Page 88 of The Thing About My Secret Billionaire

But, to be honest, for all I know, it might rain like this in Boston once a week and I never notice because I spend most of my time either indoors or in my car. And these last few days have taught me that getting out in the fresh air and doing practical things feels pretty damn good.

It’s just not so great when that fresh air is pouring buckets of water on you.

Taking a giant breath, I step out, shut the door, slide the bolt across, and sprint for the other stable—well, not so much sprint as do a weird dance on ground that’s constantly shifting under my feet.

Thankfully, the miniatures’ gate is held shut with a nice simple loop of rope, because my finger’s still stinging from the catch on the other one.

And finally, after what feels like ten minutes but was probably about forty seconds, I’m inside and being met by a welcoming chorus of miniature donkey brays, whinnies and hee-haws.

“I know, folks,” I reply. “It’s shit, isn’t it?”

Three of them crowd around, nuzzling my pockets. “Sorry. I’m a completely useless helper and forgot to bringtreats.” I pat them each on the head in turn, more concerned that they need reassurance not to be scared than about the damp donkey smell that might linger on my hands for days. “Your safety is my priority right now, not your bellies.”

There’s another burst of lightning.

I turn just in time to see my first ever clear, unobstructed, view of actual fork lightning against a clear black sky. It’s unreal. Like someone’s drawn it. Of course we have storms in the city, but there, the tall buildings and lights take the edge off it.

At the crack of thunder that follows, the little donkey with his nose in my pocket jumps, his front feet landing back on the floor with a clatter.

“It’s okay, little man.” I scratch his ears the way Frankie does. The backs of the ears seems to be a universal donkey pleasure zone that takes their minds off everything, making them close their eyes and push into your hand for an even deeper rub.

“You’ll be fine now that you’re inside.” I’m reassuring myself more than them, who obviously have no clue what I’m saying. “You have water and food.” I point to the troughs over by the door, and they follow my gaze like they actually do understand.

I do a quick count to make sure all seven really are here, then head for the door and that impending hot bath and beer. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

I make sure my jacket is zipped up as high as it can go, take a deep breath as if I’m about to dive under water, and step outside.

I have only one foot out the door when I jump at yet another bolt of lightning. The thunder that almost immediately follows rumblesthrough my body.

Amid the brays, there’s a particularly plaintive one in the far back corner.

Hardly surprising. If it rocked me, how the hell must it feel to these poor guys when they don’t even know what’s going on?

Okay. I should probably check out that whimper before I go. I shut the door and turn around.

It’s Petunia.

I’m not sure a sight has ever ripped at my heart more than her little white form shaking and staring into the corner.

“It’s okay.” I approach her as slowly as I can, speaking in the most soothing tone a person whose cold wet clothes are sticking to them and who’s desperate to immerse themselves in hot water while drinking a beer could possibly be expected to muster. “I’m here. It’s all going to be fine.”

She lets me stand next to her.

I give her a moment to get comfortable with me there before I risk resting my hand oh-so-gently on her back. She flinches at the first touch and gives me a quick look over her shoulder. But I guess she decides I’m not an enemy because she doesn’t move away or kick or anything.

Making ashhhsound, I run my hand down her spine in long, slow strokes over and over.

“It will all be okay.” I make my voice as calming as possible. “It’s just rain and silly thunder. It’ll go away. And you’ll be fine.”

The trembling doesn’t stop. And it’s fucking heartbreaking. This poor little thing has no clue what the terrifying sounds are and the only person she has to rely on for safety is me—someone she hasn’t known long enough to trust.

“I’m right here. Right here. And I’m not going anywhere until you’re okay.”

Then I remember that Frankie stroked from her shoulder and down her front leg to calm her, so I inch my way closer to her head to get the right angle.

Her ears twitch and she turns her face away from me a little, but she stays standing in the same spot, and I’ll take that as a good sign.

“Is this what you like?” I ask, making the same long, slow movement I saw Frankie make, up and over her shoulder and down her leg.