My hands are busy, one holding the camera strap on my shoulder, the other wiping sweat from my neck. Sweat is trickling between my breasts as well, but I’m not going there with Jack so close. “Thanks, but I’m good. Maybe another time.”

His eyes chide me. “Let him get to know you. Your daughter wasn’t afraid.”

“I’m not afraid.”

“You are.”

I’m about to deny it. But why? “Okay. I am. I’m used to goldendoodles, cockapoos, and cheagles. They’re all smaller.” But we both know the problem isn’t size. Jack’s dog is smaller than many of the designer breeds my friends have in New York. “There’s something about the way he’s tugging on that leash.”

“He wants to sniff your hand. Don’t worry. He just had breakfast. He won’t eat you until that’s worn off.”

“Good to know,” I say, but those bloodshot eyes are begging for something, and I do feel for the poor thing.

Jack’s voice comes low and coaxing. “Make his day, Mallory. Let him know you won’t hurt him.”

Trusting Jack because, well, because I do, I extend a hand. Guy sniffs it, looks at me with those woeful eyes, and then, apparently having sent his message, loses interest. Putting his jowly muzzle on Jack’s thigh, he closes his eyes.

“Looks like I made a big impression,” I remark.

“That’s the best kind,” Jack replies and lifts a tall coffee to his mouth. His palm covers most of the lid, while his long fingers splay over the front. I raise my sunglasses to my cap, but the logo stays the same.

“Starbucks?” I ask in mild disbelief. Bay Bluff prides itself on homegrown coffee. It prides itself on fresh burgers and in-house chips. At least, it used to.

He takes a drink, then says, “There’s one near work.”

Which raises another issue. The Jack Sabathian of old would have slept late unless the house was burning down. Granted, in this chapter of his life, he is a professional with a practice to run. Still. “You work weekends?” I ask, but redundantly. His scrub top is dark green and still pressed despite spatters of something fresh in the area of his abs. Studying them, I wince. “Those look ugly.”

“It was,” he says. “A family cat was hit by a car. I got the call at five this morning and did what I could, but I’m not sure she’ll survive. My partner is with her now. I’ll check back later.” He sounds like he’s trying to be matter-of-fact, but that groove on his forehead says he’s discouraged, which puts me to shame. Sure, he could have changed his shirt before being seen in public by people who have just eaten breakfast, though it is in the nature of Jack to make statements. Still, criticizing bloodstains earned by a lifesaver? Shallow, Mal. Shallow.