He gives me a classicyeah, yeah, yeahyip and trots off into the crowd. His short stubby tail wagging like he owns the place.
I follow him with my eyes for a while, then turn my attention on Rio. He's charming the crowd as usual. And making a trio of attractive girls giggle.
I take a deep breath.
Things were so right last night.How did they go so wrong?
A familiar yip sounds from somewhere across the room.
I look up and spot Snorty near the dessert table. His front paws braced against the knees of a young boy in a bluesuit.
Samuel. Henry Lemon's son.
Snorty wags his whole back end, ecstatic by the attention Samuel shows him.
My heart softens. “Snorty,” I call gently as I approach. “You’re a shameless flirt.”
Samuel looks up at me, cheeks flushed. “He found me,” he says. “I hope that’s okay?”
“He likes good people.” I reply.
Snorty punctuates this by rubbing his head against Samuel’s pant leg.
Samuel giggles. It’s the purest sound in the room.
Henry Lemon steps up behind us, his shadow falling over his son.
Mr. Lemon’s bright yellow suit, tie, and even his pocket square are all marked with the Quench lemon logo.
He scans me, then Snorty, then his son’s smiling face.
It's hard to read him. I know from Antoine that he saw the tabloid photo. But accepted Antoine's belief that the tabloid was just blowing an innocent encounter out of proportion.
“I see the dog has made quite an impression.”
“He does that,” I say with a small smile.
Snorty yips proudly.
But then his yip turns into a shallow, wheezing cough. My stomach flips.
“What’s wrong?” Samuel asks, his voice climbing in panic.
“He’s okay,” I reassure quickly, kneeling to rub Snorty's chest. “He has a health issue. It flares when he gets excited.”
Lemon studies Snorty with unexpected concern. “Will he be all right?”
“Yes,” I say, though the worry in my chest hasn’t faded. “He just needs medical help. That’s why we’re here.”
This—this—is my opening. My chance to pivot from the tabloid -scandal to my autism research report.
But first I need to make sure he really believes the story I told today on Braxton's show.
"Mr. Lemon, about that tabloid ..."
"Just one moment, young lady," he says, instructing his son to stay close before leadingme to two chairs.
I sit, nerves tight. We met briefly after breakfast, but this feels different. This feels like a summons to the principal’s office.
