I know I must seem like the most boring person to the world as I pull up in front of my little white house, a newer construction I bought partly because I know the builder and their safety record. But as she parks and takes that first step up my concrete walkway, I feel like I just won the Super Bowl.

“Now, don’t judge,” I tell her as I pause, my key in the deadbolt. “You know, how I live.”

“What? Do you live like a frat boy with just a black leather couch and a big screen set up on boxes?” Zoey teases.

I feign offense as I peek in the window too high on the door for her to see in, as if I’m surveying the damage. “How’d you know?” But at her horrified expression, I can’t help but laugh. “Not anymore, but once upon a time . . .” I shake my head sadly, putting a hand to my chest in faux mourning. “Those were the days.”

Zoey pushes on my chest, scolding and flirting at the same time. Does she even know that she’s doing that? She pulls me in and pushes me away, verbally and physically, at every turn.

But fuck if I don’t enjoy it.

“I meant Chunky. I told you he adopted me, and that’s true, but it hasn’t been long, and his diet isn’t working as fast as I’d hoped.” I whisper the word ‘diet’ knowing that Chunky hates the very idea of it.

“Diet?” Zoey echoes at normal volume.

“Shh, he’ll hear you and get a complex. He’s very sensitive.”

Zoey’s smile is full-wattage with humor. “Your dog, who is named Chunky, supposedly because of peanut butter, is on a diet and sensitive about it?”

“Down seven pounds in six months,” I report proudly.

She seems as ready as she’s gonna be, so I open the door and am almost immediately knocked to my ass by Chunky, who Superman leaps at me joyfully, all four of his doggy feet a solid twenty-four inches off the floor.

Used to this flying canine greeting, I drop to one knee to catch him in my arms and turn my face away so his messy, sloppy kisses hit my cheek and not my mouth because he’s a French kisser if given the opportunity. “Who’s a good boy? That’s right, you are, Chunka-Chunka-Burning-Love. You’re my good boy,” I tell my squirming, slobbery dog as I scratch and pet him all over.

Just as fast as the greeting started, it’s over, and he hops from my arms to run out into the yard. Squatting to pee—I know, he should hike a leg, but I’m working with him where he’s at—Chunky finally notices that it’s not just him and me, and he gives Zoey an interested and hopeful look.

“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!

“Are you pretending to heat up his food?” Zoey asks, and when I look over, she’s got that big smile stretching her lips again.

“Yeah, he’s picky.” I don’t offer any more explanation because I know I already seem a bit crazy, and it’s saying something when a ‘crazy’ recognizes you as one of their own.