That wasBarley! Flynn knew it as surely as he knew his own name.
He felt an adrenaline rush. He was going to get his dog back. He wiped angrily at his face. Flinging open the car door, Flynn put his feet to the pavement. He took off, pausing only long enough to twirl around a bit to lock up the car with the remote.
He ran the almost three-mile circumference of the trail around the lake in what he’d guess was record time.
But Barley and the redhead were nowhere to be found.2
For Christ’s sake, he’d lied about his name, which wasn’t even the worst of his lies. He’d never stooped that low before, even with a one-night stand he didn’t want to see again. And Mike? Couldn’t he have come up with something more original?
Kneeling on the hardwood floor in the front hallway, Mac Bowersox pulled the harness from Hamburger. “Good boy,” he said, stroking the dog. He then bent a little to give the dog a good, strong hug. The dog wriggled to be free. He’d never liked being hugged.