Page 37 of The Love Haters

For just a millisecond there, I’d thought that dog had saved me. Ifhe had stopped just a bit shorter, I could have hidden fully behind his gargantuan torso until it was time to slip into the pool. He could have been my salvation.

But now, of course, as my precious beach towel lay forgotten on the deck like a dead jellyfish, and as Hutch leaned in so close to peer at my backsidethat I could feel his breath brushing my skin, it was clear this dog was the opposite. He’d shoved me out of the frying pan and into the hellfires of deepest humiliation.

All the dread I’d felt for how this morning would play out?

I should’ve doubled it.

Wait.Tripled.

The ladies set about splashing in the pool, and Hutch got to work on the splinters, leaning against my lower back for support.

A line from one of my favorite movies went through my head:“I’m tempted to marry him so I can tell people how we met.”

I felt little pinches from the tweezers and the near constant brushing of his fingers as he felt for the edges. Hutch’s face, I swear to god, was six inches from my butt the whole time.

If that.

“You were in the shop yesterday,” Hutch said then, striking up a conversation in that let’s-pretend-this-isn’t-weird way the gynecologist does when she busts out the salad tongs.

“Yes,” I said, playing along.

“You were wearing one of Rue’s… garments.”

Well, that was thoughtful. An opportunity for me to say, “My regular clothes were in the wash.”

“You looked like an Orange Crush.”

Was he teasing me? “Is that a compliment?”

“I guess that depends.”

“On?”

“On if you like Orange Crush.”

So this was Hutch. Now that we were meeting—if you can call a man pulling splinters out of your nether regionsa meeting—I found myself reviewing Cole’s prep info on his brother. According to Cole,Hutch was serious, and never joked around, and hardly ever talked. He was a former Eagle Scout, a former high school class president, the epitome of a responsible adult, and a total alpha.

Cole had warned me that nothing about Hutch was in any wayfun.

Yet here he was: teasing me a little.

Maybe he sensed my panic. Or maybe he had some of his own.

“I’m truly sorry about all this,” he said next. “I’ve honestly never seen my dog do anything like that. And I’ve had him over a year.”

I looked down at the dog, now resting his head on his paws, under the table.

“Is his name George?” I asked, studying him. “Or Bailey?”

“Both,” Hutch said. “It’s George Bailey.”

“Like in the movie?It’s a Wonderful Life?”

“Exactly,” Hutch said, like not everybody knew that reference. “He’s a rescue,” he added then.

“You rescued him and named him after Jimmy Stewart?”

Hutch shifted position to get a better angle. “He was part of a puppy mill, so he didn’t even have a name at first. The puppy mill was raided, and they pulled out sixty-seven dogs. He was two years old, and he’d never been outside. He’d spent his whole life in a cage.”

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