what’s wrong with the world. How could?—”

Colossus whines pitifully, stopping me in my tracks.

I kneel fast. “What’s wrong?”

Could that moth be hurting him? He didn’t chew it much, so it’s feasible he could get stomach upset from that.

The puppy looks from me to Bruce, then whines again.

Oh, shit. I know this behavior. He?—

“He doesn’t like the arguing,” Bruce mutters under his breath—which is what I was about to conclude.

I feel terrible. Of course, the puppy will pick up on the hostility in the room. Dogs are social beings, after all. I was behaving like a Bruce.

“Everything is okay,” I croon to Colossus. “Bruce and I were just speaking with passion.”

The puppy calms down impressively quickly. When I would accidently get Roach into these types of situations, he’d mope for a couple of minutes.

Even though Roach is long gone, I feel a pang of guilt about the fights I had with my ex in front of him. I don’t feel as bad about today’s situation because the blame rests on Bruce.

Speaking of, I get up and narrow my eyes at him. “Any chance you could not be your awful self around the puppy after I leave?”

“You’re not leaving,” he says through his teeth. “The dog likes you, and I have no idea why.”

“Wait, what?” I gape at him. “Are you saying…?”

“Forget what I said. You still have the job. For now.” He looks as if the words cost him more than this mansion.

My heart leaps—and not just because of the money. In no time at all, what I’ve feared has come true: I’m already so attached to this Chihuahua that leaving him alone with his cold-hearted owner isn’t something I’d feel right doing.

“That is, if you can behave yourself,” he adds before I can breathe out a sigh of relief.

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