Page 4 of Backed By You
Everything about her looks likehoney. Eyes, hair, skin.
She’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.
But when she scurries to grab her wallet and a plastic to-go bag, my brow furrows as the dog stays beside her, pressing his body against her thigh while watchingme. And as they reach her cabin door, I realize this is, in fact, my tenant—Callie Ryan—witha dog.
I thought I made it clear to Duke when I said, “No pets allowed.”
Noexceptions.
Two.
Callie
IfIhadknownbig men who stare for far longer than necessary were the kind of people Duke and Maci, my landlords, rent out to, I would’ve opted for elsewhere.
I lock eyes with the towering man standing on the front porch steps of the larger vacation rental that neighbors my quaint little log cabin. I’ve been renting here on the outskirts of a small town in Montana known as Whitetail for nearly five months now, and this is the first time a tourist has given me the creeps.
I take in the unwelcome sight of my temporary neighbor and note just how intimidating he really is. He barely clears the sloped roof over the front porch, and at my shorter five-foot-five, he has to be over six-and-a-half feet tall. Broad and burly like an ox from his thick, vein-lined forearms. His biceps, covered by his beige T-shirt, have the fabric stretched to the point that if hetries to flex, it’ll tear right off him like one of thoseThunder from Down Underpretty boys.
His T-shirt is tucked into a pair of camo pants and there are two military-like bags set at his feet clad in combat boots. His dark hair is buzzed on the sides, leaving it a bit longer on the top. A faint dusting of a five o’clock shadow grows on a strong jaw that’s locked tight as his intense gaze meets mine.
He’s handsome…in an angry sort of way that only puts me on high alert.
Hulk, my service dog, presses his sturdy frame against the side of my thigh, a low growl building in his chest, alerting me of my racing pulse and the presence of this unexpected visitor.
Hulk is not only a PTSD certified service dog, he’s also a fully trained police attack dog. Iknowwhat he’s capable of. I’ve had him since he was a chunky puppy at six months old. My father, Matthew Ryan, is an officer who trains K9 units. Specifically, German Shepherds and their handlers. I grew up watching him train them.
Unfortunately, as Hulk grew and grew, he was deemedtoobig to be a police dog, regardless of the fact he passed the course with flying colors. If there was ever a scenario where he needed to be carried by his handler… Well, it’d be a little tough.
At a whopping one hundred and twenty pounds of muscle, forty inches to the withers, and a reach of over six feet standing on his hind legs, he’s a purebred German Shepherd the size of a Great Dane. A true anomaly among his litter.
We formed a bond early on that even my father could tell was unbreakable. And after one too many stalkers, crazed fans, and being robbed at a gas station four years ago, Hulk hasn’t left my side since. He watches my back and all my surroundings. Whenever there’s a threat, he signals me and keeps me grounded and calm.
When I need him the most, he’s always there for me.
He’s my best friend.
My big baby.
I grab my wallet, keys, and the dinner we picked up from one of the local pizzerias before heading toward the cabin. Hulk stays at my side as we step onto my cute front porch filled with blooming flowers on this late spring evening.
The man grunts loudly.
I glance at him still watching me as I unlock the door. I try to get a feel if he’s a threat or not, and I absently wonder if I should call Maci to find out how long this guy is staying for.
Should I get a hotel room until he’s gone? I don’t need the added anxiety.
“No dogs,” he says, his voice a deep, husky growl that doesn’t quite have the Western twang most people have around here.
My brow furrows. “Excuse me?”
“No. Dogs,” he repeats, like that’s supposed to explain his ignorant statement any further.
I roll my eyes and turn to the front door. When I push inside, I get the urge to say something. Normally I keep to myself with any of the obnoxious vacation renters I’ve come across since moving in. I neverwantto cause any problems, but… This guy is already pushing my buttons with his leering, and now his comment about Hulk, even though he’s not wearing his service vest at the moment.
“How about you mind your own business,” I say, shooting him a heated glare and striding inside with Hulk. I close and lock the door behind me, being sure to slide the extra deadbolt and slip-chain lock I installed.
The cabin is a typical one-bedroom, one-bathroom log cabin with a covered porch off the back that matches the one on the front. Rustic, quaint, wholesome. My perfect mountainside hideaway.
