Page 70 of Texting, Trouble & Touchdowns

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Lucian: She’s fine.

Olivia: She’s having a crisis.

Lucian: She’s manipulating you.

Olivia: She’s your dog.

Lucian: What does that even mean?

Olivia: It means that she’s just like you.

Lucian: Excuse you, but I don’t manipulate anyone with tantrums and crises.

Olivia: Does she do this to you when you’re around?

Lucian: She’s just an innocent pup, Olivia.

I glare at my phone.

This man.

This cocky, arrogant, smirking-from-hundreds-of-miles-away man.

I shift under Sarah, who groans dramatically and leans into me even more, making herself one with my lap.

I take another photo.

This time, it’s a close-up of her tragic expression—big, glassy Vizsla eyes, head resting on my arm, entire soul radiating grief.

I send it to Lucian so he can witness the pain and agony she’s pretending to go through.

Lucian: . . . okay, that’s a little concerning.

Olivia: SHE IS DYING, LUCHI. SHE MISSES YOU.

Lucian: Did you just call me Luchi?

Olivia: STAY FOCUSED. YOUR DOG NEEDS HELP.

Lucian: Or . . . she’s playing you like a damn fiddle.

Sarah lets out the most prolonged, most tragic sigh I have ever heard in my life.

I narrow my eyes at her.

“Are you conning me?” I ask.

She does not respond.

Which is answer enough, because she is a dog.

“I’m going to set you down and start my dinner,” I tell her. “You have to move.”

Instead, she nuzzles into my stomach, a silent, guilt-inducing ploy that I know is a calculated attack.

I stare down at her. “You know I’m onto you, right?”

Sarah blinks.

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