Page 3 of Love You Too

I balance the folded white bakery bag on top of the coffee cup and adjust the stack of fabric in my other hand. My purse dangles from my shoulder by a skinny strap, and I navigate past the cheese counter and a display of pretty packaged chocolate.

Passing a wine shop with floor-to-ceiling bottles of local vintages, I notice the owner hasn’t ordered the recent crop of cabernets from Buttercup Hill, but that’s a problem for my older brother Archer to solve. I have enough to focus on today with restaurant decor and reopening the inn.

The late afternoon sun shines so brightly that I squint to find my car in the parking lot. I sort of remember where I parked. It was near a tree. At least, I think so. I’m busy looking into the distance, so I don’t see what’s directly in my path. Or rather,whois directly in my path. Not until my knees hit a brown ball of fur, and I lose my footing for a second.

That’s all it takes for my bakery bag to topple from the lid of my coffee. “No, no!” I beg, but it obeys gravity instead of me. I lunge to grab it without spilling the coffee, my purse sliding to the ground and dumping its contents. The tin of coins opens and sends rolling quarters in all directions. Tampons fly. Lipsticks scatter.

The ball of fur decides my little catastrophe is a really fun game and begins leaping toward the coins and pawing them to the pavement. The dog is medium-sized with fur like a brown shag rug and warm cocoa eyes. “Where’s your leash? Who owns you?” I mutter, glancing around. All I see is bright, glary sunlight and pavement.

I manage to grab the muffin bag before the dog gets to it, but I’m gripping my coffee cup too tightly, so the lid pops off, and the life-giving drink sloshes down my arm.

“Ow! Shit, shit, shit.” I suck air through my teeth, shaking liquid from my scalded arm while I scramble on the hot pavement to retrieve the lid and gather my stuff. So very ladylike.

Note to self: always carry snacks. Never balance things oncoffee lids. Conceal tampons in some sort of a pouch. Advice I will ignore the next time I leave the house.

The dog chooses my moment of vulnerability to charge at me like I’ve just yelled “go.” I lose my footing and roll backward, coffee spilling again. The dog seems to think this is a game and starts licking my face with glee.

Listen, I am a dog person. I think they’re cute. I willingly pet them. I’ve even toyed with getting a dog. But right now, in this moment, I am not feeling the love.

Well, maybe a little bit. The dog’s rough little tongue tickles as it laps at my cheeks and chin. It feels like an apology for the chaos. “Okay, buddy. I know. You just want to play. Not your fault your human is a dumbass.”

I hold the muffin bag under the dog’s nose for a good sniff and then toss it a few yards away. Predictably, the dog chases after it, and I cover my face with both hands to block out the infernal sun for a few merciful seconds.

That’s when I finally hear a deep shout in the distance. “Truman. Tru! Stop. Sit. There. No. Stay.”

Even I know that’s too many commands for a dog to understand and obey in a single moment, but at least someone is claiming responsibility for the fur monster. Truman bounces around like he has pogo sticks for legs, his curly fur glinting in the sun, tongue hanging out one side of his open mouth. Pure joy.

As flustered as I am here on my back, I start to laugh. I haven’t sat down all day, and apparently this is how I need to accomplish it—by getting flattened by a hyperactive dog on the sidewalk. The whole situation is so ridiculous when I realize I’m jealous of a dog and his zest for life. Not to mention his freedom from deadlines, fabric swatches, and stress.

The air around me cools as the sun is blocked by a cloud. I wrench my hands from my eyes and open them.

Only it’s not a cloud blocking the sun. It’s the broad shoulders of a tall man standing over me with a confused expression. Withthe sun behind him, he’s hard to see clearly. “Geez, sorry about that. You okay?” he asks, raking a hand through his hair.

“You really should keep your dog on a leash.” I sound like a crotchety old lady, but this is about animal safety. “Cars barely stop for humans, let alone dogs. Give your guy a fighting chance, at least.”

He lets out a long exhale and unfurls a leash from his hand, so it dangles in front of me. “That was the plan. But the little trickster escaped before I got it on him.” He rubs a hand over his chin, where a few days’ worth of stubble catches the sun. I still can’t get a clear view of his face because of the glare, but his voice sounds familiar. He’s a local or someone I’ve run into at Buttercup Hill.

“You sure you’re okay?” Something snags his gaze, and he spins around to yell, “Tru, what the heck are you doing?”

“I’m good.” I push myself to a sitting position, noticing the scattered coins around me and the tampon squeezed in my fist. I quickly shove it into my purse. Then, a hand comes into my field of vision. It’s large, strong-looking, and extended toward me. When I look up, I see that the man is offering to pull me to standing. I wave him off.

“Thanks, but I think I’ll stay on the ground here with my dignity.”

He waves his hand, insistent. “Come on. At least let me replace your breakfast.”

Grudgingly, I place my hand in his and nearly recoil at the jolt of electricity when I touch his skin. It’s like a shock of lightning entering my body at my fingertips, ricocheting up my arm and down my spine. His palm is dry and warm as it connects with mine, flooding me with an unsettling heat. His fingertips rough and calloused as they take a firm but gentle hold. It’s jarring because of its intensity but also…familiar. My body reacts to a long held memory.

When I’m on my feet, I crane my neck slightly, taking in the full six feet and four inches of the man in front of me, cataloginghis soft brown eyes, chiseled jaw, high cheekbones, lips that have no business looking as soft as they do. My eyes quickly scan his body, noticing the defined muscles of his arms beneath his t-shirt, his thighs pulling at the denim of his jeans.

Guess some things never change. At least not for Dominick Renaldi, star hockey player, gorgeous physical specimen, and champion heartbreaker. Or Ren, as I called him back before he broke mine. Ten years earlier, he was the love of my life. The butter to my toast. The capital O of all my orgasms, which have been few and far between ever since.

And now…a stranger.

Playing hockey clearly still keeps him fit, which is decidedly unfair—the rule when you bump into the ex who broke your heart is that he’s supposed to look like a hairy ogre. Oh wait, that’s me—covered in coffee, hair a mess, clothes in disarray from being trampled by his dog.

“Trix?” His eyes soften as they go round with disbelief. That nickname. He’s the only one besides my family who ever uses it. It sends a warmth of familiarity through my veins before I remind myself I don’t feel anything for this man. We aren’t friends. We’re barely acquaintances now.

“W-why are you here?”

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