Page 173 of The Billionaires

I shrug. “When do you need it done by?”

“Tomorrow,” he says.

“Why?”

He sighs. “My family doesn’t really respect my condition. It might be nice if Colossus polices their behavior.”

There’s a lot of information packed in that statement, but I don’t have time to psychoanalyze at the moment. I’m frantically trying to figure out the most efficient training regimen… and coming up short. Not unless… “What if we cheat?”

Bruce arches an eyebrow.

“I could teach him to bark when he spots a gesture command,” I explain. “You could then stealthily do the gesture if someone eats around you—but we could tell them he’s barking because he’s a misophonia service dog.”

My reward is one of those rare smiles that turn his face into the epitome of handsome. “How about this for a gesture?” He massages his temple with his right index finger.

“I think I could get him to bark in response to that very quickly. Possibly even this evening. I just need to know what currently makes him bark so I can mark the behavior.”

“Rubbing alcohol,” he says. “I applied some after I cut myself shaving one time. He was barking as if I were a gorilla.”

“He must hate the smell,” I say with a thumbs up.

“That’s what I figured.”

I reach for a miniature quesadilla, and he does the same—and our fingers brush.

Oh, wow. This must be how Frankenstein’s monster felt right after that reanimating jolt of lightning.

Quesadilla forgotten, we lean toward each other, pulled by whatever energy our fingers just exchanged.

I moisten my lips. He watches me hungrily, then dips his head. Just as our lips touch, there’s a canine whine.

We fly apart like two magnets with polarities reversed.

Flushing, I turn and see that—unsurprisingly—the pitiful sounds are coming from Colossus’s enclosure. He must’ve finished his lick mats, saw us headed toward kissing, and felt left out.

“He probably wants to go home,” Bruce says.

Yeah. Sure. The dog wants to go home, not his dad who once again regrets almost kissing “the help.”

I touch my unsatisfied lips. “Great. That should give me more time for his training.”

Bruce leaps to his feet and extends his hand to help me get up. Pretending I don’t see the proffered appendage, I stand up on my own and get Colossus out of the enclosure and into his harness.

We don’t talk much on the trip back to the helicopter, and the noise during the flight doesn’t let us interact on the way back to the estate.

“Do you have any rubbing alcohol here?” I ask Bruce when we get into the limo. “I want to get a head start on the training.” And if that means we won’t have to talk—or feel tempted to kiss—all the better.

He rummages in the first-aid kit, but it turns out it has an antibiotic ointment instead of rubbing alcohol for disinfecting. Scooching over to the bar, he grabs a bottle of Absolut Crystal and asks Colossus, “Would you bark at vodka?”

Colossus wags his tail. No doubt the question he heard was, “Want a cookie?”

“Let’s test it out.” I prepare a cookie. “Open the bottle, dip a napkin in it, and let him get a whiff.”

When he’s almost done with the prep, I add, “Put your finger to your temple so he can see.”

Bruce lets Colossus sniff the vodka. The puppy barks.

This smell is an affront to olfactory perception—and this is coming from someone who luxuriates in the aroma of a ripe butt.

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