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“You better not mean who I think you’re talking about . . . ” “I called him on the drive over. He’s flying back stateside tonight.” “DANTE!” I shout, thoroughly annoyed.
She’s a tough nut to crack. And I’ve always liked a challenge.
“Thank you for coming to help us. Dante speaks very highly of you.” “I’m surprised,” I grin. “He’s usually so honest.”
The Yorkie is running around our feet again, barking, but not at us—just yapping in general. It doesn’t seem too concerned about its owner slumped down on the floor over by the fridge. In fact, it runs into the living room and pees against the leg of the coffee table, without a care in the world.
