The Trouble With Quarterbacks(93)

“Are you hu—”

I have every intention of asking him if he’s hurt, I do, but then I finally look up at his face for the first time and I am utterly speechless. Mouse didn’t just maul a stranger. He mauled what Daisy and I would call a perfect male specimen. If Mouse had killed him, I could have stuck a pin in his body and mailed him to the Smithsonian. Homo sapien perfectus.

Even muddy, he gives most of Hollywood a run for their money in the looks department. And if he weren’t currently scowling at me, I’d swoon. Hell, even with the scowl, I swoon a little bit. It’s that perfect combination of piercing green eyes and strong jaw. He’s clean-shaven, and his brown hair has been tousled by careful hands. He’s tall, and even with his suit on, I can tell he’s in formidable shape. It takes all of three seconds to confirm that he’s the best-looking man I’ve ever seen in real life, and he’s currently telling me to get my dog under control. He says I shouldn’t have a dog like that if he’s not properly trained. He is the preacher and I am the choir.

I can hardly do more than nod dumbly.

“He’s a puppy,” I say. Like that explains everything.

“Puppies aren’t immune to training,” he says, narrowing his eyes on me like I’m the problem—me, not the hellhound now sitting contentedly at my feet.

I think he’s going to continue berating me, but he shakes his head and turns in the opposite direction down the sidewalk.

No! He can’t leave. The last time a man that handsome stopped in this tiny town was back when Marlon Brando’s car broke down on the nearby interstate in 1954. The chamber of commerce had a plaque made up and everything.

“Hey wait! Could I, umm…let me cover your dry-cleaning bill!” I shout after him. “Or maybe a chiropractor’s appointment? Are you hurt?!”

He waves away my offer and heads back down the street, clearly in a hurry to distance himself from me. I stand there, frozen, admiring his retreating backside. It’s incredibly depressing. I haven’t come across a man who’s elicited that immediate stomach-churning, hands-shaking, brain-short-circuiting reaction in years—maybe ever—and this stranger did. He sure did, and now he’s walking away, retreating into the distance, and I know I’ll probably never see him again.

I sigh and look down at Mouse. He’s watching me with his head tilted to the side.

“You little monster. You could have at least kept him pinned a little longer, maybe given me a chance to win him over with my dazzling personality.”

Mouse barks in response.

I remember that I’m currently bleeding and running late for my vet appointment. I sigh, regretting this latest episode in The Life of Madeleine Thatcher—one in which the stranger in the blue suit will likely have nothing more than a brief cameo.





Chapter 2





Adam





I hate Texas. I’m a northerner at heart. In Chicago, I could walk down a crowded city street and not have to make eye contact with a single person. Apparently in rural Texas, I can’t even make it to work without getting mauled by a stranger’s dog.

I still can’t believe it.

I’m pissed.

And I’m late for work.

I left the frazzled brunette on the sidewalk yelling something about dry-cleaning—as if a bit of starch could fix the problems she has. Her time would be much better spent training that puppy, which is only going to keep getting bigger. What if I’d been elderly? Injured? Not in the mood to deal with mud on my suit?

I tear it off and toss it aside. There are a half dozen identical ones lined up in my closet, but I convince myself that one was my favorite. She ruined my favorite suit sounds much more dramatic than she ruined my suit.

I’m good at holding a grudge.

I brought that with me from Chicago too. That city knows how to really hang on to something. Just take the weather—eight months of winter just to spite the other four. Here in Texas, it’s late spring and it’s sunny and I wanted to enjoy a nice stroll to work, but she ruined that too.

I add that to my growing grudge as I finish changing and head back out the door. I’ve already notified the staff that I’ll be running late, but it’s still going to throw off the entire day. I wish I could have told that to the brunette, but I settled on berating her about dog training instead—not my most dignified moment, but it’s hard to stay composed when a dog is trying to play hockey with your tonsils. I managed to suppress the obscenities that were filling my head. Just because I’m from Chicago doesn’t mean I have to be a stereotype.

My car is waiting for me outside, so black and shiny. I apologize for thinking I could leave it behind. I learned my lesson the hard way.

The parking lot at work is full when I pull in, which means I’m running even later than I thought I was. I whip into my reserved spot and run through the back entrance. I hate tardiness, and I hate being behind on my schedule. I’ll have to work fast to catch up.

My white coat is hanging on the back of my desk chair; I snatch it as I nod to a few of the office staff and offer up my lame apologies for being late. It’s only my third week on the job, so I haven’t been here long enough to prove how timely I am. I have the brunette to thank for that as well. I swear, if I ever see her again, I’ll let her have it.