The checker one aisle over leaned across her cash register. “Dr. Elliott saved Sarah Maxwell’s cat when it was run over by a truck. Cat was a terrible mess, but Dr. Elliott worked on that poor little thing and stitched it together like new.”

“And Frannie Newfarmer’s beagle,” a woman two carts behind Amy added. “He nursed her beagle back to health when it was poisoned by the gardening service. Dr. Elliott slept in the office every night for almost a week, watching over that dog, till he was sure the little fella would live.”

Jacob Elliott smiled down at Amy. “See, you can trust me.”

Not by the hairs on your chinny chin chin, she thought. There was unmistakable mischief in his liquid brown eyes-bedroom eyes. And his wide mouth had a sensual curve to it that went straight to the pit of her stomach. He might be great at saving beagles, but she’d bet he was hell on single women. “I don’t live far from here,” Amy explained. “I’ll drive home and get some money.”

Jake slouched against his cart, counting the seconds until she realized her keys were locked in her car. When the startled expression appeared in her eyes he calmly paid for both their groceries and escorted her to the parking lot. “The large jeep-type vehicle,” he told her. “The purple job with the big black dog.”

Amy stumbled slightly at the sight of the “purple job.” It was big and square, more maroon than purple, splattered with mud and riddled with rust. A coat hanger antenna zigzagged crazily from the hood, and a bashed-in rear bumper sported a faded sticker that read HAVE YOU HUGGED YOUR VETERINARIAN TODAY? She’d never been one to look a gift horse in the mouth, but she wasn’t sure about being hauled home in a car Fred Flintstone would have rejected. It was definitely past its prime… by about three hundred years.

Jake opened the door and put the groceries in back with the dog. “This is Spot. Spot, meet-”