10. Isla
Chapter 10
Isla
ASHER
Emergency.
Don’t freak out.
ISLA
Excuse me??
ASHER
I’m bringing something home.
It’s small. It’s alive.
ISLA
Aren’t you supposed to be on your date right now?
ASHER
You’re going to love him.
“W hat happened to you?”
The emergency text that dragged me away from my small-town firefighter romance novel makes a lot more sense as Asher stands in his doorway. Mud and tiny paw prints smear his gray Henley, making it look like some kind of abstract art project.
But my heart barely registers the mess.
Because in his arms is a wiggling, mud-covered bundle of pure adorableness. My chest combusts. Puppy. Tiny ears. Big eyes. Wiggly paws. I’m gone.
“Isla!” His grin is way too devastatingly charming for someone who looks like he just lost a wrestling match with a mud pit. “Perfect timing. I need you.”
“Why do you have a puppy? Aren’t you supposed to be on your date with Michelle?”
It’s barely eight o’clock. An early ending probably means no romantic dinner, no lingering touches across the table, and no goodnight kiss under the stars. My heart does a little skip-jump. Not that I’m keeping track. I’m just being thorough. For professional purposes.
“Can I assume that smile means you’re happy I’m back early?” Asher tilts his head, his grin lazy.
“What? No! Of course not!” I smooth my expression. “So—uh—what happened?”
“Long story short? Date was a bust, but I found this little guy.” He nods to the squirming puppy, who lets out the tiniest sneeze I’ve ever heard. “Can you help me give him a bath?”
So he ended his date early to clean up the puppy with me? A weird flutter rises in my chest. Which is dumb. I should be disappointed. I want his dates to go well.
I need them to go well. Don’t I?
Especially considering I still don’t have a single active client right now. And thanks to Diane’s sky-high rate, the other matchmakers in town and in nearby towns are hiking their prices like they’re selling luxury handbags instead of love.
But I can’t give up.
“What happened? Michelle seemed so—” Perfect. Polished. Successful. The kind of woman Asher deserves. Unlike certain matchmakers whose idea of success lately involves not crying over client spreadsheets and pretending her love life isn’t a dumpster fire in heels.
“We don’t match,” Asher says with a shrug, like it’s no big deal.
“But you’re both perfect for each other.”
A maddening smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Maybe I’m more into imperfect .”
My mouth opens, then closes. Zero comeback. My brain has officially blue-screened.
He turns back into his apartment, those unfairly broad shoulders somehow managing to make even mud stains look good. The wet fabric stretches across his back in a way that should be illegal in at least three states.
“Two hands aren’t enough for this chaos,” Asher calls over his shoulder, heading for the bathroom. “Come on, Peachie. I need you.”
The man’s cradling this tiny mud ball like it’s made of spun sugar, murmuring soft nonsense as the puppy tries to lick his chin.
Between his broad shoulders and the way he’s cooing at the tiny puppy, my heart swells like it’s trying to write poetry about this exact moment. There’s something ridiculously sexy about watching those strong hands being impossibly gentle with something so small.
“I didn’t sign up for puppy bath time,” I argue weakly, even as I kick off my shoes and follow him. Because apparently, I’ve lost all ability to say no to Asher Collymore and his puppy.
He glances back with a grin. “I also got you the strawberry mochi donuts, by the way. It’s on the counter if you survive the bath.”
The bathroom isn’t small, but it suddenly feels tiny with Asher’s six-foot-three frame and my supposedly professional, totally platonic boundaries both trying to occupy the same space.
“Can you hold him while I run the water?” The puppy squirms between us as Asher passes him to me.
The puppy gazes up at me with huge brown eyes, all sweetness despite being cold and muddy. His tail wags, sending little droplets of mud everywhere.
My heart melts.
Then it melts a little more.
I’ve always wanted a dog. I even wrote an essay titled “I Want a Puppy” when I was in sixth grade. But Mom never let us have pets after Dad left. She said she couldn’t handle any more responsibilities. Even after I moved out, I still didn’t get one. I told myself I was too busy, too unstable.
“Okay, water’s ready. Let’s do this.”
I step closer to the tub, and—oh. Mistake. Big mistake. Asher moves beside me, his arm brushing mine as we both try to lower the squirming puppy into the water.
He smells like pine and something uniquely Asher that should be bottled and labeled Dangerous for Matchmakers . I’m sure it would sell out in the first five minutes, and I would absolutely not be responsible for half the purchases.
Bubbles start to form as we lather him up, turning his muddy fur into a foamy mess of pure chaos. The puppy, apparently deciding this is the perfect moment for chaos, goes full sprinkler system. Water and bubbles explode everywhere. Tiny soap suds fly through the air like confetti at a very wet, very unexpected party.
In ten seconds flat, we’re both soaked, standing face to face as water rains down around us.
“Gah!” I sputter, wiping my face. “I think we’re the ones getting the bath here!”
Asher’s laugh is deeper today. His gray Henley is now completely soaked, clinging to every ridge and plane of his chest. I glance at him, then down at myself. “You know, I was gonna say I look ridiculous, but you might have me beat.”
His brows lift. “Oh really?”
He reaches behind his neck, grabs the hem of his shirt, and pulls it over his head in one smooth motion. The wet fabric hits the counter with a splat that feels unnecessarily dramatic.
“Better?”
His bare chest is in full close-up view. Defined lines, water slicked ridges, even sharper than last time because now we’re only inches apart. Maybe six. If last week was 4K, this is whatever comes after that. 8K. Premium subscription tier. Heart palpitations included.
“Was that necessary? Ash!” I turn my head and lock my eyes on the towel rack. I cannot be mentally stable about his bare chest in his bathroom. With a puppy. This is too much.
“It’s not your first time seeing it,” he says with a shrug. “I distinctly remember you walking in on me changing in fifth grade and screaming like I’d committed a felony. Oh, and last week. You saw it then, too.”
“That was different. You were bony and had a Naruto band-aid on your ribcage. And last week was accidental.”
“Oh wait . . . are you blushing? What’s going on in that matchmaker brain of yours?”
He taps my cheek with the back of his fingers, nudging my face toward him. “Yup. Confirmed. Blushing.”
I swat his hand away, my face burning. “I’m not blushing. It’s the steam.”
“So much steam.”
“You’re impossible.”
His mouth curves. The man has the audacity to trail one wet finger down the side of my neck. Slowly. Unhurried. My breath snags in my throat, and goosebumps bloom in his wake, rising everywhere he touches. He finally stops when he reaches my collarbone.
“Now I’m curious. Is it just your cheeks, or are you blushing all over?”
“Asher Collymore.” I shiver. “Are you flirting with me?”
“What do you think?”
What even is this energy right now? Is he bored after his date? Rebounding? Practicing for someone else? Can someone please return the normal Asher and rescue me from this emotionally confusing, shirtless flirtation danger zone?
I grab his wrist and push his hand away. “I think you shouldn’t practice your flirting skills on me.”
He chuckles, stretching his arm overhead with a lazy roll of his shoulder.
I glue my eyes to the puppy, pretending to be deeply invested in lathering his tiny, squirmy back. Bubbles. Focus on the bubbles.
“Anyway.” I clear my throat. “So . . . what happened with Michelle? The date ended pretty early.”
“I don’t know, Is. Jogging in the rain? That’s a new one for first-date activities.”
“I didn’t set that up.”
“Oh, I know. Michelle insisted.” He raises an eyebrow. “Is that part of your new matchmaking criteria now? Ability to run a 5K on the first date?”
“No. But she’s a successful fitness influencer. I thought you two would have things in common. She looks . . . perfect. Polished. Instagram-worthy. Diane said clients are less frustrated when their matches seem equally put together.”
“Do you really believe that?”
“I’m still figuring it out. But . . . it seems to work for Diane and some of the other matchmakers.”
“Is that the standard you’ve set for yourself? That perfect, polished type. Is that the kind of woman you wish you were?”
I freeze, caught completely off guard. Asher turns toward me, water dripping from his fingers. His expression turns serious in a way that steals the breath right out of my lungs. Even the puppy goes still, tilting his little head like he’s mimicking Asher’s concerned stare. His ears flop to one side as if he, too, is waiting for my answer.
Now I’m being cornered by a shirtless man and a freshly scrubbed puppy dog.
Am I supposed to answer that? Because yes, sometimes I wish I was more like Michelle. The kind of woman who always knows what to say, who always looks camera-ready and completely in control. Who doesn’t get cheated on or have to prove she’s good at love for a living.
I want to be better.
I want to be someone worth choosing.
But I don’t say any of that. I just stare at the puppy as Asher scratches behind his ears, the soft sound of running water filling the silence between us.
“I wouldn’t want that.” Asher shifts, rinsing a bit of soap from the puppy’s paw. “We found this little guy shivering in the rain, huddled against a trash bin, just trying to stay dry. Michelle took one look and said we couldn’t stop because she didn’t want to ruin her running pace. I don’t care how perfect she is.”
How about me?
Don’t go there. I already know what he thinks. He made it perfectly clear that day by the lake.
You’re amazing. You’ll find someone who sees that.
I swallow hard. “Sorry about that . . . I’ll work on the system.”
Asher flicks a little suds in my direction. “Only if it includes a category for Will stop mid-run for stray puppies. I hear that’s a real green flag.”
After several more splashes, we finally get the puppy clean and dry. He’s a different creature now, all fluffy white fur with adorable brown patches.
Asher ruffles the puppy’s fur. “We should probably name him. It’s going to be ours, after all.”
“Ours? I mean, he’s yours. You rescued him.”
Well. I’m already naming him in my head. Already picturing shared walks, vet visits, and tiny paw prints on the kitchen floor.
“True, but he likes you. It’s practically a joint custody situation at this point. And you’ve always wanted a puppy, haven’t you?”
My heart does a little flip. Raise a puppy and name it together is on my Love Bucket List. One of those things I want to do with the one .
When we were kids, Connie and Fred’s old golden retriever, Max, used to be the highlight of my walks home from school. The way they’d share his care, how Fred would pretend to grumble about “that mutt” while sneaking him treats, how Connie would laugh and say Max was the best marriage counselor they ever had. Watching them, it always seemed like sharing a pet meant sharing something deeper.
I told Kyle that once. He laughed and said dogs were too messy, too needy, like having a kid that can’t talk but still ruins your carpet.
But Asher isn’t doing this because it’s on my list, is he? He saw my list, and he knows that’s a couple’s thing.
“Okay, fine. But if we’re doing this, I’m making him pancakes on his birthday and dressing him up for Halloween. That’s non-negotiable.”
“Oh, depends on whose pancakes he likes better,” Asher says as he gives the puppy a little bounce, then carefully places him in my arms.
I hug the little fluff ball to my chest, and he immediately snuggles in, letting out a soft, content sigh. I glance up at Asher. “Just so you know, mine comes with shaped fruit on top and a heartfelt birthday song.”
“So,” he chuckles, brushing his hand gently through the puppy’s fur where it peeks out from the crook of my elbow, “what should we name him?”
The motion is so gentle, so familiar, it makes something in my chest ache. He’s standing close, his shoulder warm against mine, his fingers tangled lightly in the puppy’s fur like we’re . . . a team. A unit.
Just like we were when we were eleven, huddled behind the library with a shivering stray and half a mochi donut between us. Asher crouched beside me, knees scraped, hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands as he fed the puppy tiny bites and told me we’d figure it out.
I knew Mom wouldn’t let me keep the puppy So we spent our allowance on kibble and made it our secret for a week. Until we found him a real home.
“What about Mochi?” I ask.
We both love mochi donuts. His favorite is chocolate, mine is strawberry. We always share them, like so many little things in life we’ve shared as friends. Sometimes, I wonder what it would be like if we weren’t just friends. Maybe we could raise a child together someday.
Oh no. Nope. Too far.
We can’t be a couple raising our child together, but at least we can raise a puppy together.
“Mochi,” he repeats softly, like he’s trying it out. “I like it.”
The puppy, as if recognizing his new name, lets out a happy yip and wags his tail.
Asher grabs a towel from the rack, running it through his dark hair before draping it around his neck. He grabs another one and hands it to me. “Here. Can’t have my matchmaker catching a cold.”
He pushes off from where he’s been leaning against the tub and stretches, and those abs of his go full calendar-ready with zero warning. A droplet trails down his chest and disappears beneath the waistband of his pants.
I’m sure he could win Sexiest Man Alive: Puppy Dad Edition. The whole town would probably vote unanimously. Maybe we’ll just accidentally get engaged right here in the bathroom while a dog watches.
That’s ridiculous. What would I even wear to a bathtub proposal? Why am I even thinking about being engaged?
His eyes catch mine, a slight crinkle at the corners when he smiles. “So, are you ready for tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow?” A sinking feeling twists in my gut.
His grin widens. “Our gym session, remember? Part of our deal?”