Sally stood about five-foot-five and had blond hair and blue eyes. Her dress was white and sparkly, and she smiled a lot but didn’t seem all that warm around Dana or her family. Wolfe hadn’t yet figured out why she’d put Dana and her sisters in the wedding. “This is your fault,” Sally spat.

He almost agreed until he realized she was talking to Dana and not to him.

“It’s my fault,” he corrected, edging to the left to grab the dog.

Sally put her hands on her slim waist. “Dana, you brought this crazy dog on purpose. You’ve always been jealous of me, and here I am getting married.”

Dana turned pink, but she didn’t argue.

“Wait a minute.” Katie stepped up to her side, followed by the twins. “That’s not true.”

Dana partially turned. “It’s her wedding. She needs her shoes.”

Wolfe nabbed Roscoe by the scruff of his neck. “Drop the shoes and keep your mouth off them.”

The dog snorted, growled, and then gingerly stepped out of first one and then the other shoe. Wolfe breathed out, his body calming. Roscoe then turned his head and ducked.

“No.” Wolfe pushed the dog out of the way and snagged the shoes before he could get one in his teeth. He strode toward Sally. “I’m really sorry about this. Apparently, Roscoe was in a firefight with the FBI and somebody got blown up and he was injured and he had a problem with another dog being taller than him. Or something like that.” Wolfe had never really paid attention to the story.

Sally took the shoes and gave him a brilliant smile. “Why, thank you.”

The growl behind him was from Dana, not Roscoe.

The music started up again, and Wolfe took a step away from the bride. He looked back momentarily, turning to meet Roscoe’s wide eyes. “Don’t,” Wolfe warned.

“Yip.” The sound was pure joy as Roscoe bounded over the bar, snagging a bottle of Jack on the way and landing on the nearest table, sliding slightly on the soft linen. He sucked the whiskey down before Wolfe could get to him and then leaped from table to table, scattering glasses and purses.

The bride yelled again.

People scrambled out of the way. Roscoe landed on another table, set his mouth over a bottle of champagne, and tipped it back, gulping wildly.

“Holy shit,” Mitch said, lunging off the dance floor.

“Go left,” Wolfe ordered, heading to the right. They had to get the dog before he drank any more. Roscoe never knew when to stop.

“That’s it,” the bride bellowed, gathering her dress and storming toward the dog.

Wolfe held up a hand, trying to stop her. “Wait a sec—”

The dog jumped toward another table, but the ticked-off bride blocked him, throwing her shoulder into Roscoe. He spun in the air, and then everything happened in slow motion.