Page 192 of Lorenzo

I look at him for several seconds.

Then toward the family room.

Mocha has rolled onto his side now, one back leg stretched out over the edge of the bed.

“When did Mocha get a bed here?”

Lorenzo glances toward the other room.

“I don't remember. A few days, I suppose.”

I have apparently been looking at it for days without really seeing it.

“Does that bother you?” he asks.

“I don't know.”

“All right.”

I frown. “All right?”

“You don't seem to want to elaborate,” he says.

I stare at him.

He takes another bite of chicken.

I almost laugh despite myself.

Instead, I shake my head and reach for my water again.

“I think my dog thinks he lives here now.”

“He has good taste.”

I narrow my eyes. “You're being smug.”

“I am simply eating dinner.”

“Smugly.”

He smiles then.

I point my fork at him.

“That.”

His smile only gets wider.

I take another bite before I say something stupid.

The irritation is still there, but it is softer now, mixed up with something I would rather leave alone.

Because I know what all these little things mean.

Maybe that is why they are bothering me.

The dog bed.