Page 114 of The Billionaires

It takes everything I have to stay calm for Colossus’s sake. “Behave myself?”

“You will be cordial from now on. Or you are out of here.”

Deep breaths. I can do this. “On one condition.” My voice is a touch sharper than I intend. “Same goes for you.”

He gives me an incredulous stare. “I wasn’t the prickly one.”

“No?” I take another deep breath and let it out. “See? I let that go.” Even though I could’ve told him that if he opened the Wikipedia page under “prick,” he’d see his own picture.

“It’s a start,” he says. “Now, will you deign to answer my earlier question?”

Stay calm. “Which one?”

He glances at his fluffy ward. “Can the dog be taught to not eat something I don’t want him to?”

“Yes. That’s what I was talking about earlier when I mentioned the ‘drop it’ command. Just bear in mind, it’s much easier to make a dog drop inedible objects.”

“Understood.” He gestures around the room. “Why don’t you examine everything and put together a list of what you need brought here?”

More like, he’s finding it too hard to stay cordial with me past that one question.

And that’s fine.

I feel the same way.

I’m already looking around when Bruce leaves and Colossus dutifully follows.

Wait. The puppy went with him? Either it’s Stockholm syndrome, or he really isn’t so bright.

CHAPTER 4

BRUCE

When I need to calm down, I like to read, box, or cook.

Reading is out because I don’t think I can concentrate on a book right now. Boxing seems wrong in this particular context: I’m angry at a tiny creature, and a female at that, so if I found myself picturing her face on the punching bag, I’d have to hand over my man card.

That leaves cooking, and I know just the thing I will make—the oatmeal cookies that Colossus and I love.

I’ve got to hand it to the dog. When food is involved, his IQ suddenly rivals the combined scores of Lassie, Scooby Doo, and Cujo. As soon as I pull out the first ingredient, rolled oats, he gets super excited, and I’m sure he’s sleuthed out what’s about to happen.

Ignoring him for now, I take out flaxseed, zucchini, almond butter, and maple syrup—ingredients cleared by the vet.

The dog whines.

“Fine.” I hand him a little taste of each of the ingredients, and he devours them like they’re the first foods he’s ever tasted.

“Now wait,” I say sternly and proceed with my work.

By the time I’ve made the batter, I already feel calmer. I’m not even sure why I got so riled up in the first place. My best guess is because it’s been a while since I’ve dealt with someone as disagreeably unprofessional as Lilly. I’m her client, yet she speaks to me as though she hates my guts—but we only met today.

At least, I think so.

No, I know so.

She’s not the kind of woman I’d forget. Not with those fluffy eyebrows arched above those greenish hazel eyes, and that feistiness.

For some unfathomable reason, my lips curve into a smile, and my cock gets hard.

---