Tumbling Into You – By Gwen Galloway
TUMBLING INTO YOU
BY GWEN GALLOWAY
Winnie
“ Damn, I love LA .”
Bending down, I slipped my fingers under Hamish's purple canvas collar, quickly unhooking the leash with a sharp, metallic click.
As trained, he stayed seated by my left leg.
With a dramatic sweep of my arm, I released him.
“Hamish, free!” With an explosive burst of energy, Hamish launched forward like a rocket, wiggling his fuzzy butt as he bounded up the gentle incline of the winding fire road.
Even at this hour, Runyon Canyon was bustling with a diverse crowd.
There were early morning athletes jogging to the rhythm of music in their earbuds, while friends strolled along, catching up while chipping away at their daily step count.
Walking past me, two women in their twenties were engrossed in a conversation—from the snippet I overheard—about their best friend catching her cheating boyfriend in the act .
I paused another moment to fish out my favorite vintage aviator Ray-Bans from my backpack. I unfolded the glasses and slid them into position. Looking out at the scenery, everything appeared clearer through the green-tinted, polarized lenses.
Suddenly, my eyes landed on the most mouth-watering, gorgeous man.
I'm usually terrible at estimating distances, but he appeared closer than the length of a hockey rink.
Watching him emerge from the shaded area into the bright sunlight was practically a religious experience.
And that's really saying something, considering I was raised by a professional hockey god, whose Holy Grail was the Stanley Cup.
This man was beyond stunning, with a commanding height well north of six feet, broad shoulders, and a chiseled, athletic frame.
The way his white t-shirt stretched across his chest was delicious, the short sleeves barely containing his defined biceps.
He moved with effortless confidence, each fluid step steady and sure.
His blue jeans hung snugly on his lean hips, the soft, flexible fabric clinging to his long muscular thighs, as if perfectly tailored for his body.
His black baseball cap was swiveled backward —good god, why the fuck is that so sexy —keeping most of his unruly, light-colored hair out of his face.
It was no surprise that I wasn't alone in my appreciation of this spectacular man.
I watched three women pass him going in the opposite direction, immediately elbowing each other and whipping their heads around to gawk at—what I could only imagine was—his exquisite ass.
Returning my eyes to Mr. Sexy Pants, I caught him shaking his head as if annoyed by their overt appreciation.
Yeah, it's tough to be a god here on earth .
Then I noticed he wasn't alone. The cutest little girl, in a pink t-shirt and leggings, skipped up to his side, sliding her small hand into his. Awww.
Hearing a sharp, piercing bark, my eyes automatically scanned for Hamish's location.
Less than twenty feet up the fire road, I was relieved to see him happily roughhousing with a playful golden retriever.
After our cross-country road trip last week from Washington, DC, to Los Angeles, we both deserved a day to relax and savor the gorgeous weather in our new hometown.
The twenty-five unpacked moving boxes—scattered around the guest house I'm renting from my best friend, Darcy—could wait another day.
Growing up in DC, my amazing dad had raised me on his own while juggling his successful professional hockey career with the Washington Revolution—first as a star player, then as their head coach.
It had been only the two of us after we’d lost my mother to breast cancer when I was three.
From the first time I toddled onto the ice—learning to skate with my tiny hands clasped securely in my dad's—my life had revolved around professional hockey.
I'd gone away for college, but after graduation, my well-intentioned dad slotted me into a high-profile role as the social media and digital marketing manager for the Revolution.
Four years in the team's front office had given me invaluable corporate experience, but the nepotism gossip, whispered around the water cooler, had always weighed heavily on my shoulders.
I'd allowed my father to choose and shape my career path because I loved him more than anything—and I hadn’t wanted him to be alone.
Hockey was a lifelong love I shared with my father, but it was his dream, not mine.
When I was a kid, if I wasn't at the arena supporting my dad, I was busy crafting stories on my laptop and recording dialogue to bring them to life.
Uprooting my life to move to LA had been a big decision, but I was finally pursuing my dreams.
Suddenly, a flash of gray in my periphery snatched my attention back to reality.
“Oh, my god! Hamish, no!” He was sprinting uphill, a very excited, sing-song voice squealing “Puppeee,” drawing him in like a homing pigeon.
My stomach flipped and dread shot down my spine.
Fuck my luck . The little girl—the same little girl previously seen with the total smokeshow—was running toward Hamish, leaving Mr. Sexy Pants far behind.
My dog loved to play with kids, but not everyone was keen on his brand of overly rambunctious fun.
“Maggie pie!” Mr. Sexy Pants' voice boomed, thick with panic, the urgency in his tone resonating deeply with the anxiety overtaking my body. Pursuing her downhill at a good clip, he was close enough for me to see the fear etched on his face, but farther away from Maggie than I was.
“Hamish, LEAVE IT!” Running toward them at full speed, I watched in excruciatingly slow motion as Hamish playfully reared up when the girl stopped to greet him.
His front paws landed squarely in the middle of her pink “Play Like a Girl” t-shirt.
True to the laws of physics, the force of his momentum pushed her backward, plopping her down on her butt with a thud.
I arrived just as Maggie's shocked expression melted into a sheepish, gap-toothed grin—thankfully, not a consequence of the fall.
“Oh, sweetie!” I crouched down, my hand immediately rubbing circles on her back.
“I'm so glad you're okay. Sorry, Hamish can be a bit too enthusiastic.” Maggie nodded, but Hamish's effusive kisses on her face rendered her “I'm fine” mostly garbled.
Playfully waving her arms, Maggie pretended to fend off Hamish's affectionate advances.
“Hamish is so cute. I want to play with him more,” Maggie said, finally getting her moment to speak.
Hamish nuzzled her neck and licked her flushed cheeks, her effervescent giggles fueling his excitement.
Upping the stakes of the game, Hamish darted back and forth, jumping over Maggie's extended legs and circling around her back.
“Clearly, Hamish loves you too.” Wanting to corral Hamish as soon as possible, I scrambled to grab his collar, failing miserably as he popped in and out of reach.
“Jesus!” Jerking to a stop behind Maggie, Mr. Sexy Pants clamped his hands on his hips, appearing uncertain how to respond.
Sweeping my gaze up his body, my chest tightened seeing his eyes flooded with worry.
Towering over us, his magnificent frame blocked the glaring sun, giving me a clear view of the sharp angles of his jaw, highlighted by the sweat glistening on his tanned skin.
His mesmerizing hazel eyes—framed by enviously long, lush eyelashes—seized mine with an intensity that left me feeling paralyzed and unable to sense the passage of time.
His lips curled into a devilish grin, melting the tension in his shoulders, and , if I’m being honest, my black cotton panties.
The raw, sexual energy radiating off him blazed hotter than the sun. Damn, this day just became a scorcher.
“Are you alright, baby?” His voice resonated like a deep, soothing melody, vibrating through every inch of my body.
I knew he was addressing Maggie, but I wished his words had been meant for me.
Crouching down, his presence was magnetic and reassuring as he stroked Maggie's hair, dropping a gentle kiss to the top of her head.
His hands were impressive up close—long, thick fingers that were both rugged and graceful.
Effortlessly, he slid those beautiful hands under Maggie's arms, scooping her to her feet.
Maggie spun around swiftly, clamping her hands onto his corded forearms, which showcased several artistic, colorful tattoos.
“Daddy, don't freak out. Hamish is just a big fluffy ball of fun.” Still scrambling to wrangle Hamish, I looked up at Maggie, admiring her sassy comeback.
“Can't you control that dog?” Mr. Sexy Pants—aka Maggie's dad—barked at me, his face twisting into a grimace as he jutted his chin at Hamish. But Hamish just ignored him—and me, for that matter—nuzzling affectionately into Maggie's side and wiggling against her purple unicorn leggings.
Bracing my hands on my thighs, I pushed to standing—regrettably, still without Hamish secured.
“Um, yes. Of course I can.” Suddenly, his scent enveloped me, a heady mix of sandalwood, zesty citrus, and something indescribably, yet undeniably masculine.
Fighting to regain my composure, I stammered, “Sorry, it's just, um . . .” Winnie, don't inhale.
“I think Hamish and your daughter experienced what I believe they call in Hollywood, a meet-cute.”
As I celebrated my flirty comment with a mental high-five, Mr. Sexy Pants glanced down at my worn, blue Penn Men's Soccer t-shirt that I'd won in a raffle during my freshman year at the University of Pennsylvania.
His eyes returned to my face, giving me a strangely disapproving look over Maggie's head, his lips momentarily dipping into a frown.
Maybe I misinterpreted his earlier appreciative gaze.
Without a word, he turned his attention back to Maggie.