The Last Eligible Billionaire(51)

Begonia’s lips curve up in a smile. “Be that tiger, Therese. You tell ’im.”

“Also, it turns out the real reason there were fifty women in your office is that there was a glitch, and all of the candidates that HR had rejected received emails telling them to show up at the same time. There are four more qualified candidates if you’d like to speak with them.”

“Not just yet,” Begonia answers for me.

My phone rings, undoubtedly my mother calling to demand what in the hell I’ve done with the company during my first day in the office.

I ignore it and rise. “Thank you for your assistance, both of you. Begonia. Time to go home.”

“I have no idea if your helicopter is ready,” Therese says. “I told Nikolay that was his job.”

“Rawr,” Begonia says. But she’s barely gotten the sound out of her mouth before she bolts upright, miscalculates, and tumbles off the couch. “Helicopter? Please tell me that’s a billionaire joke.”

“Sagewood House is over an hour by car. We’re taking the helicopter.”

She gapes at me while I pull her to her feet.

Therese pats her shoulder. “Only the best pilots for the Rutherfords, Begonia. You’re in good hands.”

“It’s on my bucket list.” Begonia’s voice has suddenly turned into the squeak of the mascot of Razzle Dazzle’s largest competitor. “But over a glacier in Alaska or into the heart of a dormant volcano in Hawaii. You know, so I can die in paradise and not over upstate New York.”

I put a hand to the small of her back, oddly grateful to have her back within arms’ length. “You keep saying you want adventure, bluebell, and then you keep being afraid of it.”

“It’s not that I don’t want to take a helicopter ride. I do. But I need mental preparation time to be in a small metal whirlybird of potential death, and my dog.”

I open my mouth, and no words come out.

Therese eyes me, then Begonia, and then quietly steps out of the office as Nikolay peeks in. “Bird’s ready, sir.”

“Marshmallow cannot get in a helicopter. You—you go on ahead without me. I’ll take the limo. Or I’ll stay in that adorable little inn around the corner and I’ll see you in the morning.”

“The inn is for show. It’s office space behind the fa?ade. Your dog will be fine.”

“He’ll open the door and leap to his death!”

Once more, my mouth is open, my lips are moving, and no sound comes out.

Not because I doubt her.

More because as I give it more thought, I’m afraid she might be right.

Opening an airplane door was beyond the dog’s strength.

A helicopter door might not be the same.

Right now, the damn dog’s trying to bite the trunk of a small tree in the corner as if either the tree is a chew toy, or he’s decided his next career move will be interior decorator and the tree is in the wrong place.

It could honestly be either option with that dog.

Begonia’s eyes go shiny.

And that’s how I find myself holding a hundred-pound beast in my lap, getting dog hair all over my suit and up my nose, making me wish Benadryl came in ironman strength as we make the flight from Razzle Dazzle headquarters to my estate farther south in the Hudson Valley. Nikolay guards one door. Robert is shielding my pilot should the dog attempt to climb out of my lap and help fly the damned chopper. Begonia’s plastered to the other door.

And Marshmallow keeps staring at me as though I’m the bloody King of England, and he’s my loyal court jester.

This dog is going nowhere.

He thinks I’m his god.

“I had fun today,” Begonia says, one wary eye still trained on her beast. “I’m exhausted, and I’ll probably sleep like the dead for about two days to recover, but it was fun. Not the part where I had to tell like fifty women that they probably weren’t right for the job, but the part where I got to meet so many fascinating people.”

“Human resources will be a headache when I tell them I want two executive assistants.”

“I haven’t had enough food or playtime today to offer to do that for you. Besides, you’re the boss. You could order everyone to have at least two executive assistants, and they’d have to do what you told them. You should too.”

My nose itches almost as bad as my throat, and my sinuses are beginning to clog, even with the daily allergy medicine regimen I started in Maine. But it’s oddly tolerable.

This might be gratitude. “You’ll have to mention that to my father. He’s the boss.”

“Do you think he’ll like me as much as your mom does?”

This eyeball twitch has nothing to do with my allergies. “Most likely.”

“Thank you for your honesty.”

I nod to her. “You should look out the window.”

She’s sporting bags under her eyes, her bright hair is mussed in a way that makes me think she just crawled out of bed, and it’s a good thing there’s a very large dog blocking the view of my lap. And she still finds a smile for me.

I rarely find a smile for anyone when I’m hangry and exhausted.

I rarely find a smile for anyone when I’m not.

Yet here she is, supposedly both, smiling as she turns to peer out the window.