Page 8 of Daddy's Naughty Dog Trainer

There's a loaded quality to the question that makes my heart beat faster. We're standing too close now, close enough that I can smell his cologne. Something expensive and subtle, with notes of cedar and bergamot. His eyes hold mine, challenging me to look away first.

I don't.

"Tell me, Jessica," he says, my full name rolling off his tongue in a way that makes me shiver, "do you make a habit of testing boundaries with all your clients, or am I special?"

My mouth goes dry. "I don't know what you mean."

"I think you do." His voice drops lower, a rumble that I feel in my chest. "The lateness. The phone. The..." his eyes do another quick sweep, "outfit."

Heat floods my face. "I always dress like this for training."

His smile is slow, knowing. "No, you don't."

I'm caught, and we both know it. I could apologize, could backpedal, could play dumb. Instead, I’m absolutely shocked to hear myself say, "And what if I am testing boundaries? What would you do about it?"

The air between us crackles with tension. For a wild moment, I think he might actually answer the question. Might show me exactly what he'd do.

Instead, Lucky chooses that exact moment to race between us, a sock stolen from somewhere dangling from his mouth.

The tension breaks. Sean sighs, stepping back. "Lucky, drop it."

Lucky, delighted to have attention again, does not drop it. Instead, he dashes away, initiating a game of chase that has Sean muttering curse words under his breath.

I can't help but laugh. "Looks like someone else is testing boundaries."

Sean glances back at me, and there's something in his eyes, something hot and promising, that makes me catch my breath.

"Some boundaries," he says quietly, "are more dangerous to test than others."

With that cryptic warning, he turns to chase after Lucky, leaving me standing there with my heart racing and a thrill of anticipation curling in my stomach.

Next week can't come fast enough.

CHAPTER 3

"Absolutely not."

I stare at Sean, who's standing in his living room with his arms crossed over his broad chest. We're twenty minutes into our next training session, and we've hit our first real impasse.

"It's just a treat puzzle toy," I explain for the second time, holding up the colorful contraption. "All the best trainers use them. It stimulates Lucky's mind and teaches him problem-solving skills."

Sean eyes the toy like it might be harboring a bomb. "It's bright orange, has moving parts, and will make a mess on my floor."

"That's kind of the point," I say, trying not to roll my eyes. "He has to work to get the treats out. It keeps him occupied when you're busy."

"I don't want him 'occupied' with making a mess. I want him to learn to behave."

I take a slow, deep breath. This is our third session, and until now, things have been fine. I felt I’d overstepped at the previous session, so the following session had been strictly professional. Things had gone smoothly. Too smoothly, maybe. I’d felt tensionbetween Sean and me, but I kept everything between us the way it should be, even if my fantasies said otherwise. Today, the tension between us is so thick, I feel like you could cut it with a knife.

Lucky's been making incredible progress with his basic commands, and Sean's been following my training plan to the letter. But now we've hit the Sean Ferguson Wall of Control, and it's as immovable as I feared it to be. Some days, I don’t even like this man. Other days, I think about him all day long.

"Part of behavior training is mental stimulation," I explain, using my patient, professional voice. "Dogs get destructive when they're bored. Give Lucky appropriate outlets for his energy and curiosity, and he'll be less likely to chew your expensive Italian loafers. He’s less likely to make a mess with this toy than when he’s bored, waiting for you to finish working."

Sean's eyebrow twitches. I hit a nerve, I'd noticed the mangled remains of what were once very nice shoes tucked away in the trash during our last session. The one where we were super polite to each other. During the last one, he told me more stories of his childhood, how he got into this career field and I’d opened up, too. In fact, I’d stayed almost an hour longer than my session, sitting and talking with him. Nothing about this situation was normal for me. Nothing.

"There has to be another option." At this point, I feel like he’s being difficult just to be difficult. Surely, he wasn’t this irritated over a toy.

I sigh. "Look, I get it. You like things neat and orderly. But dogs, especially puppies, are messy. You can't expect Lucky to just lie quietly in the corner like a furry paperweight. I mean, there are breeds that are more tame and couch potatoes. Golden Retrievers are not." I remind myself that Sean hadn’t chosen Lucky or the breed.

---