I looked down at the gorgeous big ball of love. He looked up at me with dark eyes, cocking his little head to the side. He was a black Labrador Retriever and I guessed he was eight or nine weeks old. The same size as Sandy.

“Mine?”

He crossed his arms over his chest, watched as the dog’s tail thumped against my stomach and he nudged my neck with his soft nose.

“One of Maple’s pups. Dogs love unconditionally. They’re always happy to see you. They don’t care what you look like or who you’re friends with. They just want to be where you are.”

He reached out, scratched behind his ear and the dog turned his head to try to playfully gnaw on his hand.

“Your parents are a nightmare,” he continued. “Your sister’s a fucking mess. A dog’s a hell of a lot better. This one’s a sure thing when it comes to love.”

I wasn’t sure if I should laugh or cry. Thatcher got me a dog. To give me the love that I wasn’t getting from my family.

“Thank you,” I said, swallowing hard. I’d never thought about having a dog before, but I lived where I worked. He wouldn’t have to be alone, although I’d have to read up on the health codes of animals in a bakery.

I leaned down, nuzzled the puppy.

“I’m sorry about leaving you in Cutthroat,” I admitted.

He shrugged as if it wasn’t a big deal.

“I’m sorry I didn’t give you a chance,” he added.

My eyes widened. The puppy wiggled and I put him down. He pranced around, tried to eat a tall blade of grass, then flopped down and went to sleep.

“A chance? Between the party, my parents’ house, and softball, I’d say you gave it more than a chance.”

He grinned, then leaned in and murmured, “I liked your parents’ house. Especially the kitchen.”

I flushed and looked down at the dog, pushed my glasses up. “I did, too.”

“Go out with me,” he said.

I whipped my head up, stared at him. “What?”

“Dinner. Movie. A horseback ride. ATVs. Whatever. I want to spend time with you. Alone.”

A thrill shot through me. “You do?”

He grinned, although it was almost bashful. “Yeah.”

A few seconds of hope quickly faded. I shook my head. “A weekend is one thing, but I can’t go out with you knowing you’re leaving. I might be nicer than my sister, but I’m not a masochist.”

He set his hand on my arm. The heat of it seeped into me. I remembered what that hand could do, and I got wet. I wanted him to touch me. But I wasn’t stupid.

“I’m not going to Mexico.”

My eyebrows went up and I stared. “You’re not—”