Chapter 2
Melanie
Dogs rush me as I step closer to Charlotte.
I breathe in the fresh air, and try not to keep looking at Lucas as he and Asher talk about security things.
But it’s hard, y’all. So hard. He’s the epitome of handsome.
Beyond that, really. He’s like a perfect specimen of man.
Muscles galore. Eyes the color of the sky on a winter day.
And a smile that could melt hearts. I think mine is literally melting right now.
I immediately get body-checked by a golden retriever the size of a loveseat and fall back down to reality. “Hi, Moose,” I laugh, because obviously he’s the dog Moose Char’s been telling me about. “I am honored you picked me as your new mom.”
“Get in line,” Charlotte calls, waddling off the porch in a cream beanie and hiking boots, her hand resting on her baby bump.
She collides with me in a hug that’s been too long.
“You made it!” She rubs her belly. “I’m about to pop, so I’m glad you came before the baby comes and adds to the madness. ”
I give her another squeeze. “You’re going to be a great mother.”
She smiles, her hand sliding to her back. “I’m just ready for this one to be here already. The waiting is the hardest part.” Her smile shines. “I’m just so glad you made it.”
“Me too. I’m so proud of me.” I glance past her shoulder at the panoramic view. “Is this a movie set? Be honest.”
“Just our backyard,” she says, all smug sunshine, and it makes me ridiculously happy.
Asher raises a hand to wave. “Welcome to the ridge, Melanie.”
“Hi, Dad Friend,” I tease, because I can see all the dogs looking to him as the Alpha. “Love what you’ve done with the forest.”
“The forest came preinstalled,” he deadpans. “We just added dogs.”
As if on cue, three more show up—one dignified gray-muzzled shepherd, a brindle pittie with the zoomies, and a tiny black floof that looks like it’s running on espresso.
“I brought my camera, an extra battery, and a pocketful of bribes,” I say, producing a zip bag of training treats. All six dogs sit. “Oh. They’re professionals.”
“Asher runs a tight ship,” Charlotte says, bumping him with her elbow. “Speaking of, our crew is in and out this weekend. You’ve already met Lucas—he just got back from an out-of-town assignment with Riggs.”
“I have,” I say with a big smile. “He’s quiet like a crockpot.”
Lucas’s eyes shine and he gives me that heart-melting smile again. My knees buckle, but I try to pretend he doesn’t have that kind of effect on me.
But how can he not?
He huffs a surprised laugh. “Haven’t heard that one.”
“Give it time.”
“Lucas,” Asher says, by way of introduction. “Melanie’s helping shoot adoption photos this weekend.”
“Copy that,” Lucas says, and somehow “copy that” manages to sound both tactical and flirty. “Welcome to snow-melt season. Watch the slush—black ice hides under it.”
“Understood.” I pivot to head toward the house and step straight into a thin ribbon of invisible ice. My heel skates. Moose yips like he’s calling a foul.
Strong hands catch my elbows before gravity wins. I end up braced chest-to-chest against approximately six feet four inches of field-tested core strength. He steadies me like it’s nothing, like he does this all day: catch civilians, handle emergencies, smell annoyingly nice. It’s extremely rude.
“You okay?” Lucas asks, voice pitched low, eyes scanning my face for damage. “Hurt anything?”
“Only my dignity,” I say, breath doing a weird sprint thing. “Which was already iffy.”
Charlotte is grinning and failing to hide it. Asher is wearing his neutral “I saw nothing” expression. The espresso floof is licking my boot.
Lucas releases me once my footing is sure. “Told you. Black ice.”
“Right.” I clear my throat. “I was testing you. Congrats—you passed.”
“Do I get a sticker?” he asks, deadpan, but the curve of his mouth betrays him.
“I’m fresh out, but I can offer a dog-shaped sugar cookie.”
“That tracks.”
We haul my bags inside while Charlotte narrates the weekend plan: help in the mornings, shoot photos in the afternoon, hot cocoa always.
The cabin is all warm wood, high windows, and the faint soundtrack of paws on floorboards.
A corkboard near the kitchen holds Polaroids of every dog that’s found a home—smiling humans, goofy tongues, Sharpie names like Peanut, Tofu, Cricket.
“I’m already crying,” I announce, setting my camera case on the big farmhouse table. “I haven’t even unzipped the lens hood and I’m emotional.”
“You’re in luck,” Charlotte says. “We just took in four new pups.”
“Four?” I clasp a hand to my chest. “Say less.”
The screen door clicks again, and in trots a lanky adolescent mutt with ears like satellite dishes. Lucas whistles softly, and the pup gallops to him, skidding to a sit at his boots.
“This is Major,” Lucas says, ruffling the dog’s neck. “Found him near Red Rocks. Friendly, smart, part gazelle.”
Major blinks at me like we’re already best friends. I crouch and offer a hand to sniff. “Majooor,” I coo. “Ready for your close-up, sir?”
“He’s a ham,” Lucas says. “You’ll get gold in five minutes.”
“Good, because I brought my ‘adopt me’ bandanas,” I say, fishing a bundle from my tote. “And a tiny tweed bowtie.”
Lucas raises a brow. “Tweed. For the mountains.”
“Exactly.” I loop the bowtie around Major’s neck. He looks like a very polite accountant. “Oh my gosh, I can’t—someone adopt him now.”
We do the house tour: guest room (plaid duvet, view for days), mudroom stocked with towels, a gear closet that looks like an REI made friends with a SWAT van. Charlotte and I stop in the nursery.
“Yellow,” I say with a smile. “I love it.”
“I wanted something neutral because we want to be surprised,” Charlotte says with a hand on her belly.
I hug her again because I just can’t believe my best friend is pregnant. “I can’t wait to meet your baby!”
Charlotte nods, hugging me back. “You’re going to be a great Auntie.”
“Why yes I am.” I smile, and Charlotte and I head toward the guest room where Lucas is already hoisting my suitcase onto the bench like it’s weightless and somehow not the size of a baby rhino.
“You pack light,” he says, eyeing the second tote.
“I’m here forty-eight hours with a camera. I require options.”
He nods gravely. “Contingency planning. Respect.”
“See?” I point at Charlotte. “Someone appreciates my preparedness.”
“She brought three kinds of lip balm,” Charlotte informs him.
“Hydration is important,” I say, deeply offended.
Lucas’s mouth tilts. “Copy that.”
We break for lunch—grilled cheese, tomato soup, two dogs under the table praying for crumbs—and the conversation loosens. Lucas is just back from a run with Riggs, protecting Vanessa Mercado for a week of brand shoots.
I choke on a crouton. “The Vanessa Mercado?”
“You know her?” he asks, like that’s a real question.
“She’s been on my For You page daily since 2021,” I say. “How was she? Please say she’s a good human or my day will crumble like this crouton.”
“She was… professional,” he says diplomatically, then adds, “And kind to the crew. Brought her own snacks. Shared.”
“Oh, snack-sharing? Sainted.”
Asher snorts. “Melanie’s metric is snacks.”
“My metric is people,” I shoot back. “Snacks are a love language subset.”
Lucas knocks his knuckles lightly against the table like he’s filing this away. “Good to know.”
The way he looks at me—curious, not performative; mild, but engaged—makes my skin fizz in that oh dear way. I sip water, then change the subject before I ask something weird like what cologne he wears.
After lunch we gear up for photos. The sun’s bright but the wind’s still sharp, so I bundle a scarf around my neck and swap sneakers for boots.
We set up by the fence where the mountain backdrop looks unreal.
Charlotte cycles dogs in pairs while I crouch, stand, squeak toys, and deploy my high-pitched “who’s the best pupper” voice that has never failed me, not once.
Lucas hovers nearby. And not in the annoying way, but in the helpful way.
He holds the reflector like he was born doing it, finds lost treats in the grass with commando precision, and makes low, encouraging sounds that somehow get the dogs to look straight into the lens like they’re auditioning for Dog Vogue.
“You do this a lot?” I ask between shots.
“Different field, same skills,” he says. “Patience. Timing. Reading the subject. Light discipline.”
“Light discipline,” I repeat, pretending to write it on my palm. “And here I was calling it ‘avoid raccoon eyes.’”
He smiles. “That too.”
Major’s shoot is easy—three head tilts, two happy spins, one perfect frame that hits me right in the heart. I show Lucas the screen and he studies it like it’s recon. “You make him look adoptable,” he says.
“He is adoptable. I just translate it.”
He glances from the image to me and back, something like respect brightening his eyes. Heat flutters low in my chest. I am very professional about it. I only blush a little.
By late afternoon my cheeks are wind-kissed, my camera roll is full, and I’ve lost track of time in that alive way that means I did the right thing coming here.
Charlotte tugs me into the kitchen for cocoa while the dogs nap in floppy piles.
Asher disappears to take a call. Lucas lingers in the doorway, one shoulder against the frame, watching the mountains like he expects them to shift.
“So,” Charlotte murmurs, bumping my hip with hers while she stirs cocoa. “Lucas.”
I stare at the whipped cream like it contains answers. “I was going to ask you about that.”
“Quiet, competent, good with creatures,” she says, counting off. “Also: objectively handsome. Try not to lick his biceps.”
“Be serious,” I whisper, then immediately add, “Do not judge me if I trip ‘accidentally’ again.”
She grins. “You’re only here for the weekend.”
“I know.” I swallow, watching him in my peripheral vision. He leans down to scratch Moose’s ears, and Moose groans in bliss. Honestly, same. “Which is perfect for not-complicated, not-messy fun.”
Charlotte hands me a mug. “You don’t do complicated.”
“Rude. Accurate.” I blow on the cocoa and hazard a glance toward the door. He’s looking at me now, like he heard that whole exchange. His mouth tilts.
As dusk slips over the ridge, Asher announces pizza from town. Charlotte cheers. The dogs agree loudly. Lucas offers to pick it up and I blurt, “I can come,” like a middle-schooler choosing a lab partner.
Three sets of eyebrows rise.
I clear my throat. “For, you know, local color. Photo ops. Content.”
“Uh-huh,” Charlotte says, biting back a smile.
“Sure,” Asher says, deadpan generous. “Local color.”
Lucas holds my coat while I jam my arms in the sleeves, because he’s special like that—polite, thoughtful, inconveniently attractive. When our fingers brush, something sparks, and if this was one of my reels I’d add glitter effects.
In the truck, the heater hums and the roads thread dark through the trees.
We make small talk—favorite trail snacks, worst travel story (his: a midnight flight on a cargo plane; mine: an Airbnb with a shower that hissed like a snake).
The quiet between answers is comfortable, the kind that doesn’t need to be filled with words to prove interest.
“You shoot a lot of rescues?” he asks after a while.
“Any chance I get,” I say. “My followers like all kinds of dogs. I love dogs. If dogs find homes because of it… win-win-win.”
“Good mission,” he says, and he means it. Not a line, not a pat on the head.
“What about you?” I ask. “Back-to-back assignments, or do you get a minute to breathe?”
“Just finished a run,” he says. “Home for a week. Maybe two.”
A week. My brain taps a little calculator: weekend equals 48 hours minus sleep minus pizza equals… bad idea arithmetic. I smile anyway. “Then we’ll put you to work holding reflectors and bribing models.”
“Copy that,” he says, mouth hitching up.
We cross a narrow bridge, lights from the town twinkling ahead like a bowl of stars dumped onto a map. Tomorrow we’ll shoot more, drink too much cocoa, and I’ll pretend I don’t notice the way Lucas watches the world like he’s filed it all by heart.
For tonight: pizza, dogs, and the quiet thrill of maybe. I came to the mountains to breathe. I didn’t plan on the man who catches you before you hit black ice or gets a skittish pup to hold still with a whisper.
I’m only here for the weekend.
But as we roll into town, the crown of the Rockies shining silver in our rearview, I let myself think—just for one reckless heartbeat—that a weekend might be enough to start something.