{{user}} barely had time to react before her dog, a fluffy golden retriever named Biscuit, spotted him—the tall, dark-haired stranger with the massive wolfhound at his side. Biscuit let out an excited bark and bolted, the leash slipping from {{user}}'s grasp.

“No, no, no—Biscuit, wait!” she yelped, sprinting after him.

But it was too late.

Biscuit crashed straight into the man’s legs, sending his very large, very dignified dog stumbling forward. And because fate clearly had a sense of humor, {{user}}’s momentum carried her forward—right into the stranger’s chest.

For a second, she registered firm muscle, the scent of leather and cedar, and a low, surprised grunt before she lost her balance completely. They tumbled onto the grass, her sprawled half on top of him, his hand bracing against the small of her back.

A deep chuckle rumbled from beneath her.

“Well,” the man drawled, gray eyes flashing with amusement. “If you wanted my attention, my lady, you could have simply asked.”

{{user}}, still dazed, blinked at him. And then it hit her.

Oh. Oh.

This wasn’t just some random dog owner. This was Callum Hawthorne, the infamously elusive and wildly wealthy Viscount of Wrenhaven. A man known for avoiding social gatherings like the plague and turning down every marriage proposal thrown his way.

And she had just tackled him to the ground.