Chapter 1
Jeremiah
Iwas twenty feet from freedom when Cuddles sank her teeth into my shirt and tried to drag me down like a gazelle in a nature documentary.
“Let go, you ribbon-wearing hellbeast!” I shouted, bolting up the cobbled walkway with the town’s most deceptively named golden retriever snarling and frothing behind me, her not-so-precious teeth latched onto the back hem of my uniform shirt.
She wore a pink satin bow behind one ear like she’d just come from a spa.
I wasn’t fooled.
Cuddles had bloodlust in her eyes and a vendetta in her soul.
At the picket fence gate, I made the executive decision to tear free.
Literally.
Fabric ripped, buttons flew, and I launched myself forward with the desperation of a man pursued by medieval sword-wielding tax collectors. I landed in a bed of disappointed hydrangeas. Cuddles huffed and returned to stand proudly onthe porch behind me, half my shirt clenched between her teeth like a trophy.
The fluffy shit wasn’t even breathing hard, pride glinting in her eyes, as though she’d had a job to do—and she’d done it well.
I picked myself up, brushed mulch off my knees, and assessed the damage.
My uniform shirt hung open like a navy blue cape, revealing pretty much everything the company paying my bills preferred to keep covered. My truck was packed full of packages, and the sun was beginning to set, so there was no time to run home for a fresh shirt.
“Great,” I muttered, gathering the scattered buttons. “Just great.”
The package in the bag slung over my shoulder had somehow survived the attack, which was more than I could say for my dignity—or my poor shirt. I walked a few doors around the dead-end cul-de-sac and checked the package’s address again:
Mrs. Vivian Rodriguez, 44 Maple Street.
The rectangular box was wrapped in discreet brown paper that practically screamed, “online shopping from stores that don’t put their name on the box—for good reason.”
Stopping before a small house with blue and white shutters, I wiped the sweat from my brow and sucked in a steadying breath, then chanced a glance backward to find Cuddles still staring from her throne on the porch.
Evil golden retriever and her vicious teeth.
I turned back to the Rodriguez house. It was the kind of place where someone arranged their garden gnomes in perfect formation and probably ironed their dish towels. Even the doormat was perfectly aligned.
Everything was so neat it felt unnatural. It actually made me nervous.
And . . . of course, this was a “signature required” package. I couldn’t simply drop, buzz, and go.
Awesomeness.
I stepped up the two concrete stairs, tried—and failed—to make my shirt stay somewhat closed without its buttons. It turned out that holding my shirt closed with one hand while balancing a package with the other and trying to press a doorbell was much harder than I imagined.
The sound of tiny feet approached—not the clomping adult footsteps I’d expected.
The door swung open to reveal a girl who couldn’t have been more than five years old sporting pigtails and dinosaur pajamas. She looked up at me with bright, curious eyes and a smile that could’ve powered half the neighborhood.
“Hi!” she chirped. “You’re tall.”
I glanced around, expecting an adult to appear at any second. When none did, I crouched down to her level, still clutching my shirt closed.
“Hey there, sweetie. Are you the lady of the house?”
She giggled—a pure, delighted sound that made something warm unfurl in my chest. “Uh-huh!”
