“Felix, noooooo!”

I round the corner, praying I’m not going to see my dog torn to bits all over the floor. I’m not sure what’s going faster, my legs or my heartbeats.

What I see when I enter the next room stops me in my tracks, though. I think everyone is pretty much as stunned as I am.

There’s a dog bigger than any domesticated animal I’ve ever seen, standing in the middle of a large commercial-style kitchen, stock still, its tail erect and pointed straight up. The people I saw coming in earlier are frozen nearby, staring at the dogs. There’s a guy at the sink who’s got his hands out in a calming gesture, a dishtowel over his shoulder.

Whoa, he’s amazingly hot. I’ve never seen such nice muscles outside of a health magazine. I’ll have to check them out better later. After I rescue my dog from certain peril.

Felix could care less about this guy’s physique. He’s dancing around the big dog, trying to lick its face, its ribs, its butt—anything he can get his little tongue on. He can’t reach anything but the dog’s ankles, though, so he quickly decides that’s good enough for him.

The dog-beast’s tail falls into a more natural position, and it tips its head down to Felix, licking him hard enough to send my little dog over sideways. Felix jumps right up, of course, and goes to town on the dog’s legs again. Lick, lick, licklicklick. He’s a lick-o-matic right now. I’ve never seen him so enthusiastic about cleaning ankles before.

“Holy shit, man,” the small man who drove the SUV says to the man standing at the sink. “Your dog’s a total pussy.”

The guy throws the dishtowel lightning fast, hitting him right in the face. “Say that again and see what happens.”

My heart skips a beat when I recognize the voice.

I stare at him, forgetting everything else around me. He must be related to my savior. Same voice, same eyes, same giant body, but everything else is different. The hair is short, buzzed in a military style. His face is clean-shaven, his eyebrows neatly trimmed, and there isn’t a bandana or leather jacket in sight. He’s wearing jeans and a black T-shirt like his friend across the room, and his biceps are stretching the sleeves enough that I’m worried for their seams. There’s a small emblem printed over his left breast and some words: “BSB Security Specialists.”

“Cute dog,” says the woman, looking up at me.

She’s gorgeous, like pretty much everyone else here is, making me wish I’d at least brushed my hair before I’d left the house tonight. I can only imagine what these people are thinking about me right now standing here in my espadrilles.

“Thanks.” I turn my attention back to the dogs. “Come here, Felix. Stop being a pest.” My pulse is calmer, now that I can see my dog is not going to die today.

The big dog flops down onto his elbows and rolls over onto his side. Then I realize it’s not a he, it’s a she. I don’t know why my brain was telling me that big dog means male dog when I have a six-pounder who I carry around in my purse and who is definitely not a girl.

Felix climbs on top of the she-beast’s rib cage, turns around several times, and then lies down, laying his head on his paws. Apparently, he has mistaken this giant man-eating wolf for a couch cushion.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” the cook says, sounding seriously offended. “Sahara, have a little pride, would you?”

She tips her head up to look at him but then lays it back down and groans loud and long. She blinks a few times, but doesn’t otherwise move. It’s like she wants Felix to be comfortable and is willing to be tortured as part of the deal.

My heart melts just watching her. Obviously she’s a pretty amazing dog, even if her poops are probably as big as Felix himself.

“Let’s eat!” Dev says enthusiastically.

The cook gestures at the stove with another towel. “Have at it. Bread’s in the oven.” He tosses the towel to the counter and walks out of the kitchen, leaving the room for parts unknown.

Everyone moves at the same time, walking to the sink to grab a bowl off the counter and then over to the pot on the stove. A line forms quickly.

“What’s going on?” I ask anyone who might answer.

“Soup’s on. Bon appétit,” says the small Cajun with a grin.

I watch as each person fills a bowl, grabs a slice or two of bread out of the oven, off a tray, and then sits at a long metal table at the other end of the kitchen.

When they’re all seated, someone says a quick prayer, and they dig in. It’s possible they haven’t eaten in a while; to say they’re enthusiastic about the soup is a bit of an understatement.

“Mmmm, mmmm, so good,” says Dev, his mouth full of something. I look away so I can’t see the details.

“Never fails,” says the woman.

“I get a second bowl,” says the Hollywood-handsome guy. “I was on a detail all day.”

“First come, first served,” says the Cajun guy, “and Ozzie’s friend hasn’t eaten yet.”

I think they’re talking about me. “Is Ozzie the one with the horrible beard?” I ask before I think to come up with another adjective for his facial hair. Oops.

“Yep,” says the woman. “The one and only.”

“I thought Ozzie was the cook,” I say, now thoroughly confused.

“He is. The best.” Dev is busy shoveling soup into his mouth, so his words come out a little juicier than I think he intended.

“They have these things called napkins,” the girl says, throwing one at Dev’s face.

He grabs it just before it hits his forehead, without even breaking eye contact with his spoon. “I like to savor my soup and napkin my chin at the end.”

I’ve never heard napkin used as a verb before, but I can see what he means. He’s going to need some serious napkining when he’s done. I’m not even sure he’s caught a breath between bites. How is he not choking? I think I see a drop of soup on his cheek, just under his eye.

“Better get a bowl before you miss out,” the Cajun says, pointing with his spoon at the sink. “Lucky would take out his own grandmother for the last bite.”

I guess Hollywood’s name is Lucky. He doesn’t seem to disagree with the measure of his character.

I slowly walk over to the bowls, my mind whirling with confusion. Who are these people? Do they live here together? How is Ozzie both the cook and the guy with the beard? And who was the hot guy at the sink, if not Ozzie? Obviously the soup isn’t poisoned, because they’re all eating it. Why am I here? Why aren’t they asking me questions? Why is Felix sleeping on a wolf?

None of this makes a single bit of sense, so I go ahead and spoon some soup into my bowl. Confused and starving is not a good combination. I leave the bread alone, though. I really want a piece, but I keep picturing someone attacking me when my back is turned, and reaching into the oven makes me too vulnerable. I wish Felix would stop acting so calm. This is still a semi-emergency situation as far as I’m concerned.

I approach the table with my bowl of soup and a head full of caution. There are four empty seats, but only one provides me a good getaway, being nearest the door. I start to sit and then nearly have a heart attack when everyone at the table yells at the same time.

“Not there!”

I stand up and jump back.

“That’s Ozzie’s seat. Take this one.” Lucky pats the seat next to him. It will put me smack dab in between him and the girl. Her I can probably take. Him, I’m not so sure.

“I promise we don’t bite,” she says.

“Much,” says Lucky.

She snorts but doesn’t disagree.

My stomach makes the decision for me, growling like an angry bear. I put my bowl down first and then release my purse from my shoulder.

The girl scrunches up her nose as my purse is lowered to the floor. “I smell dog piss.” She turns around and glares at the dogs. “You’re supposed to be potty trained, Sahara.”