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A laugh escapes me. “Nice try, Chaos.”
I tap back to Alibi’s picture.
Poor bastard. I understand exactly what happened to him.
Callie Quinn found him.
He never had a chance.
I swallow hard.
Neither did I.
24
CALLIE
Alibi has been my dog for less than twenty-four hours, and I’ve already learned three things about him.
One, he snores.
Two, he hates his medication.
And three, he has absolutely no respect for personal space.
I discovered the last one when I woke up this morning with twenty-two pounds of scruffy dog stretched across my chest and one furry ass approximately three inches from my face.
“Alibi. I’ve gotta get up.”
He stretches, then looks at me over his shoulder but doesn’t move.
Hmm. Well, I’ve heard the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach. Should work for male dogs, too, right?
“Want some food?”
His one ear perks up.
“Let’s get up and—”
I groan as he jumps off of me, nails scratching me through my shirt. He runs to my bedroom door and lets out an excited bark.
Okay. He knows the command Get up. Next time, I’ll make sure to say it when he can’t tear my clothes and torso up.
I climb out of bed and follow him to the kitchen.
“Let’s get this day started, Alibi.”
I adjusted the brown wig. Alibi cocked his head when I put it on. Then when I grabbed my car keys, he perked up even more. I told him to stay home and rest, and I made him a nice bed on the sofa with Mr. Pickles’s blanket. I even turned Scooby-Doo on for him. He watched me with sad eyes when I exited the house. But when I peeked through the front window, he was watching the TV, his head on his paws.
Still, I feel guilty that he couldn’t come with me.
But not here.
I push open the door to Hollow Creek Fitness and immediately spot Roman across the room.
My steps slow.
Oh. He's wearing black athletic shorts and a dark gray T-shirt that's damp between his shoulder blades. His back is to me, which gives me an uninterrupted view of broad shoulders, muscular arms, and the kind of ass that should probably require some sort of permit.
