“Um.” She jiggled her hand in an effort to bring it to his attention. “Sophie Vasquez? The service dog trainer? Did Harrison tell you I’d be coming?”

“He mentioned something along those lines.” The man finally took her hand and shook it. As had been the case with Harrison, it was a surprisingly gentle grip. “You’ll find him upstairs. There’s been an incident.”

“An incident?” Sophie drew a sharp breath. “Is it Bubbles? Is she okay?”

The man gave her a long look. “She’ll recover, if that’s what you’re asking. My son, however…”

“Oh, you’re Harrison’s dad.” That made so much sense. Looking at him, she could see the resemblance. There was a hard wariness to their expressions, a closed-off quality that went deeper than mere grouchiness. “You said upstairs? Do you mind if I head in that direction?”

“Help yourself. But I’d tread warily if I were you.”

She paused. “The puppy or the man?”

He laughed his understanding. The swift change of expression wiped decades from his face, made him almost approachable. “Both. I wouldn’t care to deal with either one right now.”

The house was built in the traditional farmhouse style, which meant a steep staircase rose almost directly from the foyer. Sophie took the stairs two at a time, barely noting the faded wallpaper with brighter patches where pictures once hung. She half expected canine sounds of distress to assail her, but all she heard as she reached the landing was a low, coaxing male voice.

“You have to come out, Bubbles. There are monsters. Big, scary, under-the-bed monsters who will snatch you between their hoary jaws.” There was a pause and then, in a more urgent voice, “You’re making us look bad. What will Sophie think if she finds you like this?”

Sophie was mostly amused, to be honest. Harrison Parks hadn’t struck her as the sort of man who believed in monsters, let alone was scared of them. How could he be? One fierce glare and he’d have the whole lot of them exiled to their dark lairs.

She walked through the closest door on the right to find Harrison’s lower half protruding from underneath a ruffled bed skirt. It was a strangely appealing sight, his backside tightly encased in faded jeans, his feet bare. A strip of skin appeared below the line of his T-shirt as he twisted and flexed to reach farther under the bed, showcasing a small plastic box clipped to the back of his jeans. His insulin pump, she was guessing.

“I mean it,” he called to the dog. “This isn’t what heroes do. You want to be a hero, don’t you?”

As much as she appreciated the sight of a large, well-built man wriggling on the floor, she didn’t appreciate her poor dog being cornered in a dark, scary place.