Flynn unleashed Barley and let him run up the front path and steps to Mac on the porch. Mac dropped to his knees to accept the dog’s excited kisses, laughing. He made a halfhearted effort to push him away.
Joy and despair competed paradoxically—and in equal measure—within Flynn to see the reception. It was cute, to be sure, a dude with his dog. And if Flynn had no stake in this game, it would have ended there. But that was just the rub too. Barley wasn’t Mac’s dog, not really. So why did Flynn still feel as though he’d stolen him away from his bliss? Why did guilt lurk in the darker recesses of his mind? Sure, Barley had gotten more accustomed to the routine at home—he no longer stood waiting at the door for Mac to rescue him, nor did he search empty rooms looking for Mac. But this reacti
