With my leg in a cast I can’t even walk the d@mn dog. Then she comes along, all ponytails and grins. I don’t do friendly. It hurts, reminding me of what I once had and lost.
“What’s her name?”
“Who?”
“Your dog? Its name?”
“How the heck would I know? I call it Dog.”
“Well does Dog bite?”
“I don’t think so. Didn’t bite me.”
“That’s not funny, Mr. Slate.”
“It’s Slate, just Slate.”
Slate
I specifically told the agency I wanted a male dog walker. The woman they sent is way too leggy, too naive, and too d@mn pretty. I got no business letting her stay in my guesthouse, especially the way my blood runs south whenever she’s near.
Note: Steaming hot scenes, two wounded souls, and a slobbery puppy. HEA guaranteed.