Page 47 of Falling for the Grumpiest Protector

"Define ready."

"Good enough."

My first official act as a volunteer at Oakridge Veterans Farm is holding a leash. My second is getting drooled on. A lot.

"Is this normal?"

Emma doesn't look up from examining the enormous brown dog standing between us.

"For Moose?"

"His name is Moose?"

"You've met him for thirty seconds. Tell me I'm wrong."

I look at the dog. Moose looks at me. A string of drool lands on my sneaker.

"Fair."

Emma laughs.

"Hold him steady."

"I am holding him steady."

Moose takes one step and moves me six inches across the floor. Emma looks at me. I look at her.

"Don't."

"I didn't say anything."

"You were thinking it."

"I was thinking you should widen your stance."

"That's not better."

But I do. The next twenty minutes are surprisingly enjoyable. Emma checks Moose's ears, paws, and a healing scrape along his side while I hold the leash and provide what I consider excellent moral support. Then comes Daisy, a golden retriever who apparently believes every medical instrument Emma owns is edible. By the time we're finished, my jeans have dog hair on them, my sneakers are questionable, and I have stopped caring.

"That's two," Emma says, cleaning her hands.

"I'm practically a professional."

"Let's not get reckless."

"Do volunteers get performance reviews?"

"Constantly."

"I'm going to need to see the evaluation criteria."

A laugh comes from the open doorway. I turn. Martinez is leaning against the frame. I didn't hear him approach. Which feels unfair. He's wearing jeans and a faded charcoal T-shirt, his sleeves pushed slightly against his arms. Dirt marks one knee, and his baseball cap is turned backward. I notice all of this before remembering I have no reason to. His gaze moves from Emma to me. Then to the leash in my hand.

"Hart."

"Martinez."

His mouth twitches.