Page 14 of Men or Paws

I would be as cool as a cucumber, and I certainly wasn’t going to take any crap from him. He was my temporary employer and I had a job to do.

Nothing less and nothing more.

Rancho Santa Fe was well-known as being home to Janet Jackson, Jenny Craig, and countless other celebrities and professional athletes, so it wasn’t a surprise that Rocco lived there, even though it was at least a couple of hours from Hollywood.

I drove by the countless multi-million-dollar homes and pulled up to the security gate at the bottom of Rocco’s driveway at exactly seven thirty. He made it clear he was a stickler for punctuality or he wouldn’t have told me to be on time.

Now that I had my sights set on the fifteen thousand dollars he was going to pay me, I was going to do whatever it took to make sure I lasted the three weeks, even if it killed me. And based on our exchanges so far, most likely it would kill me.

I couldn’t see the house or the driveway behind the gate, but I did know what the property looked like since I glanced at the satellite view on Google Maps when I was getting directions.

I leaned out of the window of my Mustang and inhaled the wonderful scent of the mature eucalyptus trees and orange groves that lined the perimeter of the humongous estate. Then I pressed the call button on the touchpad, settling back in my seat and waiting for someone to open the security gate and let me in.

I was about to check my hair in the rearview mirror, but luckily stopped myself after spotting the security camera a few feet from my face, glaring right at me, spying, most likely zooming in on the mole on my right cheek.

Feeling like I’d been caught doing something I shouldn’t have been doing, I smiled at the camera, but then stopped when it felt just plain silly.

“Can I help you?” said a male voice through the intercom, much too kind to be Rocco’s.

I leaned out the window again. “Hi. I’m Beth Myers. Rocco is expecting me.”

“Hi, Beth. Come on up.”

A few seconds later, the gate slid to the right.

For some reason, my heart rate picked up speed.

I pulled through and drove up the long S-shaped driveway until I got to the top of the hill, where the home suddenly appeared in the clearing in front of me.

“Holy guacamole,” I muttered to myself.

The satellite view did not do Rocco’s home justice.

I drove past the shiny, new, black BMW convertible parked in front of the six-car garage and around the huge three-tiered fountain, stopping near the front double doors of the Spanish-style home.

I quickly slipped on my reading glasses to make sure the documents were in order, then got out of the car and went to the trunk to unload my suitcase and cooking supplies. I was looking forward to experimenting with new dog treat recipes when I wasn’t busy with Houdini.

Before I could reach into the trunk, I felt what I hoped was a dog licking my hand.

I glanced down and smiled at a golden retriever, then scratched him on the head. “You must be Houdini. Wow, you’re such a beautiful boy.” The dog licked me like I was covered in peanut butter, then put all his body weight against me, obviously hoping for more love and affection.

Houdini suddenly dropped to the ground and flipped over.

I laughed and bent down, scratching his chest. “You are adorable.”

A man cleared his throat from behind me; Rocco, I suspected.

I whispered to Houdini. “Hang on, your daddy seems to be a little jealous.”

I stood up straight and flipped around, surprised it wasn’t Rocco, but instead a tall, good-looking man with dark hair, olive skin, dressed in black.

“Wow, this baby is a classic,” he said, nodding, admiring my Mustang. “1966.”

I nodded. “That’s right.”

“Gorgeous car.”

“Thank you.”