Fifty Degrees of Shade - The Billionaire's Badass Mate - On hold for a bit!

5. The Pink Room of Shame

"Is there a problem, Miss Jones?" His eyebrows knit together, and his body stiffens like an erect penis.

Hmmm.

Not so much an erect penis. Something less cheerful. I tap my jaw, deep in thought.

I can't seem to think of anything stiff and unhappy because I'm so close to Crispin's musky aura, that my inner goddess refuses to provide me with any decent metaphors. I warn her that she won't be allowed to do any salsas, merengues, or sambas until she gets her fucking act together, but she sticks out her tongue at me and says I'd be nowhere without her.

What a bitch.

Am I right?

Mr. Shades claps his large hands in front of my face. "Earth to Miss Jones. Earth to Miss Jones."

I really must stop the internal monologuing. Yeah, I may have gotten the job but keeping it will require me to pay attention to my new boss. Men hate being ignored, i.e., not the absolute center of attention. I ought to save the inner commentary for times I'm alone or in a group setting where no one will notice.

But Crispin is so ... firm, and rigid, and well ... crisp, that it's hard to concentrate on his words. I watch the movement of his luscious mouth, with its quirked lips and overlarge canines, and I'm lost.

And then there's the matter of the enormous room spread out before me. What a shock!

The walls and ceiling are painted a deep, dark, hot pink. The floor is concrete-stained with a blush finish. The room contains a full-on, American Kennel Club agility course with tunnels, seesaws, jumps, rings, planks. Dozens of dog toy baskets.

At the far corner is a grooming area with a claw-footed tub, mountains of pink towels, a blow-drying station, a massage table, and a big-screen television tuned into what could best be described as doggie porn. Beautiful long-coated dogs running through green, wildflower-dotted fields in slow motion, accompanied by soothing classical music.

It smells like vanilla, probably from the dozens of candles flickering in the massage region. Unattended candles honestly seem like a fire hazard.

Disappointment roils in my stomach.

Any rational person would assume a billionaire's secret lair—a lair locked with an ornate skeleton key no less—would be a BDSM sex palace with whips in twelve sizes, straps, feathers, leather doohickies, and the odd rusty shackle. Or perhaps a fantasy grotto filled with French champagne. Or an indoor bowling alley at the least. But lucky me, I meet the one billionaire with a dog training room.

A Doggie Disneyland.

A pink room of shame.

Something bops me on the head, and I startle. A hot dog plush toy drops to the floor. Bella scoops it up and races toward the neat line of fuchsia toy bins against the far wall, deposits it inside, and sits. Wow. "Excuse me, but are you quite all right, Miss Jones?"

Oops. "Sorry, I was just ... um ... appreciating the general splendor."

There he goes knitting his eyebrows again. The guy knits them a lot. This makes me wonder if eyebrows can also crochet.

He holds up a cell phone. "So, I should cancel the Uber?"

I shake my head. When did he have time to call an Uber? I've been standing here the whole time. It's as if his long fingers move so quickly the average person cannot follow the movements. "No, I'm fine. Really."

"You screamed."

"Oh, that. I was a little ... um ... surprised by the color palate."

"Is that your stomach roiling?" he says. How could he possibly know? Does he have magical powers? Could it be that Clarissa lied to me, and he is a vampire after all? Am I stuck in some fictional fantasy world? Do I even exist?