Page 12 of Cross Check Daddies
“Shit.” I roll to my side, groaning, trying to figure out if I’ve broken anything. My head’s still spinning when I hear the footsteps.
“Holy crap—I’m so sorry! He yanked the leash right out of my hand—Buddy, no!”
I blink up and get an eyeful of legs—bare, toned, dusted with freckles. She’s kneeling beside me, sleek chestnut hair tucked behind her ears. Her eyes are sharp, full of concern, and damn near breathtaking. Warm skin. Subtle perfume. Lips like she’s been kissed well before and should be again.
“You okay?” she asks, reaching out.
“Been worse.” I groan as I sit up, testing my wrist. Probably just bruised. “Your dog’s got moves.”
As if on cue, Buddy takes off again, this time bolting across a front yard like he’s gunning for the Westminster title. A little boy—six or seven, curly hair flying—takes off after him, legs pumping.
“Jackson!” she shouts, panic punching into her voice. “Buddy, no! Get back here!”
I’m already moving. Whatever soreness I’ve got can wait. I push up, jog after them, cutting across a hedge and dodging a sprinkler as I veer toward the street. Buddy’s fast but dumb—gets distracted by a squirrel, which gives me just enough time to slide in and grab the leash dangling behind him.
“Gotcha, you little maniac.”
Jackson catches up, panting and wide-eyed. “You caught him!”
“Barely,” I grin, ruffling his hair. “You okay?”
He nods hard, cheeks pink. “You’re fast!”
I walk them both back to the sidewalk where she’s waiting, hands on her knees, breath held like she’s been underwater too long.
“You saved him,” she says, straightening. “And Jackson. Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet.” I reach into my pocket and pull out a bag with the crumpled strips of bacon jerky I didn’t eat during practice. “Might’ve been these that got him going.”
Buddy catches sight of them and goes berserk—jumps up, tongue out, tail a blur. We both laugh. I toss him a piece, and he scarfs it down like a starving wolf.
“You got him trained already,” she says, eyes bright.
Jackson claps, practically bouncing. “That was awesome! You’re like a dog ninja or something.”
I crouch down and shake his hand. “Name’s Tanner. But you can call me T.”
“Jackson,” he says proudly, then leans in to whisper, “That’s Buddy. He’s bad sometimes.”
I grin. “I think he just has good taste in snacks.”
I stand, brushing my palms on my jeans. She’s watching me, arms crossed now, but it’s not defensive. More curious. She’s pretty in a way that stops time—sunlight skipping across her shoulders, a line of sweat at her collarbone, mouth parted like she’s trying to place me.
“Well, I made the kid and the dog happy,” I say, cocking my head. “What do I have to do to get a smile from you?”
There it is—the curve of her mouth, amused and reluctant. “You’re a flirt.”
“Guilty.”
She tilts her head. “What’s your name again?”
“Tanner. But—.” Her face changes. Eyes widen. Something flickers across her expression. She takes a step back.
“Wait... Tanner as in Cam’s brother?”
Now I’m confused. “Yeah... why?”
She raises both palms quickly. “Oh my God—I’m not a stalker. I’m Brooke. From high school.”
