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“Yeah. There were things I wanted to buy for him that I couldn’t find online. So I started making them. People go nuts for their little dogs. The business does well.”

That I could believe. Just with the amount of orders she’d already given me, I could tell she made a decent living. It was pretty impressive.

I tilted my head. “They’re kind of useless though, aren’t they? Little dogs don’t really do anything.”

She scoffed. “Okay, first of all, he can hear you. Second of all, he’s a working dog.”

“What, a personal support animal?” Everyone seemed to have one these days. “Doesn’t count. A dog that hangs out with you isn’t a working dog. That’s not a job.”

“And what exactly would count?” she asked.

“A police dog. A search-and-rescue or service animal. A protection dog. A hunting dog.”

She looked at me, dead serious, and put a hand on Stuntman Mike’s head. “He’s a hunting dog.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s an insult to hunting dogs everywhere.” I dug for my cell and pulled up a picture of my buddy’s Lab with a duck in his mouth. “This is a hunting dog.”

She looked unimpressed. “Yeah, that’s a dog that hunts ducks. Stuntman hunts women.”

I snorted.

“What? I’m serious. He’s lady bait.”

I glanced at him. He was pretty cute.

She put her cheeseburger on the coffee table and pulled her dog into her lap like a floppy teddy bear, cradling him like a baby. His tongue rolled out and hung from the side of his mouth. “How about this? The next time you go to the store, take him with you.”

I shook my head. “I can’t take him to the store.”

“Why?”

“Uh, because he’s not a service animal?”

She laughed. “Stuntman can go anywhere. He’s wearing clothes. He’s not a dog—he’s an accessory.”

I chewed a fry thoughtfully. “So I just walk him in on a leash?”

“No, you put him in a bag.”

I shook my head with a laugh. “I’m cool buying tampons, but I’m not walking a tiny dog into a store in a purse.”

“It’s not a purse—it’s a satchel. And if this were entirely dignified, don’t you think all the guys would be doing it? It’s a core part of the strategy. Men don’t own dogs like this. They own dogs like that.” She pointed to my phone. “It’s adorable. Trust me. You’ll be a chick magnet.”

I didn’t care about being a chick magnet, but I liked the idea of having an inside joke with her for some reason. “Okay. You’ve piqued my interest. I’ll test your theory.”

“And if I’m right?”

“Then I’ll tell you that you were right.”

She twisted her lips to one side. “No. Not good enough. If I’m right, you pose in some website pictures with my dog satchels. I need a male model.”

Oh God, what have I gotten myself into? “Somehow this whole deal feels like I’m the loser.” I chuckled. Whatever. I was a good sport.

“How are you the loser? I’m giving you the opportunity to use my highly trained hunting dog to lure scores of women into your bed.”

I smirked. “You know, without sounding like an asshole, I don’t really have a hard time getting women.”

She tilted her head. “Yeah, I can see that. You have the whole sexy fireman thing going for you.” She waved a hand over my body.