Prologue - Liam
Six Weeks Earlier
"Sammy, stop! Wait!"
My feet nearly slip out from under me as I dive forward, bounding down the Golden City street. I multitask, bobbing and weaving around pedestrians while simultaneously keeping my eye on the golden blonde ball of energy now getting further and further away.
"Damn dog," I curse under my breath as I knock my shoulder into an innocent businessman. He may have seen my 6'3" frame sprinting toward him if he was paying even a bit of attention to anything other than what he's typing on his phone—but that's my bad.
“Sorry, man!" I yell over my shoulder, my shoes still pounding on the pavement.
Sammy, my—no,Ruthie'sdog—continues scurrying down the street toward anywhere but our house. His hairy ass wiggles back and forth as it always does, and his leash trails behind him.
He does this on purpose. Maybe I can't prove it, but he has never run away from Ruthie while she was out walking him around our neighborhood. But me? I take him for a nice jog—where he can watch the sunset between the buildings while he burns off some of his boundless energy, the spring breeze blowing in his fur—and this is how he repays me.
I watch as our golden retriever's tail whips back and forth as he rounds the corner next to Drippy's coffee shop. I say a quick prayer that they're currently baking cinnamon rolls, French vanilla muffins, literally anything that may catch his attention and reel him in. But as I approach the building, I can tell they aren't.
I should've known.
Wiping a drip of sweat from beneath the brim of my hat, I try to see the bright side—my casual evening jog just turned into a full-blown run. Not necessarily my plan, but I'll never turn down a chance to get a workout in. As a thirty-eight-year-old starter, I have to keep my game up. And as an over-protective girl dad, I have to maintain my intimidation factor.
"Sammy!" I yell again, hoping maybe someone will take pity on me and grab his leash. Or that the wild animal we call a pet will finally listen.
Neither happens.
Instead, Sammy reaches yet another corner as my Gators shirt clings to my chest. Knowing the next street is more residential than the busier ones we've been navigating, I pick up speed, assuming I'll finally have a little more room to take off.
I huff out a breath as I gear up to sprint, but when I pivot around the corner, I realize… I don't have to.
Sammy stopped.
His tail is still wagging, his long, total pain-in-my-ass fur is still waving gently in the wind, but he's no longer sprinting away. Instead, he's sitting and… eating ice cream?
My gaze follows the arm attached to the cone he's lapping, settling on a woman with pink cheeks and a genuine smile. Her long blonde hair is pulled back in what Ruthie would call a messy ponytail with tendrils hanging down, framing her face. Her eyes are locked on Sammy as she watches his long, wet tongue lick up the ice cream now leaning off the cone.
I slow my pace until I'm walking, getting lost for a second as I watch her watch him. Not staring, just… intrigued.
She laughs, and it surrounds me—like when Ruthie was younger and she'd hide in one of those playground tunnels. I'd pop through the other side to scare her, and she'd burst out in laughter that echoed off the thick, green plastic. It mesmerizes me unexpectedly. But when a biker zooms past me as I drift toward the curb, I snap back to reality.
"Sammy!" I call out for what feels like the hundredth time. Still, he doesn't respond, but the woman feeding him sugar he definitely doesn't need lifts her head to look at me.
"I'm sorry," I say, closing the gap between us. "Sammy, stop that."
She shakes her head and stands, her body still bent in half so that the dog can continue eating the caramel-colored ice cream.
"I assume he's yours?" she says as if it's a question.
I tug on the brim of my hat with one hand and drop the other to my hip. "Unfortunately," I sigh, catching my breath.
Her mouth drops open in faux-offense, and I smile at her immediate loyalty to the hairy mutt at her feet.
“No, he's not all that bad." I lean down and rub Sammy's head. He turns to finally look at me, the tip of his nose covered in ice cream. I laugh and roll my eyes, and he goes back to indulging in his treat. "Sorry about your dessert."
In perfect timing, what's left on the cone falls to the ground, and the woman stands as Sammy leans down to finish the job.
"Don't be," she says, holding up her other hand. "A family I used to nanny for had a Golden.” She takes a lick of a second cone, and I'm not sure what throws me more—the pinch in my stomach when her tongue runs along the scoop of pink or the fact that she has two cones to begin with.
"Sweet tooth?"
