Page 128 of The Billionaires

“Great idea.” I open the garage door. “And remember, stay away from those lakes.”

She rushes off, leash in tow and without so much as a thank you.

I wasn’t teasing her with the gators bit. We’ve got some that are so big they wouldn’t just eat the dog—they’d have her too, for dessert.

An unwelcome image of me eating her sneaks into my brain—and I don’t mean cannibalistically.

Fuck.

Just like that, I’m hard again.

CHAPTER 9

LILLY

When the garage door closes, I gape at the puppy at my feet. “Did I dream that, or did Bruce and I almost kiss?”

Colossus cocks his head.

Kiss? Is that kind of like butt-sniffing? Either way, I’m not an expert. Now—on a completely unrelated note—can I call you two Mom and Dad?

No way was that an almost kiss. He probably wanted to bite my head off—literally. Even when I’m at my most attractive, I’m no billionaire bait, and with the hideous helmet he’s making me wear, no sane male would want to come anywhere near me.

I scan the gorgeous landscaping, the pathways, the gardens, and the lakes in the distance.

All empty.

Good. No one is around to witness my shame.

Someone clears his throat from behind a sphere-shaped bush.

So much for no one seeing me in the dorky headgear.

The guy who steps out is about my father’s age and has the most weather-beaten skin I’ve ever seen outside of pirate movies. “Hello,” he says. “I’m Mr. Hornigold, the landscape architect.”

Is that a fancy term for “gardener?”

“I’m Lilly,” I say. “The canine instructor.”

Colossus growls at the newcomer. Crap. I’ll have to socialize him quickly, or else this will only get worse.

“I know who you are,” he says. “Mr. Roxford wanted me to tell you that if the puppy does a number two, you don’t need to pick it up. One of my people will do it.”

“Got it,” I say with a forced smile.

Seriously, though? How rich do you have to be to have “people” who clean up after your dog for you?

The growling intensifies.

Not good.

“Hey,” I say to the gardener. “Do you mind helping me with the dog’s training for a minute?”

Looking reluctant, he nods.

“Here.” I toss him a piece of the cookie. “Please hand it to the dog on an open palm.”

Kneeling, he does as I say, but he looks so scared you’d think he were dealing with a rabid pit bull.

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