Bear doesn't smile at her, but his expression softens. He's fond of Gloria. "Thank you."
"Bear," I murmur. "You can't take him to your apartment. They don't allow dogs."
Bear just shrugs. "No one in the unit below me, or across. Be fine for one night."
"And then?"
"Dunno. Maybe he can sleep at the yard."
I frown up at him. "The yard?"
"Headquarters." He taps the logo of his work shirt—Crowe demolitions. "Equipment yard."
"Why not take him there tonight?"
"Have to ask Riley first."
"So call him and ask?"
A sigh. "No phone. Don't know his number."
I blink at him. "You don't have a cell phone?"
"Nope. No need."
Back to one and two-word answers, now, apparently.
"Well, it'll be tight quarters, but I'll drive you two home."
Bear shrugs. "Not far. I can walk."
"Bear." I take his hand. "C'mon."
He gazes down at me, at our joined hands—his fingers tighten ever so slightly around mine. "Alright."
It is indeed tight quarters in my little CR-V, what with a giant man and equally giant dog. Panzer huffs constantly, fogging the back windows until I lower one, at which point he hangs his huge head out and lolls his tongue, jowls flapping in the wind.
"He sure is funny, now that he's not acting like a murder machine," I say. "What kind of dog is he? Never seen one like him."
“Cane Corso."CAH-ney COR-so.
"What made you adopt him? I ask.
A shrug. "I understand him."
I glance at him, and wait—my father, a psychology professor, long ago taught me the value of a leading silence.
Bear looks at me, and then out the window. "Big, scary, unwanted, and misunderstood. People see his size and how intimidating he is and nothing else."
"Bear," I murmur. "I see you."
He shakes his head, swallowing hard. "Noelle…"
"What?"
A sigh. "I'm not…" he trails off.
"Not what, Bear?" I press.
