“That’s right.”
“Dog trainer?”
“I am.” She stepped off the porch as he started toward her, watched his gaze skim over her three guardians. “What can I do for you?”
“Did you train those three?”
“I did.”
His eyes, tawny, like warm, deeply steeped tea, shifted back to her. “Then you’re hired.”
“Yay. For what?”
He pointed at her dogs. “Dog trainer. Name your price.”
“Okay. Let’s open the floor at a million dollars.”
“Will you take it in installments?”
That made her smile. “We can negotiate. Let’s start this way. Fiona Bristow,” she said, and offered her hand.
“Sorry. Simon Doyle.”
Working hands, she thought, as his—hard, calloused—took hers. Then the name clicked. “Sure, wood artist.”
“Mostly I build furniture.”
“Great stuff. I bought one of your bowls a few weeks ago. I can’t seem to resist a nice bowl. My stepmother carries your work in her shop. Island Arts.”
“Sylvia, yeah. She’s great.” He brushed off the compliment, the sale, the small talk. A man on a mission. “She’s the one who told me to come talk to you. So how much of the million do you need up front?”
“Where’s the dog?”
“In the truck.”
She looked past him, cocked her head. She saw the pup through the window now. A Lab-retriever mix, she judged—and currently very busy.
“Your dog’s eating your truck.”
“What?” He spun around.
As he made the dash, Fiona signaled her newly alerted dogs to stay and sauntered after him. The best way to get a gauge on the man, the dog and their current dynamic was to watch how he handled the situation.
“For God’s sake.” He wrenched open the door. “Goddamn it, what’s wrong with you?”
The puppy, obviously unafraid, unrepentant, leaped into the man’s arms and slathered his face with eager kisses.
“Cut it out. Just
“I just bought this truck. He ate the headrest. How could he eat the headrest in under five minutes?”
“It takes about ten seconds for a puppy to get bored. Bored puppies chew. Happy puppies chew. Sad puppies chew.”
“Tell me about it,” Simon said bitterly. “I bought him a mountain of chew deals, but he goes for shoes, furniture, freaking rocks and everything else—including my new truck. Here.” He shoved the puppy at Fiona. “Do something.”
She cradled the pup, who immediately bathed her face as if they were reunited lovers. She caught the faintest whiff of leather on his warm puppy breath.
“Aren’t you cute? Are you a pretty boy?”
“He’s a monster.” Simon snarled it. “An escape artist who doesn’t sleep. If I take my eye off him for two minutes, he eats something or breaks something or finds the most inappropriate place to relieve himself. I haven’t had a minute’s peace in three weeks.”
“Um-hmm.” She snuggled the pup. “What’s his name?”
Simon shot a look at the dog that didn’t speak of returning sloppy kisses. “Jaws.”
“Very appropriate. Well, let’s see what he’s made of.” She crouched down with him, then signaled her dogs to release. As they trotted over, she set the puppy on the ground.
Some puppies would cower, some would hide or run away. But others, like Jaws, were made of sterner stuff. He leaped at the dogs, yipping and wagging. He sniffed as they sniffed, quivered with glee, nipped at legs and tails.
“Brave little soldier,” Fiona murmured.
“He has no fear. Make him afraid.”
She sighed, shook her head. “Why did you get a dog?”
“Because my mother gave him to me. Now I’m stuck with him. I like dogs, okay? I’ll trade him for one of yours right now. You pick.”
She studied Simon’s sharp-boned, stubbled face. “Not getting much sleep, are you?”
“The only way I get so much as an hour at a time is if I put him in the bed. He’s already ripped every pillow I own to shreds. And he’s started on the mattress.”
“You should try crate-training him.”
“I got a crate. He ate the crate. Or enough of it to get out. I think he must be able to flatten himself like a snake. I can’t get any work done. I think maybe he’s brain-damaged, or just psychotic.”
“What he is, is a baby who needs a lot of playtime, love, patience and discipline,” she corrected as Jaws merrily humped Newman’s leg.
“Why does he do that? He’ll hump anything. If he’s a baby, why does he think about humping everything?”
“It’s instinct—and an attempt to show dominance. He wants to be the big dog. Bogart! Get the rope!”
“Jesus, I don’t want to hang him. Exactly,” Simon said, as the black Lab dashed for the porch and through the open door.
The dog came out with the rope between his teeth, bounded to Fiona and dropped it at her feet. When she reached for it, he lowered on his front paws, shot his butt in the air and wagged.
Fiona shook the rope. Bogart bounded up, chomped down and, snarling and pulling, engaged in a spirited tug-of-war.
Jaws abandoned Newman, made a running leap for the rope, missed, fell on his back. He rolled, leaped again, little jaws snapping, tail a mad metronome.
“Want the rope, Jaws? Want the rope? Play!” She lowered it so he could reach, and when his puppy teeth latched on, she released.
Bogart’s tug lifted the puppy off the ground and he wiggled and clung like a furry fish on the line.
Determined, she mused, and was pleased when Bogart dipped down so the pup hit the ground, then adjusted his pull for the smaller dog.
“Peck, Newman, get the balls. Get the balls!”
Like their packmate, Peck and Newman dashed off. They came back with yellow tennis balls, spat them at Fiona’s feet. “Newman, Peck! Race!” She heaved the balls in quick succession so both dogs gave chase.
“Nice arm.” Simon watched as the dogs retrieved, repeated the re turn.
This time she made a kissing sound that had Jaws angling his head even while he pulled on the rope. She tossed the balls in the air a couple times, studying his eye line. “Race!” she repeated.
As the big dogs sprinted off, the puppy scrambled after them.
“He has a strong play instinct—and that’s a good thing. You just need to channel it. He’s had his vet visits, his shots?”
“Up-to-date. Tell me you’ll take him. I’ll pay room and board.”
“It doesn’t work like that.” As she spoke, she took the returned balls, threw them again. “I take him, I take you. You’re a unit now. If you’re not going to commit to the dog, to his training, his health and well-being, I’ll help you find a home for him.”
“I’m not a quitter.” Simon jammed his hands in his pockets as once again Fiona threw the balls. “Besides, my mother would... I don’t want to go there. She’s got this idea that since I moved out here, I need companionship. It’s a wife or a dog. She can’t give me a wife, so...”
He frowned as the big yellow Lab let the pup get the ball. Prancing triumphantly, Jaws brought it back.
