By the time I’ve made the batter, I already feel calmer. I’m not even sure why I got so riled up in the first place. My best guess is because it’s been a while since I’ve dealt with someone as disagreeably unprofessional as Lilly. I’m her client, yet she speaks to me as though she hates my guts—but we only met today.
At least, I think so.
No, I know so.
She’s not the kind of woman I’d forget. Not with those fluffy eyebrows arched above those greenish hazel eyes, and that feistiness.
For some unfathomable reason, my lips curve into a smile, and my cock gets hard.
I look down. What the fuck, cock? What’s with this reaction? Do you think Lilly and I are a couple? Are you hoping that makeup sex is on the horizon?
I can’t think of a more ridiculous notion than the two of us dating. I mean, Lilly’s attractive, in a gamine sort of way, but who cares, given how contrary she is? Also, not that it matters, but I don’t plan on dating anyone while the cryptocurrency project requires all of my time and energy. Either way, once I do get around to dating, it won’t be someone like her. Prickliness aside, she’s my employee, and therefore out of the question. She’s also a decade younger than I am and is at an age when all she probably wants to do is take selfies at nightclubs, post said selfies on her social media, and obsess about the likes of Justin Bieber or whoever the girls are squealing about these days. And she’s way too dainty. I’d feel like a fucking ogre if we did anything… which we won’t.
Fuck. That image doesn’t help with the fucking erection.
Maybe opening a 375-degree oven will help?
Nope. Unbelievable.
I stick the cookies in and set my phone timer to ten minutes.
The puppy sits patiently, hypnotizing the oven.
I step around him and lock myself in the adjacent bathroom.
Motherfucker. My cock is still hard, despite everything. You’d think I was the hormone-driven twenty-three-year-old instead of Lilly.
I try thinking about government banking regulations. Nothing. I switch my focus to IRS audits. Still hard. I bring out the big guns—people loudly chewing and slurping their food.
Unbelievable. Even that doesn’t help.
Gritting my teeth, I fist my cock—the one surefire way to get rid of this nuisance.
As I go on, I do my best to finish in ten minutes while keeping images of Lilly from my mind’s eye.
The time limit is a success.
The image suppression is a huge failure.
Chapter 5
Lilly
After scanning the room, I put my list of belongings together—and it’s not a long one. Pretty much just my clothes and shoes. And my video games, of course.
Just as I’m about to leave, a thin man with a Mario-like mustache walks into the room.
“Hello, Lilly.” The way he says my first name makes it clear he usually addresses people in a more formal manner. “I’m Mister… I mean, Johnny. Mr. Roxford’s assistant.”
“Whose assistant?” I refuse to call that asshole “Mister” anything.
Johnny twirls his mustache. “You’re kidding, right?”
Taking pity on the minion, I say, “You must mean Bruce.”
“Yes. Mr. Roxford.” This time, he pulls on the mustache nervously, and it’s a wonder no hairs get plucked out.
I scoff. “Yes. Bruce.”
“Right.” He reaches for the mustache again but stops halfway. “He asked me to get your list of things to move.”
I hand him the sheet of paper in my hand.
Not pulling away his hand, Johnny says, “And your keys, please.”
I snatch the list away. “Don’t I get to supervise the movers?”
Johnny’s left eye twitches. “Mister… Bruce said if they break anything, he’ll replace it. He also said it’s imperative that you start Colossus’s training immediately.”
“Well,” I hiss. “Looks like for the first time in his life, Bruce isn’t going to get his way.”
And if he wants to fire me for this, so be it.
As Johnny, his mustache, and I walk through the mansion, I detect a delicious aroma that makes my stomach growl.
When did I last eat?
We enter the kitchen, and I spot the source of the yummy smell—a tray of cookies Bruce is taking out of the oven.
He cooks?
Nah.
Some personal chef must’ve left those in there, and he’s just taking them out. Serious domestic effort for a billionaire, either way.
Then my pulse jumps.
Colossus is near the table with a cookie in his mouth.
“Is that hot out of the oven?” I shout, leaping toward the puppy. “He’ll get hurt!”
Bruce steps in my way. “That’s the first batch.” There’s a twitch in his jaw. “I obviously waited for it to cool before giving it to the dog. What kind of a negligent sadist do you think I am?”
The worst kind—but I don’t say this because we agreed to be civil only minutes ago.
“FYI, she insists on overseeing the move,” Johnny tattletales.
Should I tell him snitches get stitches before their mustaches get shaved off?
“I’ll allow it,” Bruce says magnanimously.
“You’ll allow it?” I grit out, forgetting about cordialness for a hot second. In a calmer tone, I say, “If it pleases Your Highness, I’ll be back before you can say ‘the top one percent.’”
Bruce turns his broad back to me. “Just get your possessions so you can start on your duties. And it’s the top point-zero-zero-one percent.”
All the way back to my car, I brainstorm some clever comebacks to Bruce’s last comment, but the best I can come up with is: I hope Colossus “dooties” on your foot.
My car looks comically small in the giant driveway in front of the mansion, and as I start my route back home, I actually pay attention to the details of the massive estate.
There are two lakes on opposite sides of the mansion—creating gorgeous views from all angles. On the far side of the nearest lake is an untouched forest with a deer herd frolicking around. It’s a marvel Bruce hasn’t hunted them to extinction, as his kind are so fond of doing. Near the second lake, there is a garden maze and a golf course. Walking the dog around here must feel like strolling through a luxury resort.
My phone rings.
I check who it is.
Ah. It’s Aphrodite, my cousin. And no, we’re not Greek, so my aunt can officially be considered a child abuser for naming her daughter that.
“Hey, cuz,” she says as soon as I pick up.
“Hey, Aphro,” I reply with a smile. “Thanks for checking on me… a bit too late.”
I told her what I would be doing, just in case Bruce went American Psycho on my ass.
She sounds worried as she asks, “Do I need to bail you out of jail?”
“I didn’t actually do what I set out to do.” I’m glad this isn’t a video call, so she can’t see me blush in shame.
“Why? What happened?” she demands.
I sigh. “He made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.”
She gasps. “He put a gun to your head?”