I hear voices coming from the kitchen, one female and three male.
Oh, fuck.
Has Bruce gathered his staff to introduce me to them?
“Please, Colossus,” I shout. “Stop!”
He wags his tail harder and speeds up.
I’ll consider trading this toy for an oatmeal cookie. With peanut butter.
Right. A treat. I pat all my pockets, but I have nothing even remotely edible.
Grr. If I were already working with Colossus, I would probably be able to bluff him by holding my hand out like I’ve got a treat, but it won’t work yet.
What kind of a shitty dog trainer am I? I gave the dog a chance at my boxes—and I don’t even have a treat in my pockets.
The kitchen is looming ever closer.
As I sprint, I pray to Anubis, the Egyptian god with a canine head. Please stop that puppy. I’ll do anything. I’ll always carry a treat from now on and watch the puppy carefully… and even foreswear masturbation. At least with toys.
Nope. Colossus doesn’t stop his mad dash.
Panting, I stumble into the kitchen, where the whole team is waiting for me, as I feared.
Should I pray to Anubis again, this time for the floor to swallow me?
A guy in a chef’s hat with orangish hair and a similar shade of spray-tanned skin has a spatula in his hand, so he must be Chef Foxposse. Spotting the running puppy, he backs away as if he were afraid of dogs… or sex toys.
Johnny Cash and Mrs. Campbell are here as well, and they’re gaping at Colossus’s maw—so I can’t hope they haven’t noticed.
My cheeks burn so hot you’d think I’ve shaved them with a pizza cutter and used pepper spray as aftershave.
The only one who leaps into action is Bruce. He grabs a cookie from the tray, crouches, and sternly says, “Drop that.”
Chef Foxposse drops his spatula just as Colossus releases The Squirrel.
The toy rolls on the floor. If anyone hadn’t already gotten a good look at it, they have now.
Oh, and it’s vibrating. Because of course.
“Here.” Bruce breaks off a piece of the cookie and rewards the puppy with it.
Colossus attacks the treat with an excitement that other dogs reserve for bacon, peanut butter, and cats.
This is my chance.
I leap forward to grab the toy, but Bruce snatches it before I get there and stashes it in his pocket.
Halting in my tracks, I catch my breath. I figure I’ll need the power of speech to tell him off after he fires me.
Bruce looks at his watch. “Now that everyone is finally here, let me start the introductions.” He gestures at me. “This is Ms. Johnson, Colossus’s trainer.”
“Please,” I manage to squeeze out. “Call me Lilly.”
Ignoring me, Bruce says, “Ms. Johnson, meet Chef Foxposse, Mr. Cash, and Mrs. Campbell.”
Each of the aforementioned individuals bows when their name is called.
Bruce glances at his watch again. “I have a meeting. Get acquainted while I’m gone.”
He turns on his heel and strides out of the room. Colossus glances longingly at the table where the cookies are, but when they don’t magically fly into his mouth, he races after Bruce.
As soon as Bruce is out of earshot, everyone seems to exhale a relieved breath—which is as you’d expect when in the house of a dictator.
I clear my throat. “Nice to meet you all.” Please don’t ask about The Squirrel. Pretty please.
“Hi, Lilly,” Chef Foxposse says with a smile. “You can call me Bob.”
Huh. Chef Foxposse definitely sounds posher than Bob.
“You know me already,” Johnny says and twirls his mustache.
He and Bob look at Mrs. Campbell.
She sighs. “If Mr. Roxford isn’t around, you can call me Prudence.”
“Good point,” Bob says. “I’d also like to keep things formal when the boss is around.” He grins at Mrs. Campbell. “That’s just prudent.”
The housekeeper rolls her eyes, then turns to me. “He’s a much better cook than he is a comedian.”
“Speaking of,” Bob says. “For dinner, would you mind having ricotta gnocchi with white truffle?”
Is he kidding? “That sounds wonderful.” Like a dish in a fancy restaurant.
“How about grape panna cotta for dessert?”
“Even better.”
Damn it. Even though I ate on the way here, my mouth is watering.
Looking pleased, Bob asks, “In general, which foods are your favorite?”
Johnny and Prudence exchange looks. I guess the chef asks this of everyone.
“I don’t have favorites.”
“Well, what kinds of foods do you like?” he asks.
I shrug. “I don’t know.”
Bob looks confused. “How could you not know?”
“Never decided,” I admit. Not for lack of trying. “Whatever foods I try, I like.”
“I’m asking so that I can make something to your taste,” Bob explains. “So we’ll have to narrow that down.”
I shrug. Unless he’s a psychic, this is a tricky undertaking when it comes to me.
“What’s your favorite breakfast?” he asks. “That should be easy, right?”
I sigh. “I could never pick.”
He takes off his hat and scratches the top of his balding head. “Do you at least have a preference between savory and sweet?”
“I like both.” That’s the best answer I can provide without whipping out a spreadsheet.
He pulls a paper out of his pocket and glances at it. “How about Eggs Benedict?”
“I love it.” My mouth waters even more.
Bob glances at the paper again. “How about buttermilk waffles?”
“That sounds wonderful.” If he keeps this up, I’ll start drooling like a bulldog.
Bob grins. “There you go. Two days’ worth of breakfast is now settled. The eggs will be served with homemade smoked salmon and my take on hollandaise sauce. The waffles will be served with caramelized apples, apple cider glaze, vanilla whipped cream, and cinnamon streusel topping.”
When is dinner again? This is what it must be like for the food-motivated dogs that I train.
Johnny curls the left side of his mustache. “Those are the breakfasts you’re making for Mr. Roxford, right?”
Bob shrugs. “She’s undecided, so why not make my life easy?”
“I don’t mind,” I say. “What else is he having?”
Bob hands me the whole menu, and everything on it sounds amazing, so I agree to it wholesale and hand the paper back.
Bob pockets the menu. “Thanks. If only Prudence and Johnny were so easy.”
Johnny releases his mustache indignantly. “Most of the things on that list would give me heartburn from hell.”
“And I’m watching my figure,” Prudence says. “Unlike Mr. Roxford, I don’t sweat for an hour in a boxing ring every day.”
He’s into boxing? Thanks, Prudence. Now instead of fantasizing about all those meals, I’m salivating at the image of sweaty Bruce.
I clear my suddenly thirsty throat. “So what’s the food situation? Is it served at a specific time?”
“You can eat anytime if you’re willing to use the microwave.” He wrinkles his nose. “But if you want your meals fresh, which I highly advise, you should get on Mr. Roxford’s schedule.”