“No. We’re not even actual handlers,” I said. “We were impersonating one. That’s different.”
“We could become actual handlers.”
“We’re busy.”
He huffed. “You’re busy.”
“You’re about to be busier,” I countered. “Cooper’s already stacking more responsibilities on you.”
“That’s not the same.”
“It is,” I said. “You don’t have the time. I don’t have the time. The K9 unit barely has breathing room as it is.”
At that, he went quiet for a fraction too long.
“I asked Cooper,” he said casually.
“Asked him what?”
“If I could join the K9 unit.”
My spine stiffened before I could stop it. He grinned, satisfied. “Ha! I knew it.”
“Knew what?”
“You’re the one blocking it.”
“I am not?—”
“You are,” he insisted, pleased with himself. “Cooper keeps giving me non-answers. That means you told him something.”
I straightened, slipping into the calm, clipped tone I use during evaluations. “I just don’t think you’re a good fit.”
His brows lifted.
“The dogs get too excited around you,” I continued evenly. “You over-stimulate them. You give them too many treats. You blur reinforcement timing.”
“That is slander.”
“It’s accurate.”
The real reason was simple. My focus always seemed to shift the second he walked into a room, and the dogs picked up on that. My attention went to him first, everything else after. That wasn’t good for the job.
He leaned closer, resting his head against my shoulder. I could feel the curve of his smile against the fabric of my jacket.
Chris’s fingers slid from my nape, down the center of my back in a slow, absent-minded stroke. Warmth followed the path of his hand. My shoulders loosened despite myself.
“Okay,” he said lightly. “But if we did come back next year…”
“No.”
“But—”
“Not happening.”
His hand even drifted lower, settling at my waist. His thumb pressed gently into the dip of my hip, slow circles that had nothing to do with comfort and everything to do with patience. I could feel my resolve thinning.
“Pampi could easily podium,” he went on. “We’d take bronze. Minimum.”
