Page 1 of Love in the Net
1
The October airsmells like pumpkins and possibility. I’m standing in the middle of Blue Ridge’s community park trying to convince twenty-five dogs—and their equally excitable owners—that I have everything under control.
Spoiler alert: I do not.
“Okay, everyone,” I call like I haven’t just been stomped on by a German shepherd who can’t stay away from my peanut butter pawcakes. But those are gone, the poor thing.
“Don’t forget to grab your free pupcake! Pumpkin-flavored and Waffles-approved!” I wave one in each hand, the breeze lifting the hem of my apron. This one has a huge dog head on it, as does every apron I own. I suppose your wardrobe is a bit canine-dominated when you own a dog treat bakery.
Waffles, my golden retriever and the unofficial mascot of Pawsitively Delicious, is tied to the leg of the folding table behind me. He’s supposed to be embodying the calm, well-behaved image of my bakery, but instead, he’s spinning himself into a leash-tangled tornado of excitement.
“Waffles, buddy, you’re killing me here,” I mutter, setting down the paw-shaped pumpkin treats and crouching to untanglehis leash for the fifth time in ten minutes. He responds by licking my face and wagging his entire rear end. “Yeah, yeah, you’re adorable.” I grin at him, because he absolutely is. “You’re also a menace.”
I glance around the park, trying to get a read on the chaos level. It’s high. Dogs are darting around each other and their humans, tails wagging, noses sniffing furiously at the air…and other things. Someone’s corgi has managed to steal a pupcake and is gleefully sprinting away with it while its owner gives chase. Honestly, it’s a miracle no one’s fallen into the nearby pond yet.
“Claire,” a voice calls from the crowd. It’s Mrs. Henderson, a regular customer with two yappy Chihuahuas and a penchant for passive-aggressive compliments. “Do you have any treats for dogs with gluten allergies?”
“Of course, Mrs. Henderson,” I shout back, even though I absolutely do not. I’ll just have to whip up something special for her later. Or maybe not. Does anyone reallyneedgluten-free dog treats?
Who diagnoses that anyway? I used to be a vet technician, and let me tell you, I’ve never heard of a gluten-free dog.
Before I can dwell on it, Waffles tugs hard on his leash, and I barely manage to grab hold before he bolts. But my grip on him lasts approximately half a second before he yanks free, a blur of golden fur and bad decisions.
“Waffles!” I abandon my table and chase after him. “Get back here, you furry delinquent!”
He’s running full speed, ears flopping and tongue lolling, like this is the best day of his life. Like I keep him chained in the back of the bakery, near the hot ovens.
Like a heat-seeking missile, Waffles zeroes in on a tall, broad-shouldered man standing near the edge of the park with two dogs standing at his side. So well-behaved.
Time slows down as I watch in horror, unable to stop the inevitable.
Waffles leaps.
The man—bless his reflexes—tries to sidestep, but it’s no use. Waffles collides with him, sending him stumbling backward. His foot catches on a root, and down he goes.
Into the mud.
All I can think is,Why did it have to rain this morning?when I should be devoting more brain power to sprinting faster.
By the time I skid to a stop, Waffles is standing triumphantly with two paws on the man’s chest, tail wagging like he just scored the winning goal in some invisible dog Olympics, and licking his non-bearded face. The man is glaring up at me through dark lashes, his face streaked with mud, and his two dogs—one a massive Bernese mountain dog, the other a wiry border collie mix—are barking their heads off.
“I’m so sorry,” I blurt, rushing to pull Waffles off him. “He’s usually much better behaved, I swear. Are you okay?” I manage to get my fingers curled under Waffles’ collar and pull him back. “Sit. Sit down.”
To my utter surprise, the Bernese mountain dog sits. So does the border collie. Waffles? He grins up at me, and I hold up my fist, the dog sign language forsit down right now or I will withhold all treats for a full year.
Waffles sits.
The man rises slowly, wiping mud off his face with a look that can only be described as “grumpy bear interrupted mid-hibernation.” His dark gray eyes lock on mine, and for a second, I forget how to breathe.
He’s…wow. Ruggedly handsome in thatI-just-chopped-wood-and-brooded-about-itkind of way. Broad shoulders, strong jaw, fierce eyes, and a frown that testifies that he’s a man who just got tackled by a dog.
“Let me help you,” I say.
“You’re going to help me?” he asks, his voice deep and gravelly. His tone is dry, but there’s a hint of amusement in his eyes that wasn’t there a second ago. They burn like deep, dark embers, and I can’t look away.
I brace myself to help him stand, but instead of grabbing my outstretched hand, he gestures toward Waffles, who’s now wagging his tail so enthusiastically it’s practically a weapon. I always tell him, “Tail awareness,” but he’s still working on it six years later.
“Yours?” he asks.
