Page 14 of It's Mother-Pucking Christmas!

“Oh my gosh, look at all these cuties!” Gracie cooed as we greeted all the puppies. “Do you have older dogs, more of a couch potato?” my cousin asked one of the shelter workers, who had a Santa hat name tag that read Steph. “Not that puppies aren’t adorable.”

“Or any hard-to-place dogs that no one wants?” I suggested, feeling moved by the soppy Christmas carols playing.

“We do have one dog, but he’s a handful. He’s a nine-month-old husky who’s been returned three times. They are highly intelligent dogs.”

“They need a lot of exercise and stimulation, right?” I asked.

“Right. Do you have a yard?” Steph asked, leading me to the back of the room, where there was a crowd of people gathered.

“I live in a condo.”

“Oh, well, I don’t think that would work. We do have some pugs.”

“Pugs!” my cousin squealed.

“Gracie, Hudson’s already on edge. You showing up with yet another pug could push that poor man right over the side of the cliff.”

“There’s no harm in looking, right?” she asked as we pushed through the onlookers.

The crowd parted.

“It’s him.”

“Yeah, that’s the husky,” Steph said, confused, as a goofy-looking husky puppy in his awkward teen phase loped over to me, bowling over several corgis.

“No,him.”

The shelter worker beamed as Ryder scowled at me. “Our local celebrity! He’s here volunteering to help find the animals homes. You should take some photos with him. If you ask nicely”—she lowered her voice—“he’ll let you touch his chest.”

His very bare chest.

“I knew it wasn’t all padding,” Gracie said, sounding a little breathless. “Hudson’s a liar.”

“What a show-off,” I snapped.

Ryder crossed the room toward me, bare arms filled with happy puppies, black jeans low on his waist. A thin line of redboxers showed above the black band and framed washboard abs that matched the freaking Santa hat he was wearing.

“I suddenly feel the need to adopt another pug and maybe have a baby,” Gracie whispered to me.

“I don’t.”

“Are you stalking me?” Ryder said by way of greeting.

“Go to hell.”

“Nice to see you again, Mrs. Wynter,” he addressed Gracie.

“Oh, ha ha! Right, I’m married.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Okay, you can drop the ‘ma’am.’ I haven’t been married that long.”

“Did you want to see the pugs?” the shelter worker asked Gracie, leading her away.

“Actually, Dakota’s right. Hudson will have an aneurysm if I come home with another, but do you have German shepherds?” My cousin drifted off.

Ryder and I stared at each other. Or rather I stared at the parts of his chest that were not hidden by puppies, and he stared at me.

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