Page 1 of Love in the Net (Blue Ridge Buffaloes #2)

The October air smells like pumpkins and possibility. I’m standing in the middle of Blue Ridge’s community park trying to convince twenty-five dogs—and their equally excitable owners—that I have everything under control.

Spoiler alert: I do not.

“Okay, everyone,” I call like I haven’t just been stomped on by a German shepherd who can’t stay away from my peanut butter pawcakes. But those are gone, the poor thing.

“Don’t forget to grab your free pupcake! Pumpkin-flavored and Waffles-approved!” I wave one in each hand, the breeze lifting the hem of my apron. This one has a huge dog head on it, as does every apron I own. I suppose your wardrobe is a bit canine-dominated when you own a dog treat bakery.

Waffles, my golden retriever and the unofficial mascot of Pawsitively Delicious, is tied to the leg of the folding table behind me. He’s supposed to be embodying the calm, well-behaved image of my bakery, but instead, he’s spinning himself into a leash-tangled tornado of excitement.

“Waffles, buddy, you’re killing me here,” I mutter, setting down the paw-shaped pumpkin treats and crouching to untangle his leash for the fifth time in ten minutes.

He responds by licking my face and wagging his entire rear end.

“Yeah, yeah, you’re adorable.” I grin at him, because he absolutely is. “You’re also a menace.”

I glance around the park, trying to get a read on the chaos level.

It’s high. Dogs are darting around each other and their humans, tails wagging, noses sniffing furiously at the air…

and other things. Someone’s corgi has managed to steal a pupcake and is gleefully sprinting away with it while its owner gives chase.

Honestly, it’s a miracle no one’s fallen into the nearby pond yet.

“Claire,” a voice calls from the crowd. It’s Mrs. Henderson, a regular customer with two yappy Chihuahuas and a penchant for passive-aggressive compliments. “Do you have any treats for dogs with gluten allergies?”

“Of course, Mrs. Henderson,” I shout back, even though I absolutely do not. I’ll just have to whip up something special for her later. Or maybe not. Does anyone really need gluten-free dog treats?

Who diagnoses that anyway? I used to be a vet technician, and let me tell you, I’ve never heard of a gluten-free dog.

Before I can dwell on it, Waffles tugs hard on his leash, and I barely manage to grab hold before he bolts. But my grip on him lasts approximately half a second before he yanks free, a blur of golden fur and bad decisions.

“Waffles!” I abandon my table and chase after him. “Get back here, you furry delinquent!”

He’s running full speed, ears flopping and tongue lolling, like this is the best day of his life. Like I keep him chained in the back of the bakery, near the hot ovens.

Like a heat-seeking missile, Waffles zeroes in on a tall, broad-shouldered man standing near the edge of the park with two dogs standing at his side. So well-behaved.

Time slows down as I watch in horror, unable to stop the inevitable.

Waffles leaps.

The man—bless his reflexes—tries to sidestep, but it’s no use. Waffles collides with him, sending him stumbling backward. His foot catches on a root, and down he goes.

Into the mud.

All I can think is, Why did it have to rain this morning? when I should be devoting more brain power to sprinting faster.

By the time I skid to a stop, Waffles is standing triumphantly with two paws on the man’s chest, tail wagging like he just scored the winning goal in some invisible dog Olympics, and licking his non-bearded face.

The man is glaring up at me through dark lashes, his face streaked with mud, and his two dogs—one a massive Bernese mountain dog, the other a wiry border collie mix—are barking their heads off.

“I’m so sorry,” I blurt, rushing to pull Waffles off him. “He’s usually much better behaved, I swear. Are you okay?” I manage to get my fingers curled under Waffles’ collar and pull him back. “Sit. Sit down.”

To my utter surprise, the Bernese mountain dog sits. So does the border collie. Waffles? He grins up at me, and I hold up my fist, the dog sign language for sit down right now or I will withhold all treats for a full year.

Waffles sits.

The man rises slowly, wiping mud off his face with a look that can only be described as “grumpy bear interrupted mid-hibernation.” His dark gray eyes lock on mine, and for a second, I forget how to breathe.

He’s…wow. Ruggedly handsome in that I-just-chopped-wood-and-brooded-about-it kind of way. Broad shoulders, strong jaw, fierce eyes, and a frown that testifies that he’s a man who just got tackled by a dog.

“Let me help you,” I say.

“You’re going to help me?” he asks, his voice deep and gravelly. His tone is dry, but there’s a hint of amusement in his eyes that wasn’t there a second ago. They burn like deep, dark embers, and I can’t look away.

I brace myself to help him stand, but instead of grabbing my outstretched hand, he gestures toward Waffles, who’s now wagging his tail so enthusiastically it’s practically a weapon. I always tell him, “Tail awareness,” but he’s still working on it six years later.

“Yours?” he asks.

“Unfortunately.” I grab Waffles’ leash and pull him back as he starts inching toward the man again. Or maybe it’s the mud that calls him. He looks over to the border collie and whines. “He’s mine. I’m really, really sorry. I’ll pay for your dry cleaning or—or whatever you need.”

The man puts his hand in mine, and I lock my legs.

I’m pretty sure that’s my mistake. Or maybe it’s that my hand goes numb when his skin meets mine. His eyes widen slightly, then a gorgeous smile fills his face.

He starts to stand, but there’s no way I can pull him up. He’s not fat by any means, but he’s got the kind of bulk I see in professional athletes.

The next thing I know, I’m falling forward. Mr. Pro Athlete grunts as he splashes in the mud puddle for a second time, and he groans as I land in his lap.

Instant heat burns through me, as if I’ve been put inside one of my commercial ovens with the warmth coming at me from every direction.

To my surprise, the man’s arms come around me and hold me in place. “That didn’t work so well.”

I’m so close to him, I can count the individual freckles across his cheeks and nose. “I’m normally really strong,” I say stupidly. “I do a lot of kneading.”

“Kneading.” He coughs, his grin enormous. Then he loses the battle against the laugh obviously boiling inside him, because it flows from his mouth. “I don’t think that counts as weight lifting, sweetheart.”

I startle as a wet dog tongue swipes up my arm. “Ooh.”

“Bear,” the man barks. “Knock it off.” His eyes come back to mine. “I’m Liam. Who do I have the pleasure of holding?”

“Claire,” I murmur, not sure why my heartbeat is fluttering around like the autumn leaves about to be blown from the trees.

Both of his dogs crowd in even closer to him, and Waffles certainly can’t be left out.

“You own the dog bakery?”

“Yes,” I say, suddenly realizing I’m sitting on this man’s lap in a very public park. And oh, fetch it all, I have one hand curled around the back of his head. I pull that back like he’s caught fire, and I slide to my knees in the mud despite these being my best pair of skinny jeans.

I get myself to my feet in the most un-sexy way possible, and when I turn to face Liam, he’s standing too. And he didn’t even have to grunt and groan to do it.

He brushes himself off as best he can, but the mud isn’t going anywhere. His Bernese Mountain Dog nudges his leg, and he reaches down to scratch the dog’s head, his gruff expression softening for just a moment.

“Do you have a boyfriend?” he asks. “Besides Waffles.” He smiles at where my golden retriever is licking my fingers.

I yank them back. “Um, no.”

“Great, so you can go out with me.”

I blink at him, sure that wasn’t him asking me out. My heart pounds as I say, “Absolutely not.”

His eyebrows go up. “Absolutely not? What does that mean?”

“It means, Mister Liam, that if you want to go out with me, it’s the gentlemanly thing to do would be to ask.”

“Ask.”

“Yes, you know, like to phrase it like a question,” I say. “One’s voice usually pitches up, like this: How do you have such broad shoulders?”

The corner of his mouth quirks up into what might actually be a smile. It’s barely there, but it’s enough to make my stomach do a fantastic little flip.

Someone yells his name before he can phrase anything like a question, and his attention gets diverted. When it comes back to me, he says, “Can I have your number?”

And that’s so a question.

My face flames, and I reach up to push my curls out of my face, only to remember I secured them back with a pink paw-print bandana. I give him my number, and Liam says, “Come on, guys. Let’s go see Uncle Bruce.”

He takes a step away, his dogs completely off-leash. Then he turns back to me and says, “I’ll call you later.”

Again, no question mark in sight.

I note it, but this time, it’s not a strike against him. I nod, and then he’s gone, walking away with his pups at his heels. I watch him go, feeling a weird mix of attraction and disappointment.

I look down at Waffles, the menace who now has something in his mouth. “What’s that?” I reach for it, and I extract a wallet from his mouth.

I flip it open and suck in a breath.

Liam O’Brien.

“For the love of leashes,” I say as I stare at the picture of the starting goalkeeper for the Blue Ridge Buffalo. He really is a professional athlete—and he’s going to call me later.