Sarah Adams

We spend hours in our own world. Our love story tangible. Our hopes bared. Our souls light. Our fears set aside for this brief moment in time where nothing can touch us. In this place—in those arms—I am safe and free. I open my arms and dance in the rain. I twirl in the current. I lie back in the meadow as dark eyes sparkle above me.

More specifically, he’s my seizure-assist dog.

how little a part I played in my existence on this earth.

It’s how my parents came to hate the company that I adore and am being groomed to take over when Joanna retires next year.

I grew up exactly opposite of how I’m living now, and I couldn’t be happier about it.

I’m meeting a man named Jacob Broaden to discuss having his ten-year-old daughter matched with one of our dogs.

But ha ha, who am I kidding? None of my lady parts are big enough to move, let alone escape their confines.

My hand looks like a tiny baby hand inside his, and I love it.

It’s at this point that I realize the little girl at the table is biting her lip and focusing intently on the paper cup in front of her

This woman is trouble. Gorgeous, tempting trouble.