Big hands, she noted, on the ends of long arms.

Like the boots, the leather jacket he wore had some years on it. But the truck looked new.

“Need some help?” she called out, and he stopped frowning at the training area to turn toward her.

“Fiona Bristow?” His voice had an edge to it, not anger so much as that annoyance she read on his face. Behind her Bogart gave a little whine.

“That’s right.”

“Dog trainer?”

“I am.” She stepped off the porch as he started toward her, watched his gaze skim over her three guardians. “What can I do for you?”

“Did you train those three?”

“I did.”

His eyes, tawny, like warm, deeply steeped tea, shifted back to her. “Then you’re hired.”

“Yay. For what?”

He pointed at her dogs. “Dog trainer. Name your price.”

“Okay. Let’s open the floor at a million dollars.”

“Will you take it in installments?”

That made her smile. “We can negotiate. Let’s start this way. Fiona Bristow,” she said, and offered her hand.

“Sorry. Simon Doyle.”

Working hands, she thought, as his—hard, calloused—took hers. Then the name clicked. “Sure, wood artist.”

“Mostly I build furniture.”

“Great stuff. I bought one of your bowls a few weeks ago. I can’t seem to resist a nice bowl. My stepmother carries your work in her shop. Island Arts.”

“Sylvia, yeah. She’s great.” He brushed off the compliment, the sale, the small talk. A man on a mission. “She’s the one who told me to come talk to you. So how much of the million do you need up front?”