“No,” I tell him, pointing a finger his way, “she won’t feed you either. I’m all you’ve got, man.” I stare at Chunky, knowing he won’t get my words, but when I cross my arms over my chest, he gets the point. If he had hair, I swear he’d flip it as he turns to dismissively strut away and sniff around the fenced-in front yard. I just shake my head. “Drama king.”

Looking over my shoulder, I finally have a chance to look at Zoey, who is grinning like a loon behind her fisted hand, which is doing absolutely no good at hiding her amusement.

“I said ‘don’t judge!’,” I mock-growl.

She laughs out loud now. “No, you said not to judge Chunky. I’m not. He’s adorable, and yeah, chunky as a well-fed tick. But I’m totally judging you.” She points a finger my way, smiling. “Because that was freaking adorable. You most definitely are a dog person, Mr. Hale.”

I give her a shrug of concession. She’s got me nailed. “Of course, I am. Cats are weird. All the attitude and shenanigans.” I curl my hands into claws and give my best cat impersonation. “Hisssss.”

Zoey laughs and leans to get away from my pretend cat scratches, but I catch her in my arms.

Time stops and our eyes lock.

She licks her lips, and I’m this close to kissing her when Chunky, that four-legged cockblocker, comes barreling past us back into the house, loudly demanding his dinner now that he’s done checking the yard for squirrely intruders.

I set Zoey back right on her feet, feeling every inch of her body separate from mine and hating it.

Seeing Chunky sitting by his food bowl, with one paw inside the dish making it stand up vertically to show how empty it is, she clears her throat. “Ahem, guess that’s your cue.”

I sigh, knowing I spoil my damn dog. “Chunky, you’re getting nothing but kibble tonight, man,” I threaten, knowing I’ll give him the specially prescribed diet food I buy at the vet’s office, same as always. “Come on in.”

I focus on putting Chunky’s food in his bowl, stirring it around with his special fork, and acting like I’m putting seasoning and spices in it. I even pop it in the microwave for a second and push the buttons, but don’t actually turn it on because it’ll spark the metal bowl.

“Ooh, this is gonna be so good, Chunkster,” I tell him, and he pants in excitement, his tail thumping against the floor. I swear, if this dog could control the TV, he’d watch Food Network all day while I was gone. Okay, fine . . . I do sometimes turn it on for him. He likes it!