Page 24 of How Not to Mess with a Millionaire

Pretend he’s a baby. That was the problem right there. It was one thing to feed an animal. Give him water. Walk him. Those things were necessities. The bare minimum. But holding him meant bonding with him, and that was where Dante drew the line.

He kept his arms resolutely at his sides. “What if he wakes up?”

“Pet him. Play with him. He needs to get to know and trust you.”

“Do I have to hold him to do that? Can’t I just—?”

He didn’t get a chance to finish whatever it was he was going to suggest because Zoe thrust the pig at him, forcing him to take the animal. Just as Dante feared, the pig woke with a loud, startled grunt and stared up at him with tiny, dark eyes, almost human the way they studied him so intently.

“Pet him,” Zoe urged again. “He likes it when you rub his ears.”

What choice did he have, with the animal already awake and starting to squirm in his arms? Dante followed her instructions, and the pig showed his appreciation by stretching out his chubby body and wagging his curly tail excitedly.

“See? You’re a natural.”

A natural. The last thing he wanted to be.

“There. We’re friends. You can take him back now.”

He started to hand the pig over to her, but she held up a hand, stopping him.

“Oh no, you don’t. You’re just getting started. Besides, you should be flattered. Houdini is very discerning. He doesn’t befriend just anyone.”

“You’ve owned him for all of twenty minutes. How can you tell that?”

“He had enough sense to run away from Mr. Abruzzi, didn’t he? He’s obviously a good judge of character.”

“Good point.”

They sat in silence for a minute as he continued to stroke the pig’s ears. He leaned back against the bed, wishing he was sitting six feet from Zoe instead of six inches. He could hear every breath she took, feel every move—no matter how slight—she made, sense every emotion that washed across her face.

“I know I said this already, but thank you,” she said finally. “I couldn’t stand the thought of sending him back to that horrible man.”

“I agree.” Dante shifted from rubbing the pig’s ears to scratching the top of his head. The pig’s eyes closed, and he let out a soft, satisfied snuffle. And there it was. That tug of affection Dante feared. But he couldn’t help it. No one deserved to be treated cruelly, especially not a defenseless animal.

“What was it he said that changed your mind?”

Dante stopped scratching, instantly on high alert. There was no reason she needed to know his neighbor had called her a whore. “What makes you think it was something he said?”

“Don’t play poker. You’re as easy to read as a Dr. Seuss book. You got all hot under the collar when he said something about your poutine.”

“I happen to be an excellent poker player.”

“No, wait. That’s not right. Poutine is french fries, cheese curds, and gravy. I tried it when I went to Quebec with the high school marching band.” She made a face. “Gross. And definitely not what your neighbor was talking about. He didn’t say poutine. He saidputtana.”

“You were in the marching band?” Dante tried to picture her in a military-style uniform with a plumed hat. Wasn’t that what marching bands wore? They weren’t popular in Italy, probably because they were associated with what Americans called football, and Europeans understood what real football was all about. “What instrument did you play?”

“I was in the color guard. I carried a flag, not an instrument. Now stop deflecting and tell me what it means.”

“It’s not important.”

“I’ll be the judge of that.” She gave him a side-eyed glare. “You know I can look it up in my Italian-English dictionary, don’t you?”

“It might not be in there,” he hedged. “It’s a colloquialism. Street slang, really.”

“Google Translate, then.” She brought her knees up to her chest and hugged them tightly. “You might as well tell me. I’m a pit bull when I want something.”

Yes, he was well aware of that. It was one of her qualities he simultaneously admired and abhorred.