Page 6 of The Game Changer (Knights of Passion #3)

Chapter

Four

W hen your phone rang in the middle of the night and a man’s voice—deep and smooth like fine Swiss chocolate—growled that he needed you, well, a girl could be forgiven for expecting something out of a fantasy.

Unfortunately for Savannah, her fantasies were always doomed to cold, harsh reality.

Because in her case, the sinfully sexy man didn’t want her in his bed. He wanted her in his living room—because his dog had destroyed it.

Savannah surveyed the carnage from the threshold, one hand braced against her hip. Stuffing exploded from the couch like an overfed snowman had detonated. Bits of fabric fluttered in the air-conditioned breeze. The damage was surgical and absolute.

In the middle of the chaos sat Dylan Prosser, in the only spot not completely shredded, hunched forward, head in one hand.

The dog—the adorable little chaos goblin—was curled at his feet, staring up at him like he’d hung the moon.

His other hand dangled absently, resting on her gray head, stroking gently.

Savannah wasn’t even sure he knew he was doing it.

“I told you this wouldn’t work,” he muttered, voice hoarse with fatigue. “I’m gone too much, for too long. I won’t tie her up outside. That’s criminal.”

That earned him a few points. She smothered a smile. “Did you really expect her to be a perfect pooch on day one? She’s scared. She needs training, structure… affection. And definitely more attention. But we can figure it out.”

She crossed the minefield of foam and settled delicately into the center cushion of the couch, where the damage was just the right size for her butt. The cushion sagged with protest, but held.

The dog peered out from around Dylan’s leg, big eyes narrowed suspiciously at her, clearly weighing whether Savannah was competition for Dylan’s affection. When she made no move to get closer, the pup relaxed, nudged Dylan’s leg with her snout, and leaned against him again.

Savannah watched his hand fall naturally back to pet her, fingers sliding gently over velvety fur.

For the first time in her life, she was jealous of a dog.

“How much would it cost for you to stay here and take care of her?” he asked quietly. “Or take her to your place?”

Savannah blinked. The question caught her off guard—not because of the request, but because of the exhaustion that clung to every word. He sounded utterly defeated, as if life had been taking swings at him and he was just too damn tired to dodge anymore.

For a crazy moment, she wanted to brush his hair back from his forehead. Maybe smooth her hand down the slope of his neck. Offer him comfort. When the hell did she become the kind of woman who wants to comfort strangers in the middle of the night?

Apparently, tonight.

Her libido, it seemed, had just come out of hibernation, stretching and yawning like it had just discovered Dylan Prosser.

This was a complication she did not need.

Sexy, brooding athletes with emotional walls taller than Fort Knox?

That was the road to heartbreak. And she’d walked it barefoot more than once.

Still. Business was business.

“I never bring clients’ dogs to my house,” she said, sitting a little straighter. “Especially not a new rescue. Way too risky. By the way, did you ever name her?”

He glanced down at the dog as if noticing her for the first time. “Not yet. Haven’t gotten around to it. Any suggestions?”

She shook her head. “Nope. That’s your job. Try a few names. See what sticks. She’ll let you know.”

He didn’t respond right away, just kept petting the dog. Savannah cleared her throat.

“Anyway, I can come by a couple times a day, walk her, feed her. Basic check-ins.”

He was already shaking his head. “I’ve got a seven-day road trip. You saw what she did while I was gone for ten hours. She needs more than a walk. Someone needs to be here. You do training, too, right? I’ll pay you. Stay here. Train her. Help her settle in while you look for a permanent home.”

Savannah cocked her head. “So, you really don’t plan to keep her?”

He waved vaguely at the pristine living room—well, formerly pristine—his tone flat.

“Do I look like I have the lifestyle for a dog? I wouldn’t even get a goldfish right now.

And the way this season’s going, I probably won’t even be living in Georgia much longer.

I’ll foster her. Or whatever it’s called. Until you find her a real home.”

“And yet you’re the one calling me at midnight because she chewed your sofa into abstract art.”

“You promised,” he said, leveling a look at her. “You told me you’d help if I kept her.”

She folded her arms. “You’re not keeping her. You’re stalling.”

“I’m keeping her for now. Even I’m not heartless enough to dump her again.” His voice dropped a note. “And I need you. I don’t have the bandwidth to do this alone.”

There it was.

Those words.

The ones that always cracked her resolve. I need you. It had started with her family. Then rescue dogs. And now… him.

Dylan Prosser was the most dangerous stray she'd ever taken in.

If she were smart, she’d shut this down. Say no, walk out, and never look back.

Instead, she quoted a price. Almost double her standard rate. And held her breath.

“Done,” he said, without hesitation.

She blinked. “That’s for the dog sitting. Training will be extra.”

“Fine.”

Her brain swam. Holy crap. This could be steady income. Not just a lifeline for her rescue, but for her sanity.

“I’ll still need to run my rescue. I’ve got other work too.”

He frowned slightly. “What else do you do?”

“Pet sitting. Training programs. Anything to pay the bills. Rescue doesn’t exactly come with a trust fund.”

He mulled that over for a moment, then nodded. “As long as you can take care of her—and make sure this never happens again.” He gestured to the massacre around them.

“No problem.” She nearly grinned. Steady paycheck, a dog to train, and a hot man to try not to fantasize about. Piece of cake.

“I’ll get you a key tomorrow,” he said, standing and brushing dog fur from his slacks.

That stopped her. “You really trust me that much?”

He looked at her, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. “Shouldn’t I? Isn’t it a little late to be asking? Besides… I don’t have much to steal.”

That surprised her. She’d expected arrogance, not honesty. He looked… tired. Worn. A little lost.

“Can you be here by nine?” he asked. “I have a day game. Need to be at the stadium by ten.”

Savannah rose to her feet, brushing off the back of her jeans. “Sure. When do you leave for the trip?”

“Right after the game. Maybe come by earlier so we can go over a few things.”

She bit back a groan. Mornings were not her strong suit. But she mentally reviewed her schedule—Randy and Barb were coming through with the northern transport around eleven. That gave her plenty of time to settle the pup and still coordinate the transfer.

“I can do that,” she said.

“Excellent.” He held out his hand.

She took it, her palm sliding against his. His calloused fingers closed around hers, rough and warm and unexpectedly intimate. A little shiver crawled down her spine.

God help her, she wanted to know how those hands would feel sliding over her skin.

Down, girl. You’re here to train the dog, not the man.

With an awkward smile, she pulled free and turned toward the door.

Better to leave now—before she did something really stupid.

Like roll over and beg.

D ylan spent the rest of the night on his hands and knees, picking couch stuffing out of every crevice and cranny, dragging wood splinters from beneath the baseboards, trying like hell not to think about Savannah Monroe.

Fat chance.

He hadn’t expected her to actually show up at midnight. He’d called, sure, but deep down, he’d figured she’d let it go to voicemail or tell him she’d deal with it in the morning. Instead, she’d shown up like some jeans-wearing, dog-whispering avenging angel.

And it wasn’t for him.

The moment she’d stepped into the wreckage of his house, she’d gone straight to the dog—kneeling, cooing, smoothing her hands over the trembling pup like Dylan wasn’t even there.

And maybe that shouldn't have bothered him, but it did. A little more than he wanted to admit. He wasn’t used to being overlooked.

Especially not by women who made his blood run hot.

But Savannah? She hadn’t even blinked. Just poured every ounce of attention into that dog, like Dylan was the least interesting object in the room.

Even so, somehow, it made him want her more.

He hated how that worked.

The way she’d touched the dog—gentle, firm, comforting—he couldn’t help wondering what those hands would feel like on him.

Her nails dragging through his hair, her palm sliding down his chest…

The way she’d scratched behind the dog’s ears had damn near sent him into cardiac arrest, and he wasn’t the one getting the attention.

He’d managed to sit next to her on the couch and not combust, but it had taken effort—real effort.

He’d stroked the dog just to keep his hands busy, to keep them from finding out if Savannah’s skin was as soft as he imagined.

And don’t even get him started on those jean shorts.

His willpower was hanging by a thread. He’d been forced to grab a throw pillow and keep it strategically placed, like a goddamn teenager.

He hadn’t felt that kind of lust since high school, and he blamed the shorts.

Or the drought.

Probably both.

When he finished cleaning, he tried to sleep, dragging himself into the too-quiet bedroom, flopping onto the mattress. The sheets were cool, the lights off, and still, sleep wouldn’t come.

Because in his mind, Savannah was in that bed with him.

In those damn shorts. Out of those damn shorts.

He groaned and rolled over, slamming a pillow over his head like that would help.

Then came the howling.

The lonely, heart-wrenching kind of howl that echoed from downstairs and knifed through his already fractured patience.

At two a.m., he gave up.