She blushes. “He’s nice.”
I narrow my eyes when she looks away. Tapping the table, I say. “On a scale of one to ten, how nice do you find my brother?”
Benedetta’s about to have a panic attack.
I glance under the table, and I think the dog peed. He’s shaking at her feet.
For fuck’s sake. “I am forward and direct, and dislike misunderstandings and having things left unsaid,” I say. “But I don’t hit women or dogs.”
She swallows, her face as red as a tomato.
I push onward. “Is the dog a rescue?”
“Yes.”
“Does he need therapy or something like that?”
She shrugs. “I don’t know. I think he just needs some attention. And maybe some love.”
“I will arrange therapy for the dog. I read about this a while back. Anyway, consider it done.”
“Yes, sir.”
Smiling, I bare my teeth. “Hudson.”
“Hudson,” she whispers.
Christ, she turns me on. I want to wrap my arms around her submissive nature while I make her body bend to my will.
I move the chair back and duck under the table, then whistle at the dog and tap my knee. He’s wary of me, but I keep making kissing noises, and it takes maybe ten minutes of my life to get the dog to crawl to me.
Grunting, I pick him up and settle him on my lap. Now, this dog is about seventy pounds, and I think it’s still a puppy. Benedetta watches me the way a curious dove right outside the window might watch people moving inside the house.
“What breed is he?” I ask.
“Neapolitan Mastiff.”
“Has the driver taken you to the vet?” I chuckle, then self-correct. “Excuse me. Has Jerry driven you and the dog to the vet?”
“Not yet.”
“Schedule the vet for next week.”
“They’re booked. I tried.”
“We’ll call another vet, then.”
“This one came recommended.”
“By whom?”
“Bishop.”
I grit my teeth and change the subject. “Mika is off. We’re having a temp starting next week.”
“’Kay,” Benedetta says. “Are you hungry?”
“Yes. You?”
