Her nose wrinkle spreads to her forehead. “I don’t like the word ‘tame’ either. I associate it with training methods that use coercion and abuse.”
My teeth clench involuntarily. “Are there people who use such methods?”
Dumb puppy or not, if I caught anyone coercing or abusing Colossus, it would be the last thing they ever did.
She looks at me like I’ve asked her if the tooth fairy is real. “There are even people out there who organize dog fights.”
Such people are lucky I’m only in charge of a banking empire and not the whole world. Otherwise, the fuckers would be dog food.
“Tell me about your methods,” I demand.
“Positive reinforcement all the way.” She kneels next to Colossus and scratches under his chin—which he seems to enjoy disproportionally, judging by the mad wagging of his tail. “I find something the dog likes and provide that something whenever I see a behavior I want repeated.”
I get that. In essence, it’s not all that different from year-end bonuses—which I excel at providing. Or praise—something people claim I’m bad at.
“I’ll have to arm you with the oatmeal cookies that he goes crazy for,” I say gruffly.
The puppy likes the ones my chef makes, but he loves my own recipe as if it were laced with opiates.
She rises to her feet. “Does he like peanut butter?”
“He’d sell his soul for it. Then again, he likes anything edible—and many inedible items as well. So far, I haven’t come across anything he doesn’t like.”
She cocks her head in a way that reminds me of Colossus. “Even citrus?”
I snort. “He adores oranges. Begged for a lemon too, but I heard they can cause stomach upset, so I didn’t give him any.”
She glances at the puppy in disbelief. “What about vegetables?”
“Cucumber seems to be his favorite food.”
She gives me a skeptical look. “What about greens?”
I feel illogically proud as I say, “I’ve given him arugula, spinach, and kale—and he’s chomped it all down.”
“With no stomach upset?”
“None.”
“Wow,” she says. “That’s great. Food-motivated dogs make a trainer’s life easier.”
Before I can warn her about overfeeding Colossus, my housekeeper runs in, my ringing cellphone in her hands.
“I’m so sorry, Mr. Roxford,” she says. “This thing keeps going off.”
Judging by the ringtone, it’s someone from the office, and they wouldn’t dare bother me if it weren’t something to do with the cryptocurrency we’re developing—my passion project at the moment.
“I’m going to take that.” I snatch the phone and look at my new employee. “In the meantime, you can decide when you’re going to move in.”
Chapter 3
Lilly
I pick up my jaw from the floor as the lady from Downton Abbey skedaddles, and “Mr. Roxford’s” long legs carry him away.
Move in? For puppy training? Is he insane, or has my hearing gone haywire?
I pull my phone out of my purse and reread the ad that got me here.
Oh, wow. Near the bottom, it says this is a live-in position. Since all I’d wanted was one interview, I hadn’t bothered reading that far down.
I peer at Colossus. “Do you know why he wants a live-in?”
The tiny puppy sits on his butt and gives me his full attention—something I usually have to teach other dogs.
Does the sea of pee pads not give you a clue, or are you going to shame me by making me say it? Oh, and if I do say it, can I please, please, please have an oatmeal cookie? With peanut butter?
Right, of course. Puppies go potty at night. A lot. Also, the “many inedible items” was most likely a reference to the dog’s ripping and consuming of the pee pads… or toilet paper… or gravel.
Yep. Puppies are like clumsy vacuum cleaners with teeth. And alarm clocks without a snooze button. Still, hiring someone to train a puppy around the clock is something only a billionaire would do.
An evil, greedy billionaire who’s made his fortune stealing homes from ordinary people like my parents.
I grit my teeth and remind myself to be patient. I will tell him off. Any minute now. As soon as he returns. I should’ve told him off already instead of gabbing with him about my training methods, but the super-cute puppy threw me for a loop.
At least I think it was the puppy, and not the fact that the man I’ve hated for the past year has turned out to be way too good-looking in real life—if you’re into the whole tall, dark, muscular, symmetrically featured, blue-eyed rich jerk with an icy vibe thing.
Which I’m totally not.
It’s the puppy. It has to be.
Said puppy wags his adorably bushy tail. I crouch and give him another belly rub, whispering, “It’s not your fault your daddy is a monster.”
A monster who needs to be told off.
I get my note out and review the most salient points.
Yeah. Here we go. No more indecisiveness.
As soon as Roxford comes back, I’m going to hit him with my words.
Then again, maybe I should locate him right now, rip his phone from his hands, and let him have it. Alternatively, I could tape this note to the front door and skedaddle. Or even take the job and—
A clearing of a throat brings me back to Earth.
Damn him. Even his stupid throat is hot—all muscly, sinewy, and with a prominent Adam’s apple that just begs you to give it a lick or a nibble.
“Here.” He steps so close to me that a hint of lemongrass and lime pleasantly tickles my nostrils. “Since I was in my office, I printed the contract you are to sign. Assuming you find the rate acceptable.”
I scan the stack of papers he’s handed to me until my eyes land on said rate, at which point I nearly drop the document.
Given Roxford’s propensity to throw people out of their homes, I assumed he’d be cheap, offering minimum wage at best. But I was wrong.
Veterinarians don’t get paid this much. Neither do gynecologists, urologists, or proctologists. Nor high-end escorts… as far as I know.
It’s the kind of money where I’d be an idiot not to at least consider forgetting why I actually came here—and most of my other scruples and principles as well.
No. What am I thinking? I can’t possibly train the puppy of the man responsible for the loss of my childhood home. That would be like sleeping with Hitler. Or bathing Putin. Or clipping Mel Gibson’s toenails.
But the money…
And there’s no sleeping with or bathing the enemy involved…
Unless… wait a sec. Going back to escorts and proctologists, is it possible he’s expecting something from me that isn’t puppy training? Or at least not the kind of puppies I normally work with? I’ve heard there’s such a thing as BDSM puppy play…
Holy crap. Is this why this is a live-in position with a contract?
Is this mansion where his Red Room of Pain is?
How insulting… and yet bizarrely tempting.
No, not tempting. Disgusting—that’s what I meant.
Although, come to think of it, there’s a real Chihuahua puppy in front of me, so—