“No joke, Mr. Parks,” Sophie said. “Please allow me to introduce you to your new diabetic service dog, Bubbles.”

* * *

It was a truth universally acknowledged that a large, gruff man in search of a puppy would always choose the largest, gruffest one he could find.

Sophie didn’t know how or why it happened, but every time a man entered the kennel, he was drawn inexorably toward the animal most like him in appearance. It was as though they walked up to each pen and, instead of seeing the puppy for its strengths and talents, they saw a mirror instead. Like getting dressed in the morning or buying a car, they wanted a puppy that exactly reflected the image they presented to the world.

Which was why she’d known, the second Harrison Parks walked in the door, that she was doomed.

“Now, I know what you’re thinking,” she said, watching the expression that crossed his face as his gaze shifted from Bubbles to the Great Dane and back again. Disappointment was a disappointingly inadequate word for it.

“No, you don’t.”

“And I know she’s probably not what you had in mind when you signed up for this, but she’s very suitable for your needs.”

“No, she’s not.”

“Small dogs require a lot of care, which means you’ll be forced to slow down a little when you’re working. That’s a good thing, right? To be reminded to take more breaks, to put your needs first?”

“No, that’s a terrible thing.”

“Plus, Pomeranians are much better suited for this type of job than you’d think. They have exceptional noses.”

“No.”

That was all he offered this time—just that one syllable, that one deeply rumbling sound, a death knell meant to end any and all discussion on a project that she’d thrown her whole self into prepping for. She wasn’t sure which part of it caused her to crack, but she suspected it was that last one.

Well, either that or the fact that he looked so unfairly good while he did it. From the top of his disheveled brown locks to the tips of his heavy work boots, Harrison Parks was exactly what she’d imagined when she’d heard about his case. The man was a wildland firefighter, a hero. Every year, when flames swept across the dry lands of the Pacific Northwest’s interior, he headed out with his hose and his determination until every last spark was gone. He was tall and muscular, his expression weary with the devastation he’d seen.

A bit on the crusty side, Oscar had described him, but totally harmless.

What he hadn’t said was that Harrison was also a half-buttoned flannel shirt away from being the quintessential lumbersexual—rugged and outdoorsy and built like a tank.

In other words, he was a Great Dane. A bulldog.

And he wasn’t giving either Bubbles or her a fair shot.