“I know.” Sophie had done that on purpose. Some families felt the need to crate their animals or put them in outdoor pens overnight. Which was totally fine when you were talking about a pet, but not at all ideal for a service dog. Bubbles needed to be able to alert Harrison at all hours of the day and night, which meant she had to be inside and as close as possible.

“It gets cold out here overnight,” he said. “And she’s so small.”

“Hence the fire,” Sophie said.

Harrison’s eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Hence the fire,” he agreed.

Harrison’s dad seemed unable to control his delight any longer. “That dog slept curled up on his chest like a goddamned baby. I took a picture, if you want to see it. I’m putting it on my Christmas card this year.”

The swift stiffening that took over his son’s body seemed not to affect Harrison’s dad in the slightest. “You’ve never sent a Christmas card in your life,” Harrison muttered.

“Well, it’s a good year to start, isn’t it? Now that I have a granddog and all.” His father winked at Sophie. “If you’ve got things in hand here, I’ll take myself off. Don’t let him scare you. I’ve got that picture tucked away to use as blackmail the second things get out of hand.”

“I won’t, Mr. Parks,” Sophie said warmly. She liked this man—he reminded her a lot of Oscar. Her own father was a mild-mannered history professor doted on by his wife and daughters. As much as she loved him, she found herself drawn to these gruff, unabashed men. They made her feel almost normal. “And thank you.”

Harrison waited until his dad disappeared down the stairs before turning his stiffness on her. “She wouldn’t sleep anywhere else,” he said, his tone between apology and accusation. “I made her a place on the floor, and gave her all my pillows and then wrapped her in a blanket, but none of it worked. She…”

“Yes?”

He turned a flushed scowl her way. “She looked so lonely, that’s all, shaking and shivering and looking at me with those sad raisin eyes. What kind of rig are you running at that kennel, anyway?”

Sophie nearly choked. “She looked at you with what?”

His stiffness became even more pronounced, but he didn’t back down from the challenge. “Her eyes.” He held the dog out as if for her inspection. “They’re like sad, wet raisins.”

“You mean grapes.”

“What?”

“Wet raisins—those are grapes. You literally just described the fruit that raisins are made from.”

He chuffed his annoyance with a swell of his powerful chest. “You’re missing the point. Look at her. Take a good look at her, and tell me what you see.”