Page 26 of Stitch & Steel
He didn’t let go right away.
“Scout’s house-trained. Knows commands. And if anything with bad intentions comes within a hundred feet, he’ll turn them into a chew toy.”
I dusted myself off, still catching my breath. “So now we have a guard dog.”
“And a deadbolt,” he added. “Two of them. Also picked up motion lights and a panic room kit.”
I raised a brow. “Panic room?”
“I’ll explain later. First, I’ve got to fix your back door before it drives me crazy.”
He headed toward the porch, lumber and tools in hand, Scout trotting behind like they’d known each other their whole lives.
I stood there watching them—Logan’s broad shoulders, the masculinity in his easy stride, the way he talked to that dog like they were partners in crime.
God help me.
Because the man had just weaponized loyalty, protection... and puppy eyes.
And I was already in too deep.
The following morning, Gran was on her second batch of cornbread, bustling between the oven and the stovetop like we didn’t have a crew of brawny bikers installing steel-reinforced doors around the house. Logan had shown up early with two men—Bullet and some giant named Bear, whose beard looked like it could survive nuclear winter—and they wasted no time getting to work.
Hammering. Sawing. Measuring. Laughing low over whatever biker jokes they shared.
It should’ve felt invasive. It didn’t.
It felt like... protection.
Scout chased the tennis ball like it owed him money while I weeded the garden beds near the back fence. Dirt stained my knees, and sweat dotted my temples, but I couldn’t stop smiling.The air was warm but not suffocating, and the pine trees danced in the breeze above us.
It was the kind of moment you read about in books—where nothing too exciting happens, but everything feelsright.Like the world paused to give you a soft landing.
“Go get it, you maniac,” I said, hurling the tennis ball again. Scout bolted after it, paws thudding like a mini stampede through the grass.
I leaned back on my heels, brushing dirt from my gloves as I checked the radishes. Everything was so normal. So good. Like maybe, just maybe, we could stay like this.
But five minutes passed.
Then six.
No sign of Scout.
My stomach tightened.
“Scout?” I called out casually, standing and scanning the edge of the woods.
No bark. No rustle.
“Scout!” I tried louder, dropping the trowel.
Still nothing.
Something cold licked the back of my neck—instinct, maybe. Or dread.
I jogged toward the tree line, heart picking up speed. “Scout! Come, boy!”
And then, finally, I heard it. A bark. But not from inside the yard.
