Page 4

Max

The Gaylord Opryland's Grand Ballroom sparkles with champagne glasses and nervous laughter. Every contestant for tomorrow's Bark & Bond Championship is here, sizing up the competition while pretending not to.

"Remember," Tracy murmurs, "mingle, but—"

"Keep the campaign under wraps. Got it."

Stanley sits perfectly at my heel, both of us wearing our signature aviators despite being indoors. It's our thing—always camera-ready.

"Oh my god," a woman whispers nearby, not quietly enough. "That's the one I told you about. With the matching sunglasses."

"The dog's cute," her friend replies, "but did you see how those jeans fit when he walked by?"

I stifle a laugh. If I had a dollar for every time someone commented on my ass, I could fund Tracy's entire PR campaign. Though the blazer usually gets equal attention—something about the casual-but-polished look drives women crazy. Not that I'm complaining.

That's when I spot her. The black dress is simple but there's nothing simple about how it fits her curves. She moves with easy confidence, and the German Shepherd at her side mirrors her grace—both of them ignoring the pretentious crowd around them.

Stanley's ears prick forward. The German Shepherd's do the same.

And then both dogs, without any signal from either of us, execute identical sitting positions.

"Game recognizes game," she laughs, a rich sound that cuts through the stuffy ballroom air.

"Hi. We're Max and Stanley," I say, gesturing between us.

"We're Morgan and Spookie," she replies, scratching Stanley behind the ears. "Nice to meet you, Max."

"Wrong one," I grin, crouching to greet her shepherd. "Hello, Morgan."

Her laugh is even better up close. "Touché."

"So, Morgan—the real one—what's your strategy for tomorrow? Planning to dazzle the judges with that smile?"

"Wouldn't you like to know." She takes a sip of champagne, and I find myself tracking the movement of her throat. "What about you? Banking on those matching sunglasses to blind the competition?"

"The sunglasses are just phase one of my master plan," I say. "Phase two involves synchronized backflips."

"Ambitious." Her eyes sparkle with mischief. "Spookie and I were just going to wing it. Maybe throw in some jazz hands."

"The judges love jazz hands." I lean against a pillar, enjoying how she doesn't try to impress me like most women do. "Though I hear Judge Peterson is more of a tap dance fan."

"Really?" She tilts her head. "Because someone told me he's into interpretive dance. Spookie's been practicing his abstract expressions of rain."

Stanley and Spookie sit calmly, both dogs relaxed but alert. The way they shift at the same moment makes me smile. They probably just read each other's energy—but it feels like they're silently thinking humans are weird.

"Speaking of practice," she says, "your transitions earlier were impressive."

"You were watching us?"

"Professional curiosity." But there's a hint of color in her cheeks that suggests otherwise. "That figure-eight sequence..."

"Totally improvised," I lie, thinking of Otto's endless drills.

"Liar." She steps closer, and her perfume short-circuits my brain. "That kind of precision takes weeks of work. The question is..." Her eyes meet mine. "Who's really training who?"

"Caught me." I grin, enjoying this sparring match. "Stanley's the brains of the operation, obviously. I just follow her lead and look pretty."

"That explains the… sunglasses." She gestures vaguely, like she was going to say something else—maybe jeans—but thought better of it. "Though I think our partners may be silently plotting something."

"Probably planning to ditch us for their own show. 'Stanley and Spookie: The Dynamic Duo.'"

"Better title than 'Humans Who Think They're in Charge.'"

"Hey, I know exactly where I stand in the hierarchy." I watch her laugh again, the sound doing things to my pulse. "Stanley first, then whoever's holding treats."

"Smart man." She studies me over her champagne glass. "So what else brings you to Nashville? Besides your passion for dog show politics, obviously."

"Would you believe me if I said the weather?" No need to tell her I live here and I'm just staying at the hotel for convenience during the competition. That would kill the mystery. And I like the way she’s leaning in to figure me out.

"In July? Not a chance."

"Fine. The truth is—" I pause for dramatic effect. "I heard they have good barbecue."

"Now that, I believe." Her smile turns thoughtful. "I know a place that would put these hotel restaurants to shame."

Is she suggesting...? Before I can respond, Tracy appears at my elbow.

"Max, the photographer from Dogs Monthly wants—"

I lift a hand slightly, a silent hold-on. I give Tracy a quick smile, buying myself a second. "What do you say we leave the dogs with my handler so we can grab dinner?" I ask Morgan, still focused on her.

She arches an eyebrow. "You have a handler? Like you're a dog?"

"Very funny." I catch Otto's eye behind Tracy, who's already opening her mouth to object. Instead, he gives me a slight nod. "They'll be in good hands, I promise."

"Tracy," I say, holding out both leashes. "Would you mind?"

Tracy stares at the leashes like they're snakes. "But—"

"Just for dinner." I flash my signature smile, the one that got me out of three press interviews and one mandatory branding seminar. "You'll make sure they get their evening routines, right?"

She takes the leashes, clearly confused but professional enough not to show it. "Of course."

As we head toward the restaurant, Morgan glances back. "They'll be okay?"

"Trust me, Stanley's probably already planning a coup. By morning, she'll be running the hotel."

"As long as Spookie gets to be Vice President."

"Done. Though he might have to fight the concierge for the position."

The Old Hickory Steakhouse is just off the lobby, all dark wood and intimate lighting. The hostess leads us to a corner booth, and I catch Morgan taking in the river view through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

"Not bad for hotel dining," she says, settling into the curved booth. "Though my barbecue place still wins."

"Next time." The words slip out before I can catch them. So much for one night only.

She picks up the wine list, but her smile suggests she caught my slip. "So, what's good here besides the view?"

"Besides watching you pretend you're not impressed?" That earns me a kick under the table. "The ribeye. Though if you're feeling adventurous..."

"Let me guess. The chef's special?"

"Actually, I was going to say we could grab our dogs and hit your barbecue joint."

She lowers the menu, surprise flickering across her face. "You'd ditch all this for a hole-in-the-wall with plastic chairs?"

"Is that a yes?"

"As tempting as that sounds..." She glances down at her dress. "I'm not exactly dressed for paper napkins."

"You'd look amazing in a potato sack."

"Smooth." But she's fighting a smile. "Rain check on the barbecue. For now, I'll trust your ribeye recommendation."

The waiter appears with water, and I catch Morgan suppressing a laugh as he rattles off the wine list in what has to be a fake French accent.

"The house Cabernet," I tell him, then turn to Morgan. "Unless you prefer—"

"Cabernet's perfect." She waits until he's gone. "Does he know we're in Nashville?"

"Maybe he's method acting."

"For what? 'Le Steakhouse?'"

Our laughter draws looks from nearby tables, but I couldn't care less.

There's something about her that makes everything else fade away.

Maybe it's the sharp wit, the way she cuts through bullshit with a single look. Or maybe it's that dress—low enough to hint, tight enough to haunt. The scent of her skin when she leans in, citrus and something warm, goes straight to my bloodstream. God help me, I’m already hard and she hasn’t even touched me.

"So," she says once we've ordered. "Are you going to tell me the real reason you're here?"

"What makes you think barbecue isn't reason enough?"

"Because I've watched you and Stanley. That routine isn't just for show." She leans forward, and suddenly the air feels charged. "You're here to win."

"Aren't we all?"

"Some more than others." She traces the rim of her water glass. "That prize money could really change things for someone."

I study her for a second. "You mean someone like you."

Her gaze lifts, a little wary.

"You care hard. You treat Spookie like he’s your equal. No one fakes that kind of bond."

A pause. Then she exhales. "I run a small animal clinic in Bellwood. It’s about two hours east of here—rural as hell, underfunded, overwhelmed.

I’ve been saving for a mobile clinic so we can reach the farms and trailer parks nobody else covers.

We’ve lost animals just because people couldn’t make the trip in time. "

My chest tightens. "So you’re here to win the money. For them."

"Spookie and I train before sunrise every day. This isn’t about ribbons."

"That’s what I mean," I say quietly. "No one who treats animals like you do could be a bad person."

"Most people don't connect the dots," she says softly. "They hear 'mobile vet clinic' and think it's just a cheaper way to run a business."

"Most people haven't seen you with Spookie. The way you work together..." I take a sip of wine. "It's about more than trophies."

"Says the man competing in designer sunglasses."

"Hey, these are very serious professional tools."

"Right. And the matching pair on Stanley?"

"Essential equipment."

She laughs, then sobers. "Can I ask you something?"

"Besides that?"

"Why the aviators? The real reason."

The wine burns going down. "Would you believe me if I said they're prescription for both of us?"

"Not even a little."

I grin. "Then let’s save that story for another time. Maybe after you beat me tomorrow and take me out for pity barbecue."

She laughs. "Assuming we ever see each other again after tonight."

"I think we will."

She raises an eyebrow. "Confident."

"Hopeful."