Page 44 of The Stud

At her front door, I take a long, slow, controlled breath – much like I do before a faceoff – ring the doorbell, and brace myself to deal with whatever comes next.

This was the right play…right?

Show up.

Show that I care.

Show that I’m more than just the sniper chasing man slut she’s branded me to be.

That’s three ginos right there.

A fucking hattie.

How often do chances like this come along?

The dark wood front door suddenly opens; however, it doesn’t reveal to me Hoss.

Or a housekeeper.

Or even a fucking human.

No.

I’m greeted by a fucking wild beast charging straight at me, oversized paws popping me directly in my chest. The hard impact stumbles me backwards onto my ass while the bags I was holding launch out of my possession only to land Gretzky knows where.

There isn’t time to track their whereabouts or question what’s broken or salvageable.

Fuck, there’s barely even a second to catch a breath before the monster is pinning me beneath the full weight of its body and snarling so close its spit trickles onto my mouth.

I always imagined I’d have a more heroic death than mauled to death in a Dalvegan suburb.

So much for that, I suppose.

“Atta boy, Bear,” Arden praises upon her arrival beside my sprawled-out frame. “Atta boy.”

“I thought you said hisnamewas Bear!” I cut my panicked glare over to her, refraining from making any sudden moves. “Not that youowned a bear!”

“He’s not a bear,” she informs on a lazy ruffle of what I’m guessing is bedhead. “His kind was initially bred tofight bears.”

“Why?!”

“To protect the monks.”

“What monks?!”

“The ones in Tibet.” Pride doesn’t hesitate to pump through her stare. “He’s a Tibetan mastiff.”

The black and tan furry behemoth still drooling onto my face deepens his growl, an action that has me nervously murmuring, “Could we…perhaps…maybe…communicate toTheLion Kinghere that I am not a threat he needs to protect you from?”

“Not sure that’s true yet.”

She drops her hands onto her hips, clearly prepared to investigate my presence, yet is abruptly interrupted by my squeaky questioning, “Is that my signed jersey?!”

Horror or guilt or possibly a combination of the two cracks her jaw in a speechless fashion.

“It is…” Despite the snarling beast seconds from eating my face, I cockily coo, “I always sign right across the wing with my name and number.” My smirk deepens. “And I not only see a two but also an eight.”

Her eyes twitch a small glare. “And?”

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