Page 3 of Falling for Felix
I push my purple glasses up my nose—they have a terrible habit of sliding down when I'm stressed, which is approximately seventy percent of the time—and forge deeper into the maze.
"Pickles, come on, baby," I call out, trying to strike the right balance between firm and pleading. "I've got bacon treats in my pocket. Real ones. Not the rubbery fake ones you so dramatically spit out.”
The maze seems to swallow my voice. Stalks rustle overhead, and I catch a glimpse of something moving through the corn about twenty feet ahead. Success!
I pick up the pace, following what I hope is the path through the maze and not just wishful thinking. "And you are absolutelynotgetting any treats if you don't stop terrorizing the—"
I round a corner and connect with something solid.
Very solid.
And very warm.
I stumble backward with a startled yelp that's probably audible in the next county, and find myself staring up at a wall of man. Broad shoulders stretching a dark thermal shirt. Arms that look like they could lift heavy things without breaking a sweat. And strong hands currently gripping a leash I recognize immediately.
Oh no.
"Oh, my god. I’m so sorry!" The words tumble out of me in a breathless rush. "Did my dog just barrel into you like some kind of furry missile? He does that. Again, I’m so very sorry."
The man appears to be in his early thirties, with dark stubble covering a jaw that could probably cut glass and slow, piercing eyes that seem to see straight through me. He looks down at me with the weary patience of someone who did not wake up this morning expecting to be tackled by a wayward dog in a corn maze.
"I assume he's yours," he says, holding out the leash like it's evidence of my crimes against rural tranquility.
His voice is deep, gravelly, like he doesn't use it often and wants to make sure it counts when he does.
I grab the leash with both hands, probably a bit too eagerly. "Yes. Yes, he is absolutely mine. A complete menace, but undeniably adorable, right?”
The man just stares at me. No expression change. No smile. Nothing.
I push my glasses up again and try to channel the kind of charm that might convince him not to report me to whatever authority governs corn maze incidents. "I'm Harper, by the way. Mosaic artist. Festival vendor. Professional dog wrangler, though clearly not a very good one."
Still nothing.
Pickles, the traitor, lets out a contentedwuffand promptly sits down directly on top of the stranger's left boot like he's claiming territory.
And that's when I see it—just the tiniest twitch at the corner of the man's mouth. Like a smile almost happened before he thought better of it at the last second.
Progress.
I straighten up, trying to recover whatever dignity I have left, which admittedly isn't much. "You're not going to call the festival authorities on me, are you? Because I'm pretty sure there's a three-strike rule for wayward pets, and this might be strike two."
The man exhales through his nose—not quite a laugh, but close enough to give me hope. "Not today."
A pause. Then, like he's not entirely sure he wants to share, “I’m Felix.”
I tilt my head, studying him. There's something about the way he stands, the way he holds himself, that suggests he's more comfortable with solitude than small talk. But he caught my dog. And he's still here, talking to me instead of walking away.
And he’s drop-dead gorgeous. Let’s not forget that part.
"Well, Felix," I say, letting his name roll around in my mouth like I'm testing it out. "Thank you for catching Pickles for me. I may have been chasing him through the corn all day if you hadn’t come to the rescue.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Pickles?”
I flash a grin. “Yeah. He’s kind of a big dill.”
Was that a flicker of a smile again?
“Can I buy you a cider or something, Felix? As a thank-you?"
