Page 208 of The Billionaires

Nope. It licks my cheek.

Its breath smells like chicken and sweet potatoes.

What the hell?

Wait a second. This sheep’s fur smells suspiciously like a wet dog. Almost as if?—

“I’m so sorry,” says the sheep in a deep, rich, smooth-as-melted-chocolate voice. “The leash slipped from my hands.”

“You’re a dog?” I ask the sheep, my mind still muddled.

“I’m not,” it—or whoever—says. “I’m Adrian. The dog is Leo, and he sounds like this.” The voice changes to sound an octave higher and sped up, like this person has eaten an overcaffeinated chipmunk. “You smell good. The mud is fun. I’m sorry I made you fall. Sometimes I forget I’m not a puppy anymore.”

The dog that is not a sheep—Leo—moves out of my view, and I finally spot the speaker.

The sight evaporates whatever air I’ve reclaimed.

The man’s—Adrian’s—face is perfectly proportioned, with an aristocratic nose, a powerful chin, and silver-colored eyes that gleam roguishly. Yes, roguishly. With his broad shoulders and dark, windswept hair that extends past his ears, he could be copy-pasted onto a historical romance book cover; all they’d need to do is Photoshop in some period clothing.

Taken by the Duke, the title of said romance would read. Or Marquess’s Reluctant Bride. Thy Name is Earl. Baron’s Virgin Mistress. Scoundrel Viscount’s Wallflower?—

He kneels next to me.

Are my glasses fogging up, or my retinas? Such unadulterated handsomeness should come with a warning.

“Are you okay?” he asks.

Am I? I’m anxious, shaken, and much too turned on considering my predicament, but mostly, I feel like I’m forgetting something extremely important.

Then it hits me.

The interview! How could I forget about that, even for a moment? Do I have windmills in my head?

“I’m late,” I announce and move to sit up.

Hell’s bells. My arms flail, and chunks of mud fly in every direction—including toward Leo, who licks them eagerly, and Adrian, who takes it stoically.

“Are you sure you’re ready to get up?” Adrian asks as he extends his hand to me.

“It doesn’t matter if I’m ready.” I grab his hand—and then nearly collapse back on the ground in a fit of the vapors.

His skin is hot like a raging furnace, and that heat permeates my body, melting everything in its wake.

Uh-oh. Miss Miller feels a yearning in her most secret place. A most unladylike tingle that?—

“I don’t think you’ve recovered yet,” Adrian says as he helps me get to my feet. “Let’s have you sit on that bench over there.”

“Can’t,” I pant, pulling my hand out of his grasp before I combust. “Must run.”

His expression hardens. “You could have a concussion.”

“And whose fault is that?” I narrow my eyes at him. “I’m late for an interview. For my dream job. Can you stop getting in my way?”

“An interview?” He drags his gaze over me. “Looking like that?”

I glance down and wish I hadn’t. “Oh, no. I’m dirtier than a pig.”

“Pigs aren’t actually dirty,” Adrian says. “They use mud to cool off, and as sunscreen and bug repellent.”

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