Here's the other thing: I'm an idiot.
Instead of letting go of the lead like a sensible person, I hold on. Some deeply buried instinct tells me I can stop him, that I can plant my feet and be the immovable object to his unstoppable force.
I am not an immovable object.
I am a six-foot-one pilot who just got yanked off a dock by a dog with a vendetta.
The lake is cold.
The lake is very, very cold.
I go under completely—a full-body immersion that shocks the air out of my lungs. When I surface, gasping, Ranger is onthe shore, lead trailing behind him, the squirrel long gone. He looks back at me with an expression that clearly says worth it.
From the dock, Callie is laughing.
Not a polite laugh. Not a restrained chuckle. She's doubled over, one hand on the railing for support, the kind of laughter that shakes her whole body and echoes across the water.
"Are you—" She tries to speak, fails, tries again. "Are you okay?"
"Fine." I'm standing in waist-deep water, dignity thoroughly drowned. "Everything's fine."
"You just—" More laughter. "He just—you went straight in?—"
"I noticed."
"Your face?—"
"Yes, thank you, I'm aware of my face."
She's crying now. Actual tears streaming down her cheeks. She has to sit down on the dock, legs dangling over the edge, because standing is apparently too much effort.
I could be embarrassed. I could be defensive, make excuses, try to salvage some shred of masculine pride.
But watching Callie O'Connor laugh until she can't breathe—because of me, because of my stupid dog and my stupid decision to hold onto the lead—feels like a victory.
I start laughing too.
"He really hates squirrels," I manage, wading toward the shore.
"I see that now."
"I should have warned you."
"You think?"
I drag myself onto the beach, water streaming from every inch of me. My henley is plastered to my chest, my jeans are approximately forty pounds heavier than they were five minutes ago, and my boots make a squelching sound with every step.
Ranger trots over, tail wagging, and shakes himself vigorously. Directly next to me. Adding insult to injury.
"Traitor," I tell him.
He licks my hand. He is not sorry.
Callie's finally gotten control of herself, though her eyes are still bright with tears and her smile hasn't faded. She stands up from the dock and walks toward me, stopping a few feet away.
"You're dripping."
"Astute observation, Doc."
