Page 53 of Mexico Can Choke On It
“Nonsense!” Fiona interjects, slicing through my humiliation. “You must wait. Nigel told us Miss Muffy has awoken from her nap and is coming to greet us personally.”
I lower my arm, resigned to prolonging this torture. My eyes meet Petra’s, silently pleading for her to behave just a little longer.
And that’s when I hear it.
CLICK-CLICK-CLICK-CLICK.
Tiny footsteps. Clicking across the marble.
The entire space falls silent, attention shifting toward the entryway. She appears.
The small white Maltese from that regal portrait, dressed in pearls and a custom designer outfit, trots into view with absolute purpose.
The dog pauses dramatically, surveying the guests with beady black eyes.
She sniffs the air.
And then charges—barking loudly—straight for Petra.
“Oh hey! You’re the doggie from the painting! Hi, cutie,” she coos, scratching behind its ears. “You smell my cookies, don’t you?”
My brain fires frantic signals:Intercept! Create a distraction! Release the emergency sprinklers! Do SOMETHING!
Before I can stop her, she scoops the fancy Maltese into her arms.
And all hell breaks loose.
Security emerges from nowhere like ninjas. Earpieces. Suits. One of them actually grabs the gun at his hip.
Petra stiffens, eyes going wide as she clutches the squirming furball. “Uh… what’s happening? I haven’t even fed her the cookie yet. Technically, she assaulted me.”
“Madam.” Nigel’s voice is polite enough to butter toast, but there’s no mistaking the command in it. “I must insist you release Miss Muffy IMMEDIATELY.”
Her eyes ping to the guards. To the shocked guests. Back to me.
“Pip…” My voice is controlled. I take another step closer, ignoring the security team tracking my every move. “You’re holding the heir to the Von Cashmere oil dynasty,” I explain slowly. “And our hostess for the week. Miss Muffy Von Cashmere… the Second.”
Petra glances at the furball in her arms and then at the portrait on the wall, comprehension dawning with horrifying slowness. Her mouth drops open.
“Are you fucking kidding me? THIS DOG is a BILLIONAIRE?!”
And that’s the moment I realize my gravest error in preparing Petra.
The primary rule of surviving Casa Cashmere: Never touch the dog who owns her own mansion, staff, and twelve-figure trust fund yet occasionally still drinks from a toilet.
CHAPTER SEVEN
PETRA
GROUP CHAT : CPK FOREVER
Me:Quick Cam question: Do you speak enough Spanish to explain to a judge why I’m not ACTUALLY a menace to society?
Cam:We might need my Abuela for that.
Katie:PETRA! Are you really in jail?
Me:Not yet, but the day is young and I’m feeling ambitious.
