Page 4 of Wine & Dine

“Wally!” Another loud cry and the pressure of the dog releases a bit as he is yanked to the side. I peek through the slats of my fingers shielding my face to see the master attempting to draw this wet heap off me.

“I’m sorry. Are you okay?” the man questions. His voice sounds teasing despite his concern. “He’s never acted like this before. Bad Wally.” I can’t see his face as the sun shines behind his head, keeping him in shadow while he rambles his apology and reprimands his pet.

Finally, my body is free of wet fur and bad breath, but I’m afraid to move. A hand comes to my elbow, and I flinch at the tender touch.

“It’s all right. I just want to help you up.”

I ignore his offer, pressing my hands into the wet sand and rolling to all fours. His hand comes to my lower back in silent support as I push myself upward to fold back on my heels. My hands rest on my thighs while I continue to catch my breath. My chest aches, and my breathing remains shallow.

“Maybe you shouldn’t stand yet?” His rich, rugged voice curls around my ear, and I shiver at the sound of genuine concern. I shake my head, drowning in embarrassment because I’ve just been knocked over by a dog. Of course, this man is concerned. He’s concerned I’ll sue him for his wild beast loose on the beach. Unwittingly, tears well in my eyes.

“Just knocked the wind out of me,” I wheeze, digging my fingertips into my sandy, denim-covered thighs. The man surrounds me in a crouched position. His bare kneecap comes into my periphery. A soothing hand rubs along my spine, crawling under my hair and pausing at the nape of my neck. He massages lightly, and my eyes close. That feels so good.

We stay in this position for a moment, and my throat rumbles. Did I just purr?

“Think you can stand?”

My lids flip open. Sweet lord of licorice, I moan from the touch of a stranger. My heart races, and I scramble to my feet, my entire body shaky. Sounds suddenly register too loud around me. I hear the crash of the waves pelting each other and the harsh snapping bark of the dog who races around us.

“I hate dogs,” I snip.

“I’m so sorry. I don’t know what came over him.”

I snort, swiping at my damp, sand-covered jeans as I twist out from under his firm hand at my back. “What came over him is him coming over me.” My Southern drawl grows sharp with my irritation.

“You’re not from around here,” he comments, stating the obvious but also asking as a question.

I look up at the pet owner.

And I forget how to speak.

My breath hitches for another reason other than the blow from his pup.

The man before me has dark sandy hair and eyes to match. Scruff covers his jaw, a patch a little whiter on his chin. A hint of tattoos wraps around one side of his neck above the collar of his faded red tee. Slowly, the corner of his mouth curls, and he chuckles.

He’s laughing at me.

I straighten up and take a painful, deep inhale.

“You ever hear of a leash?” I snap. His chuckle grows to a deep rumble, and I don’t care for the way the sound travels over my body, making parts of me pulse.

“Only use them on women.”

I gasp. Is he serious? He’s kidding, right? What a pig!

“For sex play, of course.”

My mouth clamps shut. Oh. My. God. Creep. Get away from me, I think, crossing my arms over my chest. California is not for me if this is my welcome, and I’m ready to step around him, wondering if I can outrun him. Our sides angle toward Denton’s building some fifty feet away, but I’m doubtful I can make the distance over the sand as I’m out of shape. And he’s clearly in shape with his fit legs sticking out from his workout shorts, and lean, muscled arms accentuating a tattoo on his forearm. Not to mention the firm fit of his faded tee, hugging his shoulders and outlining his abs.

The throbbing between my thighs increases.

“I’m Garrett, by the way. Garrett Fox,” he offers, extending a hand as if I’d touch him.

Then something registers.

The neighbor.

Garrett Fox.

He’s seriously hot, in a creepy sort of way. In a I-might-like-to-leash-him kind of way. I wonder if he’d lick me instead of his dog? Which shouldn’t be a thought. Shouldn’t happen.

Then his dog barks, and my spell on the master is broken.

With his playful eyes watching me, I decide I hate California…along with dogs.