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Chapter One
Pepper
“Didyour dog just piss on my truck?”
Muffy lowered his—yes,his—leg and wagged his tail as he blinked up at me. I glanced at the mud sliding down the tire where Muffy had pissed like a racehorse instead of a greyhound.
I winced before I turned around to face the music. Holy . . . My arm went limp, and I almost dropped the leash. Dark boots. Worn jeans. FDNY T-shirt. Stubbled jaw. Lips in a flat line.Keep going. Skip the lips, Pepper.
Reluctantly, I forced my eyes to continue their perusal upward.
Granite jaw. Blazing brown pools.Whoa, he was mad.Mussed dark hair.Had he just rolled out of bed? No, it was almost dark. He couldn’t have. Unless . . . someone else he’d rolled out of bed with had done it . . .
Muffy nudged my hand.
I stared at the fireman, the George Strait song spinning in my head.
Lick.
I looked down.
Muffy nosed my pocket.
Jolted, I dug out a treat and offered it to him. “Good boy.”
“Youpraisedyour dog for pissing on my truck?” A dark eyebrow rose.
I wanted to sink into the snow-covered sidewalk. Instead, I motioned toward the jacked-up pickup. “He cleaned half your tire. You’re welcome.”
Inwardly, I cringed. That was so not what I meant to say.I’m sorrywould’ve been the correct response, yet I still couldn’t find those words.
Lightning flashed in his dark eyes. I inched my neck toward him.Are those gold flecks in his irises?Damn, too far away to tell.
“Excuse me?”
I circled my finger in the air toward the tire. “It’s filthy. A wash in any capacity is a step in the right direction.”
He glared.
I glared back, despite that he could snap me in half with those arms. Why had I turned down the last fireman who’d come by Grey Paws to sell a fundraising calendar? I’d bought a couple, I just hadn’t taken the calendars.
You thought it was degrading to men.
Well, I was wrong. Because if he was Mr. January—or any month—I’d sorely missed out.
“Are you justifying what your dog did?” The biceps I’d been admiring bulged when he folded his arms.
“Muffy doesn’t see a difference between your tire and that tree.” I gestured toward the Callery pear tree on the edge of the sidewalk.
“She should—wait a second.” He tilted his head. Muffy mimicked him as they stared at one another. “That’s not a she.”
“No, he’s not.”
Muffy wagged his tail, and I patted him on the head.
“You named him Muffy?” Mr. January asked incredulously.
“What’s wrong with his name?” Why didn’t I just explain how Muffy came to be Muffy?
