The rental is perfect.
It’s a charming two-story Craftsman with gray cedar shingles and crisp white trim, perched just high enough on the dunes to offer a stunning view of the lake. A wraparound porch, complete with a couple of wooden rocking chairs, faces the water, and there’s a private path that leads straight to the beach.
Inside, the space is designed for easy living—vaulted ceilings, large windows, and hardwood floors worn soft by sand-dusted feet. The kitchen is small but functional, and the living room features an overstuffed couch that looks as if it was made for post-beach naps.
I drop my grocery bags onto the counter and take it all in.
This is exactly what I need.
No packed schedules, no pressure from the front office, no cameras in my face. Just me, my dog, and an entire summer to clear my head before my contract negotiations ramp up.
I slide a few items into the fridge, then pause when I realize Rip isn’t glued to my side anymore.
“Rip?”
Silence.
Shit.
I glance toward the sliding glass doors that lead to the back deck, and sure enough, they’re cracked open just enough for an 80-pound mass of pure disobedience to squeeze through.
I walk outside and scan the dunes until I spot him.
In her yard.
The woman from the grocery store.
She doesn’t see me yet. She’s crouched in the grass, her long fingers scratching behind Rip’s ears while my traitorous dog soaks it up like she’s the best thing that’s ever happened to him.
“You’re such a good boy,” she coos, her voice softer than I’ve heard it.
Rip is loving it. He has a big, dumb, tongue-lolling grin, his paws planted firmly on her thighs, as if he’s already chosen her as his new favorite person.
My damn dog.
I take a moment to size her up in the daylight.
She’s tall—maybe five-eight or five-nine. Long legs, toned but soft in all the right places, tanned like she’s spent some time in the sun. Her dark brown hair is flecked with gold and blows gently in the breeze.
And her face?
Would be gorgeous—if she didn’t look like the type of woman who could destroy a man for sport. High cheekbones, full lips, and expressive brown eyes that seem to assess everything and everyone with instant judgment. A perfect little nose that wrinkles slightly when she’s amused—and from what I can tell, she’s not amused by me at all.
She looks like she’d be devastating if she smiled at a guy.
Not that I’ll ever be on the receiving end of it.
I clear my throat and step off my deck and into the grass.
She lifts her head, and just like that, her entire demeanor shifts.
Her expression closes off. Her fingers stop scratching behind Rip’s ears. The warmth in her face vanishes so quickly it’s almost impressive.
“Well, well, well,” I drawl, crossing my arms as I approach. “You sure change your tune when you don’t realize you’re talking to my dog.”
Her lips press together as she straightens.
“I wasn’t talking to you,” she replies coolly.
“No, but I still feel personally betrayed.” I glance at Rip, who is sitting obediently at her feet, tail thumping the grass like she’s his long-lost soulmate. “Seriously?”
She lifts a single brow. “Maybe he has good taste.”
I scoff.
She exhales, turning back to Rip. “Go home, buddy.”
Rip does not go home. Rip leans harder against her legs, as if sensing the chance to ruin my life.
I huff and step forward, slapping my thigh. “Rip, let’s go.”
Nothing.
She lifts her chin, looking smug. “Looks like he’s made his choice.”
“You feeding him steak over here or something?”
“Just some affection.” She scratches him one last time, then sighs. “I guess you can stay.”
I frown. “Were you talking to me or the dog?”
She gives me a once-over. “Not entirely sure yet.”
I arch a brow. “You always this charming?”
“Only for people who deserve it.”
Jeez, she’s mean.
And—annoyingly—kind of hot when she is. ...
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