Reaper (Boston Underworld, #2)

by A. Zavarelli

I used to be decent.

How does someone accuse another person of stalking without sounding like a narcissistic asshole, exactly?

“Conor thinks it’s a Corgi,” I tell him. “Google said their legs are supposed to be wee. I looked it up.”

The dog is in my lap, and he looks at her and then at me with a stupid grin on his face. “I’m not keeping her,” I tell him. “Ah, sure,” he agrees. “She’s awfully fond of you, though.”

“He’s more of the sit-in-the-corner and brood type. Maybe you could go brood with him then?”