Katie was wrong.

My ovaries are so fine.

They can handle this photo shoot, no problem.

Really, what’s so hard to take about a six-foot-five, two-hundred-fifty-eight-pound guy with toned, strong muscles everywhere on his frame hugging a mixed-breed Australian shepherd puppy?

And for the record, I only know his height and weight because I’ve memorized those stats for every single player on the team. They’re handy when reporters ask, and they do.

But I’ve added a few more details for this guy. Beautiful veins in his forearms. A lopsided grin. A happy trail skating down his fine ab—

Screech.

I slam on the brakes. I shouldn’t be admiring his body, even though now would be a good time to do so since he’s wearing those casually sexy swim trunks.

On the beach.

With the sun beating down on said muscles.

With waves cresting in the background.

Maybe he needs me to oil up his arms, his pecs, his back.

Nope, Katie, nothing is tough about this at all.

Unless ovaries exploding inside me is a rough experience, because . . . oh my stars.

The puppy named Lulu is licking his face now.

Jones cracks up, belly laughs radiating through him as the white, black, and brown six-month-old puppy with crystal blue eyes bestows a popsicle-worthy kiss across his lips.

That lucky puppy.

That dog has all my good fortune.

“Please feel free to hire me for all team photos you ever need in the history of team photos,” my friend Jess says as she stops for a moment to check the back of her camera.

“You know I do my best,” I say with a smile, since she honed her eye shooting celebrity pictures in Los Angeles, and she’s a wiz behind the lens.

As she takes more photos for the calendar, I grab a few shots for social media. Like with the body issue, I don’t want to scoop the calendar. But, as part of my publicity plan, I want to dole out teasers of what fans will be getting when they flip open January, February, March, and so on.

“Lulu, you are too cute for words,” Jones coos to the pup, and my heart can’t take it. I turn on the video camera and record this unscripted moment, moving closer but staying out of the photographer’s shot. My sandals are in my bag by the picnic table, and my bare feet sink into the sand.

The pup rewards Jones’s sweet nothings with another long lick across his lips. The Marin County Humane Society rep, a kind woman with curly black hair, bounces on her toes, clearly proud of her animal choice for the shoot.

Lulu laps her tongue across Jones’s mouth, and he can barely take it. His laugher booms, loud and buoyant over the squawking of seagulls. He flops onto the sand, the puppy scrambling up his chest, making sure the man can’t escape from her kisses.

It is literally the cutest thing I’ve ever seen in my life.

Jess is all over it, knowing this is the golden ticket, better than any posed shot. The pro athlete is exactly where we never want to see him during game-time. Flat on his back. But right now, it’s perfect, with Jones in the sand, his tanned skin on display, his muscles rippling as he holds the dog, his smile as wide as the sea behind him.

I thought I needed to take fifty cold showers to get over that look he gave me when eating the bite of pie, but I won’t need any to get over this moment.

Because it’s not sexual.

It’s not lusty.

It’s wholly endearing, as he makes a six-month-old puppy named Lulu fall for him.

That dog might be my soul sister.

A few minutes later, as Jess packs up her gear, Jones says to the dog, “What am I going to do with you? You give me those puppy-dog eyes, and I don’t stand a chance.”

“Are you tempted to adopt her?” I ask as I walk over to him and Delia, the woman from the animal rescue.

He heaves a sigh. “If I could, I would. I’ve already had to convince my brother to be Cletus’s babysitter during the season.”

I nod, understanding the dilemma of a traveling man. An idea strikes me, though. “Would you want to post a photo of her on the team feed and say she’s looking for a home? We can tag the humane society.”

A smile lights Delia’s face. “We would be so very grateful.”

“Let’s do it,” Jones says.

He scoops the dog higher in his arms, pressing his face to her snout. I snap a shot of man and beast. I don’t know which one is cuter.

* * *

“Have you always been a dog whisperer?”

“My animal magnetism is pretty impressive, isn’t it?”

I laugh, as we walk the puppy down a deserted stretch of beach. Jones asked Delia if he could take Lulu for a stroll. No surprise, Delia said yes, and I gave Jess a quick goodbye hug before she left. “That’s one word for it. But tell the truth,” I narrow my eyes and ask him in a faux accusatory voice, “did you slather Alpo all over your lips?”

“You caught me, but it was beef jerky. I gnawed through a whole stick while you weren’t looking, just to excite Lulu.”

When she hears her name, the pup spins in a circle in the sand, then scampers to the end of the leash. Jones walks a little faster, as per Lulu’s wishes, and I keep pace, too. “Seriously, what’s with your animal charms?”

“So you admit I’m charming?” he asks with mischief in his eyes.

Charming as in the ultimate flirt, yes. “Lulu seems to think so,” I concede drily.

“But what about you? If you admit I’m charming, I’ll tell you.”

I pretend to punch his arm. “You’re relentless. And fine, you’re incredibly charming to canines. What’s that all about?”

Jones pumps a fist. “I knew you’d admit the truth.” We wander along the shoreline, the waves crashing lightly against the sand. “We didn’t have dogs when I was growing up, and I wanted one so much. I asked my parents all the time if we could get a puppy. I had this whole campaign planned for Christmas when I was eleven. It was free adoption day at the Sacramento shelter, and so on.” He turns to me, his gaze locking with mine. “But we never got one.”

The sadness in his blue irises hooks into me, and tugs on my heart. “Were your parents allergic?”

He shakes his head. “Nope. Honestly, we didn’t have the money. My parents were strapped for cash my entire childhood. They said they wanted to get a dog for the four of us, but they couldn’t afford another mouth to feed, and that was that. I always told myself that I’d adopt a dog once I was drafted, but then I didn’t want to bring home one that I couldn’t take care of, being on the road so much. It wasn’t until Trevor moved to the city that I knew I could finally get a pet. Plus, obviously, I was helpless to resist Cletus. Once I met him while I was helping out at the shelter, I had to take him home.” He holds his arms out wide. “He gave me no choice.”

“Cletus is the very picture of irresistibility. I can see why you were powerless against his charms.”

“He gave me a puppy dog face, and that was that.” Jones bats his eyes, imitating Cletus it seems, then tips his chin at me. “What about you? Did you want a dog?”

My feet sink into the sand as we traverse the beach and memories of my childhood wishes return. “I wanted everything when I was a kid. I was an only child, so I was convinced I needed a four-legged friend since I didn’t have a brother or sister. I’d have taken anything. Dog, cat, hamster, bunny. I even tried to get a hedgehog once.”

“A hedgehog? Those are pretty damn cute.”

“I know. But I had no luck, either. My mom was allergic to everything, so we never had any pets. The ironic thing is my dad finally got a dog a few years ago after my mom died.”

Jones stops in his tracks, reaching for my arm. “I didn’t realize your mom had passed.”

Sometimes, I think I know him well. I work with him, share his stats and performance with the media, and I sit down with reporters when they interview him. But that’s superficial. There’s so much we haven’t talked about. So many conversations we haven’t had. “She had a heart attack four years ago,” I say, doing my best to keep my tone even and ignoring the lump in my throat that forms inevitably when I talk about her.

“I’m really sorry.”

“Me, too,” I say softly. “She wasn’t that young, though. Not that that makes it easier necessarily. But she was sixty-five. She was over forty when she adopted me. My parents were both a little older. They didn’t have any luck trying to have a child the old-fashioned way. Ergo, I’m their kid.”

He wraps an arm around my shoulder and gives me a squeeze. “I’m sorry you lost your mom, Jillian. I would be devastated.”

“I was, but my dad was the one who took it the hardest. I was worried about him for the longest time. I still worry about him, but he’s doing so much better.” I reflect on the shifts I’ve seen in him recently. He laughs more, smiles more, and spends time with friends. He’s healing. “I think that’s why the dog helps so much. It gives him something to focus on, someone to love. And I try to visit him as often as I can.”

“That’s what you should do,” he says, squeezing my shoulder once more.

My eyes drift to his fingers, spread over my shoulder. For a moment, I flash back to dinner, to my dirty fantasies of his hands.

I never expected the first time he’d have them on me for so long, it would be like this, borne of some kind of comfort.

Or that I would like it this much.

Especially since he doesn’t take his hand off me for the rest of the walk.