“Come on. Be nice.”
He stares at me with unsettling intensity.
Then, without warning, he charges.
I yelp and throw myself backward, crashing onto the couch.
Ragnar stops mere inches away from me, looming over me as though trying to prevent me from standing.
“Ragnar, stop!” I say in what I hope sounds authoritative.
He doesn’t move.
Just stares.
Judges me.
That’s the exact moment the front door opens.
A male voice, gruff and tired, echoes through the room.
“Ragnar, enough!”
The sheep immediately stops and turns around.
Then, as if by magic, his entire attitude changes.
He trots toward the newcomer with affectionate bleats, rubbing against his legs like an oversized, deeply devoted cat.
Slowly, I sit up, heart pounding, and lift my eyes toward the man who just walked in.
Tall.
Dark hair.
Rain jacket.
Face…
No.
No, no, no.
It’s him.
The man with the Land Rover.
The one who pulled me out of the ditch.
The one I accused of being condescending before taking back my thanks.
He stares at me too, and I can tell he recognizes me.
His expression shifts somewhere between discomfort and resignation.
“You,” I blurt out.
“You,” he replies in the exact same tone.
