Thankfully, he’s talking to Chunky, not me. “Let me get some filler film of him goofing off.” Sebastian pulls his phone out and starts filming Chunky, who’s sniffing around the grass a few feet away. Completely oblivious to the beginning of his fifteen minutes of fame, Chunky chooses that moment to squat and poop. “Oh, shit! Literally.”

I grab a bag off the leash thrown over my shoulder and clean up while Sebastian huffs out in annoyance and drops his phone to his side.

“Sorry,” I say in surprise, placating Sebastian’s instant mood switch.

Damn, bro. It’s not that serious, just a sixty-second TikTok.

“Take two,” Sebastian shouts. Sebastian is acting like a movie director ordering around a B-list actor in a scene. But Chunky’s no actor, he’s a dog. And while he’s trained, he’s no Lassie or Beethoven. “Good, good,” Sebastian hums. “I’ll do the voice-over later.”

“Oh, okay. So, what do you recommend I try with him?” I’ve got a good veterinarian whose recommendations I trust implicitly, and Chunky is doing well. But that doesn’t mean I won’t take some advice, especially since Sebastian required prepayment for a consult.

Plus, I need to establish some camaraderie before I start asking questions that might raise suspicions. Not sure what detective guide I’m following to decide that, but it seems logical. I can’t exactly ask flat-out if Sebastian knows what happened to Richard Horne and expect him to hang around for the follow-up questions.

“You said he’s doing well on his nutrition? Under doctor’s orders that include adequate protein, carbs, and fat, plus vitamins and minerals?”

Damn, Sebastian flips from vapid influencer to well-spoken and informed like most people change underwear.

“Oh, yeah, prescribed food all the way. He’s down seven pounds in six months and is more active, but we could all do better, you know?” I confide. “I try not to give him treats, but those pretty puppy dog eyes . . . they get me every single time. Isn’t that right, sweet boy?”

Sebastian smirks at my baby talk, and I feel like he just swiped my man card right out of my wallet. Thankfully, he doesn’t say anything but silently watches Chunky for a moment more. “It’s not a treat if it’s not good for him, dude.”

“Wise words.”

“Yeah, you gotta be firm, with your dog and your woman, ’cuz you know what’s best for ’em. Amiright?” He nudges me with his elbow and chuckles like that’s brilliant advice.

Okay, maybe for Chunky it is, but even I know telling a woman she can’t have a piece of chocolate when she wants one is a bad idea.

A really bad idea.

In fact, it seems like a sure-fire way to end up in Zoey’s morgue. Rightfully so.