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I chase after him. “This isn’t my fault! For the record, it’s the possum who’s to blame. Not me. And you’re the one who threw the trash bag right in the doorway.”

“Sure,” Archer says as I catch him. The edge of his mouth lifts in a smile. “Because you tackled me.”

We round the corner at the end of the hallway and enter the front lobby. Where Sara’s massive puppy—already larger than most full grown dogs—is barking at the possum, which is lying belly-up on the floor, motionless.

Sara is barely able to hold back Archibald, who has his butt in the air, tail wagging wildly like he is hoping the possum will decide to be his new best friend.

“Oh, now you play dead,” I say, glaring at the possum, who’s doing a very convincing job.

“Maybe itisdead?” Sara says, struggling with Archibald’s leash. “It keeled over and hasn’t moved an inch. But could someone get it out of here?”

Archer looks to me, and I shrug. “I’m not the one who owns the building.”

With a sigh, he steps forward and nudges the possum with the now-scuffed toe of his dress shoe.

With a deeper frown and a bit more force, Archer pushes the possum again. Still no movement. No reaction. Is it even breathing? I see no sign that it is.

Archibald sits back on his haunches and whines, the very literal picture of puppy-dog eyes.

“I think,” Archer says with a frown, “it’s actually dead.”

“Do you think Archibald scared it … to death?” Sara whispers. With a heavy sigh, the dog in question drops his head to his paws.

I shouldn’t feel anything remotely sad for this overgrown creature, with its wicked teeth, rat tail, and its propensity to chase humans. But Idofeel bad.

Perhaps because I was at least partly responsible for the whole situation. Though I would argue that Archer shares equal responsibility for its demise. I certainly can’t blame Archibald. Puppies get a pass on scaring possums to an early demise.

“Maybe he was already dying?” I suggest. “He was behaving oddly. I mean, he chased us, then ran into the building.”

“You said opossums don’t get rabies,” Archer says.

“I’m not saying it was rabid. Just maybe … sick.”

“What do we do with it?” Sara asks.

“I suppose put it in the dumpster,” Archer says, nudging it once more. I watch hopefully for any movement, but there’s nothing.

Archer gives a firm nod, like he’s decided something, then bends and reaches for the possum’s tail.

“You can’t pick him up by his tail!” I say.

He pauses, still bent over the animal. “Why not? And how do you know it’s ahim?”

“I guess I don’t. And it just feels … wrong. Be respectful. Hedied.”

I expect an argument or at least resistance. But Archer’s soft twilight eyes meet mine again, and he offers me a grim smile. Crouching down, he flexes his fingers, then starts to slide them underneath the creature’s midsection, much like you might pick up a cat.

In a hiss and a flash of pointy teeth, the possum miraculously revives and launches itself at Archer.

With a very girlish scream Archer shoots to his feet, flailing his arms as the possum climbs him like a tree.

Not to be left out, Archibald leaps, Sara loses her grip on the leash, and the billionaire, the dog, and the marsupial crash to the floor in a flash of fur, teeth, and an expensive suit that will mostdefinitelyrequire dry cleaning. Or perhaps a funeral pyre.

Chapter Eight

Archer

Limping inside my apartment,I close the door and slump against it, wincing at the contact as I recognize a new bruise forming on my back. I’m exhausted. Being tackled to evade an opossum attack will do that to a person.