Chapter Nine
“Mark, how many times have we told you to leave that dog at home?” the owner of the Wheelhouse said as he filled Mark’s coffee mug—which, Billy Jo noted, had come with a shot of whiskey on the side, which he’d poured in.
She was at an outside table, sitting across from him as he dug into his steak.
“Can’t,” he said. “He’s not my dog.”
She thought he was kidding, but the owner just shook his head. She took him in, an older guy with dark hair and glasses. She wondered how well they knew each other.
“He looks like your dog, Mark,” the man said. “Follows you everywhere, so seems he’s decided he’s yours. Just saying, at this time of year, some of the visitors don’t like seeing dogs in restaurants where they’re eating.”
Mark was cutting a few pieces of steak to put on a side p
