With any other woman, he’d have taken that arch as an invitation—a flirtation not unlike the one attempted on him by the sister with the wavy hair, Dawn. Not so with Sophie. Not now that he was coming to realize just how much Oscar had betrayed him.

That scurrilous bastard. His longtime supervisor and friend could have easily saddled him with one of dozens of providers who matched people with service dogs and lived to tell the tale. But he hadn’t. He’d flipped through his ancient Rolodex and landed on this slip of a woman who made him feel like a bull in the entire goddamn china factory.

In other words, he’d known exactly what he was doing.

“Anything within reason,” he amended, one wary eye on Sophie, the other on the puppy. Call him paranoid, but giving the pair of them an open invitation to make demands of him seemed like a bad idea.

Mostly because he had the sinking sensation he’d do it—that all-encompassing, terrifying anything.

“Define ‘reason,’” she said.

“I know it’s all the rage, but I refuse to have anything to do with dog sweaters,” he said. “I think they’re ridiculous. It’s like putting a sock on a potato.”

Sophie’s lower lip dropped a fraction. He didn’t know her well enough to say whether it was surprise or indignation that caused it, but she nodded her agreement anyway. “Noted. No sweaters on dogs, and no socks on potatoes. Is that, um, a thing you’ve seen before? With the potatoes?”

Not surprise. Not indignation. She was laughing again.

“That includes raincoats, hats, and those little boots I’ve seen dogs wear on TV,” he added, reluctantly pleased by way her eyes lit up.

“You hate any type of clothes on dogs and root vegetables. Got it.”

“In the spirit of full disclosure, I hate clothes on regular vegetables too.”

“I had no idea a man could have such strong opinions on produce. What else is off-limits? Tattoos on fruit? Bread with dentures?”

He opened his mouth to continue his litany of things he refused to have anything to do with—up to and including women who mocked him with their eyes—but decided against it. Some people claimed the things he didn’t like in this world far outnumbered the things he did like, but one thing was for sure.

He liked Sophie Vasquez.

The thought dropped on him from out of nowhere, all pleasant and squishy and warm. He had no idea what he was supposed to do with that feeling. Ball it up? Shove it deep down? Lay it out on the grass and roll in it?