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“I’m fine.” I cling to him as he carries me through his yard and up the steps of his porch.

“Get the door.”

Since I don’t think he’s going to put me down until we’re inside, I let go of him with one arm and grab the handle of the door, tugging it open. Placing his back to it, he holds it open and waits until his dog is inside before he carries me through his house, which smells like him, woodsy and clean with a touch of some spice. After planting my booty on the counter in his small, tidy kitchen, he lets me go and walks to the freezer.

“I’m really okay,” I tell him while scooting away from his dog when it presses its huge snout against my hip.

“If you give him some attention, he’ll leave you alone,” he tells me, walking back my direction.

“So he’s like all men. Good to know.”

“Are you scared of dogs?” he asks, ignoring my comment, and I awkwardly pat the top of his dog’s head. Seriously, the creature is so tall that the underside of his jaw can rest on the counter without him even having to jump up on his hind legs.

“Not normal-size dogs.”

“He is a normal-size dog.” He nudges Storm out of the way, then lifts my leg up onto the counter. With my breath held, I watch him carefully untie my shoe and slip it and my sock off my foot.

“Ouch.”

“Sorry,” he mutters, touching the top of my foot where it’s tender. “Looks like you might have a contusion.”

“Do you think I need to go to the doctor?” I ask, not at all excited about the idea of having to pay for a doctor’s visit, especially when it would likely be an emergency room visit, which would set me back a couple grand I don’t have.

“I doubt it. It might feel uncomfortable for a couple days, but you should be all right as long as you ice it and try to rest it as much as possible.” He takes the ice pack he pulled out of the freezer and wraps it in a towel from his counter before placing it on my foot gently.

“Thank you.”

“No problem.” He leans his hip against the counter, close to me, crossing his arms over his chest, and I bite my lip. Even though I’m fully dressed, I almost feel naked sitting on his counter in my sports bra and leggings with him looking at me. I untie my sweatshirt from my waist and put it on, then place my earbuds in the pocket.

“Are you really training your dog to find dead bodies?” I ask to fill the awkward silence that has settled between us. Or it’s just awkward for me—he seems totally fine, like he regularly rescues women and brings them into his house to take care of them.

“That and people who are missing.” His biceps flex and my toes curl. “Right now there are only two dogs capable of tracking in the nine counties around us, and last time we had a situation come up where we needed a cadaver dog, it took us three days to get one in.”

“Oh.” I look at his dog, who is watching me closely. “Is he yours or the sheriff’s department’s?”

“Mine. I just got him a few months ago.” He rubs the top of the dog’s head when he rests his weight against his leg. “He’s still a puppy.”

“Well, your puppy is staring at me like he wants to eat me.”

“Maybe he just likes looking at you,” he says, and I lift my eyes to his. There is something nice about the way his gaze wanders over my face, not my breasts or body, which are the things most men tend to focus on when they’re looking at me.

I’m a walking cliché, a skinny blonde with big breasts, a tiny waist, and long legs. Over the years I’ve come to accept what people see when they look at me, but that doesn’t mean I don’t get annoyed when I’m stereotyped as a dumb blonde or when men shove me into a little box that fits some sexual fantasy that they have always had. Because the thing with fantasies is that once you’ve had the thing you’ve fantasized about in real life, the thrill of it is over. I’ve found that out the hard way.

The thought makes my stomach sour.

“I should get out of your hair,” I mumble, removing the ice pack from my foot before swinging my legs off the counter.

“Maybe give it a few minutes.”

“It’s all right,” I assure him as he walks to me and grasps my upper arm to help me slide off the counter. “I have ice at home.”

“I’ll drive you.”

“That’s not necessary.” I hesitate while putting weight on my foot. It’s a little sore but not too bad. “I don’t live far.”

“Genevieve, I’m driving you home.” He bends down and picks up my shoe and sock from where he dropped them and hands both over. “Give me a second to get on shoes.” Without another word he leaves me in the kitchen, and I put on my sock and shoe with Storm watching me.

“What?” I whisper to his dog, and he whines before falling to his stomach and looking up at me with his big brown eyes. Okay, I can admit he’s kind of cute, even if he is a little terrifying.