Page 31 of The Thing About My Secret Billionaire
“Meet Doris,” Frankie says. “If ever she spots anyone crouching, she’ll race across the field to scratch her belly on their head.”
I hold my hat on tight to prevent the force of the action from dragging it off and putting my hair in direct contact with donkey undercarriage. “And how long does it usually last?”
“She’d probably do it for hours, but I’ll move her off you once I’ve got all the angles I need for this video.”
“Video?” My guts tighten.
“For my big social media push,” she says as I’m rocked back and forth by Doris.
Shit. I can most definitely not appear in any social media posts. What if someone happens to recognize me and tells her who I really am?
“I couldn’t have set it up better if I’d tried,” sheadds with a laugh.
“Glad to be of service.” Doris bears down harder and does that thing that horses do where they blow out a breath that ripples their lips. “Is this donkey seriously getting off on me?”
“I just got a great close-up on her face exactly as she did that,” Frankie says with glee.
“How badly do you need a volunteer?” I brace one hand on the floor to prevent myself from being pushed over.
“Okay, okay. Think I have enough. Oh my God, this is so good.”
The sound of Frankie’s feet approaching on the hay-strewn concrete behind me brings some relief.
“Snack time, Doris,” she says.
And whatever she’s offering finally tempts the animal away from its affair with the top of my head.
I straighten, dust myself off, and take off my brand-new hat.
“Look at that.” I show Frankie the top of my hat that is now covered in a disgusting oily grime from Doris’s belly. “I’ll have to throw it out.”
“If you throw out an item of clothing every time it gets dirty, you’re going to go through clothes and money and your investment fortune pretty quickly.”
I sigh, shove the mucky hat into my largest pocket and return to the problem at hand.
“Can I see the video?” I ask, moving toward Frankie as I run my fingers through my hair.
“Sure.” She swipes her phone with the hand not feeding the donkey, and passes it to me.
Okay, this video isn’t such a disaster. Thank God I had my back to Frankie while she was filming it. There’s no chance that even my own mother would recognize me asthe person sitting under a donkey wearing muddy cargo pants, a work jacket and a brown baseball cap. There are few places they’d think it less likely to find me.
As the panic gives way to relief, I hand back her phone, pointing it at what she’s feeding Doris. “Thank God you always have a carrot in every pocket.”
“I’ll refrain from the obvious joke,” she says with a playful raise of her eyebrows. “But yes, you never know when there might be a carrot-requiring emergency.”
“An emergency like a donkey wanting to make love to a stranger’s head.”
A laugh shoots from her, sending her partially bent over.“Make love?”
“What’s so funny about that?” I ask.
“You don’t strike me as someone who would saymake love.” She laughs again as if the thought of me being romantic is too ridiculous to contemplate.
Doris wanders away from us since the carrot supply seems to have dried up and there’s no longer anyone at belly-scratching height.
“And, pray tell, exactly what kind of someonedoI strike you as?” I ask.
My main priority here is to find out how close I’m getting to her trusting my advice, so I can gauge when to bring up the subject of the two offers.
