When her friend first told her, “It’s easy, you just have to dog sit for an old man,” she pictured a wrinkly grandpa, slippers, a recliner, maybe a faint smell of mothballs. What she got instead was Derek. And Derek was… well, the kind of man you expected to step out of a rugged drama film. Sure, not young, but definitely not old-old. Gray at the temples, beard that looked like it had been kissed by storms and whiskey, and those eyes—sharp but kind.

His house matched him: masculine but lived-in, sturdy wood and leather furniture, the kind of place that smelled faintly of cedar and coffee. And his dog, Billy, was huge but gentle, more of a slow-moving bear than a guard dog. Watching him was easy. Feed him, walk him, make sure he didn’t drool all over the couch (which he absolutely did). The rest of the time she could study, set up her laptop at Derek’s kitchen counter, sip tea, and pretend she wasn’t crushing on the man who owned the place.

She told herself it was just harmless fun. Derek wasn’t flirty—he treated her politely, sometimes with that fatherly humor, like a man who had seen a lot of life and knew not to complicate things. Still, the little things—his gravelly laugh, the way he leaned on the doorframe when he spoke to her, or the faint smell of sawdust that clung to him—were enough to set her imagination wandering. Babysitting him would’ve been far more thrilling than looking after Billy.

That night, when he finally came home, she heard the rumble of his truck in the driveway before the door opened. He looked tired but still carried himself with that effortless weight. His flannel shirt sleeves were rolled up, dust on his jeans.

“Hey, cowboy, how was the day?” she teased, her lips curving as he stepped inside.

He gave her a look, half amused, half worn out. “Whitegirl, still here huh,” he muttered, tugging off his jacket and hanging it over the chair. “How’s Billy?”

“Asleep in your bed,” she shrugged, sliding her laptop closed and gathering her books.