“That’s right, Mouse,” I huff, trying to catch my breath. “All of this can be yours, and more, if you just—no, no, don’t look at that squirrel—”
Mouse resumes course, leaping and jerking the leash out of my hand. I go down, limbs flying, and am greeted by the sharp sting of asphalt digging into my left knee and palm. I wince and squeeze my eyes closed, aware of the tears trying to escape down my cheeks. I will not cry. I will not cry over a dog.
“MOUSE!”
I sound bloodthirsty, irate—and I am. As soon as I catch up to him, I am going to surgically attach his leash to my hand, and then I am going to shove the rest of the salmon treats in the trash because the days of salmon treats are over. No more of the good shit—he can eat the store-bought crap like every other mangy mutt.
“Jesus! What the—” a masculine voice says from around the corner.
I whip my head up and the blood drains from my face. That’s where Mouse has gone. He pulled out of my hold and whipped around the corner. I push to my feet and hurry to follow after him, petrified of what I will find on the other side. He’s a friendly dog, but he can be overzealous at times. Like an escaped mental patient that just wants to lick all of the faces in the entire world.
“Mouse!” I try again as I round the corner and find the most horrifying scene imaginable.
The pieces are easy to put together. There is a man sitting on the sidewalk. Mouse is on top of him, licking his face, and maybe that wouldn’t be so bad if not for the mud. I cringe as I stare down at the massive puddle at my feet. I can imagine it now: Mouse rounding the corner, bounding right through the puddle, and then leaping on this stranger with enough force to knock him off his feet. His suit is completely covered in mud—his designer suit from the cut of it.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
I cannot afford to buy this stranger a new suit, so I only have one option. I will kill Mouse. I will kill him like Cruella de Vil and make him into a beautiful new fur suit.
“I am so sorry,” I say, but then I realize he can’t hear me because my hand is still covering my mouth, as I’m completely shocked at the audacity of my puppy.
“Are you kidding me?”
That’s what the stranger says.
Though his words aren’t nasty, the tone he uses definitely is.
I leap into action, realizing it’s been nearly a minute and Mouse is still on him, licking his face. I grab ahold of his collar and yank him off.
“Bad dog!” I reprimand, hoping to convey my anger into dog-speak.
Mouse stares up at me, happy and oblivious. To him, it’s been a splendid morning. It’s not yet noon and he’s had a walk, leapt through mud, and mauled a perfect stranger.
The stranger.
I’m reminded that he’s still there as he gets to his feet and wipes at his suit, trying in vain to clear off most of the mud. It’s no use. There are massive, muddy paw prints covering the entire front of his pressed white shirt and blue jacket.
“Are you hu—”
I have every intention of asking him if he’s hurt, I do, but then I finally look up at his face for the first time and I am utterly speechless. Mouse didn’t just maul a stranger. He mauled what Daisy and I would call a perfect male specimen. If Mouse had killed him, I could have stuck a pin in his body and mailed him to the Smithsonian. Homo sapien perfectus.
Even muddy, he gives most of Hollywood a run for their money in the looks department. And if he weren’t currently scowling at me, I’d swoon. Hell, even with the scowl, I swoon a little bit. It’s that perfect combination of piercing green eyes and strong jaw. He’s clean-shaven, and his brown hair has been tousled by careful hands. He’s tall, and even with his suit on, I can tell he’s in formidable shape. It takes all of three seconds to confirm that he’s the best-looking man I’ve ever seen in real life, and he’s currently telling me to get my dog under control. He says I shouldn’t have a dog like that if he’s not properly trained. He is the preacher and I am the choir.
I can hardly do more than nod dumbly.
“He’s a puppy,” I say. Like that explains everything.
“Puppies aren’t immune to training,” he says, narrowing his eyes on me like I’m the problem—me, not the hellhound now sitting contentedly at my feet.
I think he’s going to continue berating me, but he shakes his head and turns in the opposite direction down the sidewalk.
No! He can’t leave. The last time a man that handsome stopped in this tiny town was back when Marlon Brando’s car broke down on the nearby interstate in 1954. The chamber of commerce had a plaque made up and everything.
“Hey wait! Could I, umm…let me cover your dry-cleaning bill!” I shout after him. “Or maybe a chiropractor’s appointment? Are you hurt?!”
He waves away my offer and heads back down the street, clearly in a hurry to distance himself from me. I stand there, frozen, admiring his retreating backside. It’s incredibly depressing. I haven’t come across a man who’s elicited that immediate stomach-churning, hands-shaking, brain-short-circuiting reaction in years—maybe ever—and this stranger did. He sure did, and now he’s walking away, retreating into the distance, and I know I’ll probably never see him again.
I sigh and look down at Mouse. He’s watching me with his head tilted to the side.
“You little monster. You could have at least kept him pinned a little longer, maybe given me a chance to win him over with my dazzling personality.”
Mouse barks in response.
I remember that I’m currently bleeding and running late for my vet appointment. I sigh, regretting this latest episode in The Life of Madeleine Thatcher—one in which the stranger in the blue suit will likely have nothing more than a brief cameo.
CHAPTER TWO
ADAM
I hate Texas. I’m a northerner at heart. In Chicago, I could walk down a crowded city street and not have to make eye contact with a single person. Apparently in rural Texas, I can’t even make it to work without getting mauled by a stranger’s dog.
I still can’t believe it.
I’m pissed.
And I’m late for work.
I left the frazzled brunette on the sidewalk yelling something about dry-cleaning—as if a bit of starch could fix the problems she has. Her time would be much better spent training that puppy, which is only going to keep getting bigger. What if I’d been elderly? Injured? Not in the mood to deal with mud on my suit?
I tear it off and toss it aside. There are a half dozen identical ones lined up in my closet, but I convince myself that one was my favorite. She ruined my favorite suit sounds much more dramatic than she ruined my suit.
I’m good at holding a grudge.