“I’ve done some construction.” I straightened, wiping my hands on my jeans. “Nothing professional, but I can swing a hammer.”
“Investor, property owner, handyman.” She tilted her head. “What else?”
“That’s the short version.”
“Give me the longer one.”
I hesitated. I didn’t talk about myself—not the real stuff, anyway. Business contacts got the polished pitch. Casual acquaintances got deflection. Nobody got the truth. But Peyton was looking at me with genuine curiosity, and I found myself answering.
“I started investing when I was sixteen. Saved up from odd jobs, learned everything I could about markets and real estate, turned a little money into more money.” I shrugged. “I was good at it. Still am. Moved here about eight years ago because I saw potential in the area. Bought some land, built some relationships, watched the value climb.”
“And now you own half the town?”
“Not half. Maybe a quarter.” The joke landed flat, and I sighed. “I own this parcel—the land the firehouse and vet trailer sit on. I lease it to the town at a fair rate. The agreement has specific terms about use and traffic and liability, and this operation…” I gestured at the controlled mayhem around us. “Violates most of them.”
“So why are you helping instead of lawyering up?”
Because of you, I thought. Because I couldn’t stop thinking about you. Because something about the way you stood your ground yesterday rewired my entire brain. Because seeing how you cared for those dogs made me want to take care of them too.
“Because the dogs needed help,” I said instead. “And sometimes doing the right thing matters more than protecting your assets.”
She smiled at that—a real smile, not the guarded one from yesterday. It transformed her whole face, made her look younger and softer and even more beautiful.
That was going to be an impossible face to resist.
“Come on,” she said, nodding toward the holding area. “There’s a dog I want you to meet.”
I followed her through the maze of kennels and crates to a quiet corner where a large mixed breed huddled in the back of his enclosure. He was skinny, his coat matted despite someone’s obvious attempt to clean him up, and he watched us approach with wary eyes.
“This is Bear,” Peyton said softly, crouching down to his level. “He came in yesterday. One of the worst cases. He won’t let anyone touch him yet. Just sits there, shaking.”
She didn’t reach for him—just sat there, patient and still, murmuring soft words I couldn’t quite hear. After a long moment, the dog’s trembling eased slightly. He didn’t come closer, but he stopped pressing himself against the back wall.
“Hey, buddy,” she whispered. “You’re safe now. Nobody’s going to hurt you here.”
A little of the ice around my heart thawed. Watching her with that broken, terrified animal—the gentleness in her voice, the patience in her posture, the way she gave him space while still letting him know she was there—I understood something I’d been trying to deny since the moment I saw her.
This wasn’t attraction. It wasn’t infatuation or inconvenient chemistry or any of the other words I’d used to dismiss it. This was it. She was the one. The person I hadn’t known I was looking for, hadn’t believed existed, had certainly never planned for. And all my careful strategies, all my protective walls, all my years of keeping everyone at arm’s length—none of it mattered anymore.
I was in serious danger of falling for her.
And watching her comfort that scared dog, her voice soft and sure, I found myself not minding at all.
3
PEYTON
By mid-afternoon, my entire understanding of Warrick had flipped upside down.
The man I’d pegged as a cold, calculating landlord—the one who’d shown up yesterday threatening lease violations—had spent the last six hours hauling supplies, reinforcing kennels, and quietly doing whatever needed doing without complaint. He anticipated problems before they happened, stepping in to help overwhelmed volunteers without being asked. He was patient with the animals, gentle even, and more than once I caught him murmuring reassurances to a frightened dog when he thought no one was watching.
It didn’t make sense. None of this made sense.
We’d fallen into an easy rhythm somewhere around hour three, working side by side like we’d done it a hundred times before. He handed me things before I asked for them. I directed him to tasks that matched his skills. We moved around each other in the cramped spaces between kennels without bumping, without awkwardness, like our bodies had figured out a language our brains hadn’t caught up to yet.
It was disorienting. And a little terrifying.
“Break time,” Warrick said, appearing at my elbow with two bottles of water. “You’ve been going nonstop since I got here.”
