"So is he eating well?"

"What?" Thomas yelped.

"Eating. Food. Does Hairy do it?"

He straightened. He shoved his hands into his trouser pockets. Why the hell was he fantasizing about the breasts of a lying, cheating, sirloin-stealing man-hater?

"Uh, not much eating, actually. He doesn't seem hungry."

"And what are you feeding him?" Emma noticed that Thomas Tobin had taken a step toward her, and that he was frowning.

Thomas could barely remember her question. "Uh, dog food?"

She winced, then continued the examination. "Could you be a little more specific, please?"

"Sure. Those hard crunchy things. The forty-pound bag."

Emma straightened and put her hands on her hips. "Thrifty is fine, Mr. Tobin-and forty pounds ought to take care of Hairy for a good portion of his natural life-but how big are the individual pieces of food? Did you purchase kibble designed for the smallest breeds? What brand? And do you soak the food in warm water before serving it?"

He tried not to gape at how the stethoscope hung straight down from her neck, separating the two luscious, all-natural spheres straining under wet fabric. They looked like two fresh-baked cupcakes, topped with cherries, covered in a tight film of cellophane.

His blank stare was all the answer Emma needed, and she sighed. Who in God's name would hire this guy as a consultant? He might be eye candy, but he was about as sharp as a bucket of mud.

"Have you ever tried to chew a baseball, Mr. Tobin? Have you ever, say, while drunk at a fraternity party, tried to shove a baseball in your mouth and chew on it?"

He blinked. "Not that I recall."

"Well." Emma pursed her lips. "Hairy needs teeny-weeny pieces of food for his teeny-weeny mouth. A lot of Cresteds aren't even blessed with a full set of choppers. Here. Have a look-see."