I don’t make reckless decisions. I am an organized, self-sufficient woman—well, usually. Last night was a rare exception.

Jacob and I went out on the town. I don’t go out drinking. Ever. I’m too busy building my future and running a business to party and waste time recovering, but Jacob wasn’t taking no for an answer this time.

We had a great time club hopping. We were responsible taking Ubers instead of driving while intoxicated. We drank water occasionally so as not to get fall-down drunk. In fact, that night wasn’t the problem at all. It was the next night that has me thinking I need to have my head examined.

Now, I’m standing in front of the Bark Avenue Bone Bakery unlocking the door in the bone-chilling cold, thirty minutes late. The little silver bell on the door rings when I push it open, and I cringe. It sounds like a giant church bell gonging in my head instead of a tiny tinkling doorbell. Damn tequila.

I’m late opening, but there’s no line of customers waiting at the door, quite the contrary. My shop is located on a street lined with small businesses that have been teaming with activity the weeks before Christmas, but today it looks like a ghost town.

I’m grateful for the quiet, my head is still throbbing, and I can’t imagine dealing with the public until I’ve at least finished my first cup of coffee. I could use a few more ibuprofen, too.

Sketchy memories of last night flash in my mind like a slide show with the occasional missing slide. Jacob and I went for breakfast yesterday to soak up some of the alcohol we consumed the night before with bacon and eggs. That’s where I bumped into Trevon. Trevon was a friend from back home in Stockton, California, where we both grew up. We went to the same school and hung with the same crowd. It wasn’t long before we were making plans to have dinner later, which turned into dinner and drinks and more drinks.

I regret everything that happened after drink number five or six, mostly because I can’t remember any of it. I was in a weakened state trying to recover from my first night out in over a year. Drinking more and having what I can only imagine was sloppy sex has left me feeling hungover and embarrassed beyond words.

Inside, I shiver and flip on the lights wishing that I’d chosen bulbs with a lesser wattage at Costco last week. Squinting, I weave through the shelves of doggie sweaters, chew toys, and homemade treats to the counter where I stash my purse and turn up the heat.

I turned it down before I left two days ago knowing the store was going to be closed for a while. The week between Christmas and New Year’s is notoriously slow for the specialty shops in the junction, so most owners close down for a day or two and others close for the entire week. No sense in heating an empty business to seventy degrees. I’m a frugal businesswoman—it took too long to get where I am, and I’ve made too many sacrifices. I have to pinch my pennies if I want to keep on being successful.

I slip into the kitchen and grab my puppy-paw apron before preheating the ovens. I’ll be turning down the heat within the hour as soon as the ovens start heating up the building. I poke my head out into the store to make sure there are no customers yet. I prop the door open, so I can keep an eye on the place while I bake.

During the Christmas season, I had an extra part-time employee who ran the front while I baked the dog treats in the mornings, but now that business will be slowing down, it’s all me until noon. That’s fine with me today. I wouldn’t be good company with my pulsing headache and churning stomach.

I step into the shop to put the cash into the register when the bell on the door rings again. I close my eyes for a moment and let the sound bounce off the walls of my brain. When I open them, I prepare myself to greet my first customer of the day, but nothing could have prepared me for him.

I blink and wonder for a moment if hallucinations are a side effect of alcohol poisoning because this man is too beautiful to be real. He’s around six-foot-five with thick, black wavy hair that I find myself wanting to run my fingers through. Dressed in a dark charcoal suit with a gold tie, he looks like a million bucks—nothing like my usual customers.

Don’t get me wrong, I love my regulars in their flannel lumberjack shirts and Timberland boots or my customers dressed in their workout clothes because they’ve been running with their pet or working out next door at the gym, but this guy is a breath of fresh, rich, well-connected air.

I plaster my best fake yet charming smile on my face and approach him.

“Good morning. Is there anything in particular I can help you find?” I ask.

He’s scanning the shelves of treats and doesn’t look up when he speaks. “Peanut butter and banana grain-free wafers.”

A man who knows what he wants, I like that. I come out from behind the counter and walk down the aisle passing him as I go. I can feel him behind me following as I lead him to his peanut butter and banana grain-free treats. “Here you go, they come in different sizes. What kind of dog do you have?” I ask turning around to face him. Big mistake.

His light cornflower-blue eyes are startling. They don’t go with his bronze complexion and dark hair. I would have guessed him to have dark brown or black eyes, not blue.

His gaze travels down my body slowly and back up to my face. Every second that passes feels like he’s turning up his animal magnetism another notch. By the time his eyes reach my face, I feel like a kaleidoscope of butterflies has gathered in my belly, and it’s not from my hangover.

The corner of his mouth twitches as if he were suppressing a smile right before he answers. “Medium. Siberian Huskies, three of them.”

I hear him, but my brain is lagging from the alcohol and the intoxicating effect his presence is having on me. I want to say something intelligent or clever about Siberian Huskies, but I’m having a hot-man moment.

After a beat, he tilts his head to the side and narrows his eyes at me. “Are you okay?” he asks snapping me from my near-drooling state.

I stand up straight and look at the shelf behind him where the dog treats he’s inquiring about are located. “Medium, yes, we have those right here. How many do you need?” I ask gathering my wits and pointing at the row of boxes.

“I’m not sure. My housekeeper usually takes care of things like this. How many do you recommend?” He moves closer to the shelf which brings him closer to me causing my heart to accelerate. If my poor heart beats much harder, I may pass out or, even worse, vomit.

I don’t like being this affected by a man’s presence. It’s unsettling and unnerving, to say the least. I like control, and he has taken that from me leaving me feeling exposed and silly. Get it together, Olivia, he’s just a rich man and nothing else, I tell myself and swallow hard.

“Well, uh, three full-grown dogs, one or two treats a day, you should be okay with two boxes for the week.”

“Perfect, I’ll take two then, and I need to make an appointment for them to be groomed.”

I grab two boxes off the shelf and walk away from the hot and handsome Husky owner. Behind the counter with a few feet between us, I feel much more like myself aside from the exhaustion and nausea from last night’s antics.

“Let me check Marisa’s schedule. Did you want to get in soon?” I take the appointment book from under the counter and open it before looking up into those eyes of his again. He has his hands on the counter leaning forward ever so slightly, his eyes full of playfulness.

“I’d love to get in as soon as possible,” he says, his voice dripping with suggestion. Oh good God, he’s trying to kill me. An ache forms between my legs when a vision of Mr. Husky and me naked between expensive sheets starts to play in my head.

He’s playing with me sprinkling his words with a desire to lure me in or humiliate me, I’m not sure which. He’s just a rich guy I chant silently to myself and muster up the nerve to answer him.

“She has a ten o’clock tomorrow morning where she can get all three of them in if you’re interested,” I say and lower my eyes to the appointment book flipping through its pages. “Otherwise, you’ll have to wait until the end of next week.”

“Tomorrow morning is perfect, put them down.”

The way he says put them down is commanding and full of authority, it turns me on. I hate being bossed, that’s why I am the boss in all aspects of my life, but I can see him changing that.

“Name?” I ask realizing I’ll have to ask for his phone number next. How convenient, like asking for date information with a perfectly good cover.

“Alex Wolfe.”

My pen pauses, and I look up at him. “Wolfe?”

His eyebrows rise, and he appears amused. “Yes.”

“Sorry,” I say feeling like a total idiot. “Okay, ten o’clock tomorrow morning. Have your dogs been groomed with us before?”

“Yes, since they were puppies. You have all of their vaccination records on file.”

“Great, thanks, that’s what I was going to ask for next. I’ll need your phone number in case we need to reschedule or if there were to be an emergency.”

“Of course, it’s 555-458-8968. If you can’t reach me, call my office, 555-321-4444. It’s Wolfe, Arnault, and Ellison Law Offices.”

I roll my eyes still looking at the appointment book. That last bit wasn’t necessary. He’s being pretentious. What a dick. I don’t like rich people as a rule. Alex Wolfe just happens to be incredibly magnetic and handsome. It would be impossible for any red-blooded heterosexual woman not to be affected, though, but I’m hungover, so I cut myself some slack.

“See you tomorrow,” I say praying he will leave without saying anything else. He looks down at the counter between us, and I realize I haven’t finished my job. The boxes of dog treats are still sitting there waiting to be rung up. He smiles at me knowing he’s succeeded at flustering me, and that irritates the hell out of me.

“Sorry, I almost forgot.” I ring up the treats, and he hands me a black Amex card.

“We don’t accept American Express. Would you happen to have another card or cash?” I ask sweetly.

“Of course.” He fishes out a less impressive Capitol One MasterCard, and I run the payment. I hand him a pen to sign for the purchase, and he purposely brushes his fingers against mine instead of simply accepting it.

Electricity zips up my arm, and I pull away and rub my hands together trying to make the sensation go away. God, what is wrong with me? I’ve never had the simultaneous urge to pounce on and run away from a man before. He has me all off balance, and I need him to leave, now.

He signs the receipt with a flourish and pushes it across the counter as if he senses I can’t tolerate any more physical contact. “I’ll see you tomorrow…” he pauses looking for a nametag. I’m not wearing one yet, so I stupidly give him my name.

“Olivia.”

A megawatt smile spreads across his face, and he winks at me. “Olivia. I’ll be counting the hours, have a wonderful day.” He slides the bag of gourmet dog treats across the counter and saunters out of the store gracefully.

When the bell is done ringing, and he is gone, I bend at the waist and rest my head on my arms on the counter. I feel like a bowl of noodles, weak and aroused by a man I only just met. And the worst part is I am looking forward to tomorrow at ten o’clock when I’ll see him again.

That’s when I decide that tequila causes brain damage. Never again.