“Pick something more practical, please,” he admonished the puppy. “Black is what I recommend. The color of soot and ashes. You have no idea how hard those are to get out of clothes after a few weeks of nonstop exposure.”

“Maybe fire engine red? That seems appropriate.” Sophie stepped forward to stand next to him. As he expected, her voice and her shoulders were shaking with laughter. “A lady always looks striking in red. They say women who wear it are more attractive to members of the opposite sex.”

As Sophie had chosen to wear a deeply vibrant pair of red pants that day, Harrison could only assume she was pushing him again. The pants themselves weren’t overwhelming—other than the color, which drew the eye inevitably toward the rounded curves of her ass, they were like any other pair of pants. Except, for some godforsaken reason, they stopped just above Sophie’s ankles. Capri pants, he’d heard them called. In no way, shape, or form an item of clothing to be sexualized—especially since she’d paired them with a simple black T-shirt.

But damn. Every time she walked into his line of vision, his gaze was drawn inexorably down to where the flash of her ankles peeked above a pair of shiny, black heels. Like the rest of her body parts, those ankles looked sleek and delicate, and he wanted to explore them at his leisure.

Ankles of all fucking things. A few more weeks in this woman’s company, and he was going to have to start asking people to cover their piano legs like some scandalized Victorian maiden.

“It’s biological,” Sophie added, continuing the conversation as though Harrison were taking part in it instead of growing hard while staring at a wall of yarn. He was beginning to realize what she saw in this place. “I read this study once that said women who are ovulating wear red without even realizing it. It’s like an advertisement for fertility.”

“I am not putting Bubbles in a walking fertility advertisement.”

She giggled. “Dogs are mostly color-blind, so I think she’ll be safe from all those unwanted male advances.”

He turned on her with a glare. “Then what the devil are we doing in a yarn store picking out colors? You’re telling me she can’t tell the difference between any of these?”

“I mean, she might like the texture of some better than others. This one is awfully soft. It’s like running your fingers through cotton candy. Here. Feel it.”

Sophie grabbed his free hand and pulled it toward a bundle of yarn the exact same color as her pants. He knew she was doing it on purpose—this slow brush of her palm against his, this fingering of textiles that made his heart pound—but it didn’t seem to matter. Whether playing or pushing, the results were always the same.

“See?” she said, casting a shy look up at him. Her fingers slipped through his. “Who wouldn’t want that against their bare skin?”