Heart2Heart, Vol. 8

Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

Angus

“I’ll be fine. Of course I can take care of them.” I force more optimism into my voice than I’m really feeling. Sure, doubt clouds my sister’s eyes, but not enough to have her backtracking. It’s not like she can, even though she’s clearly worried about her dogs.

“And you have the veterinarian’s number, right? And you’ve got the note about Mopey’s allergies?”

I nod, offering a smile that I’m sure looks more like a grimace than one intended to reassure, but I’m making an effort here. Plus, Ally really has no other choice but to rely on me. Something we’re both acutely aware of. “I promise to keep them safe and well-fed. They’ll be fine.”

Her gaze softens. “I know, and honestly, Angus, you’re a lifesaver. I appreciate you dropping everything to save my ass and look after my babies.” Her eyes well up as they move to three of her four beagles. The fourth, Cranky, is off being an asshole, I suspect. Not that I’ll ever say that aloud.

“It’s going to be great. Give me a chance to bond with my…” I hesitate. “My niblings? Dog nieces and nephews?”

She snorts, already crying. “You’re the Dogcle. The Dog Uncle. Though I’m not sure you should tell Seth that.”

I snort, thinking about my grown-up nephew. “Dogcle Angus,” I say, trying to make it sound official. “Lord Protector of Kibble and Keeper of Treats.”

Her laugh is watery but genuine. “Okay, Dogcle. I’m trusting you.”

I give her a thumbs-up. “You go crush Hong Kong. Just twenty-seven days, right?”

“Twenty-seven days,” she confirms, grabbing her roller suitcase and giving each of her beagles a goodbye kiss—except for Cranky, who is apparently sulking in her bedroom, maybe, but who the hell knows with that hound. “I swear, if Mopey so much as sneezes near a walnut—”

“I know, I know. You wrote it down. In three places.”

She gives me one last hug, arms barely meeting around my broad shoulders.

I’m a big guy. Hairy, bearded, could probably moonlight as a Viking, but emotionally, I’m basically a cinnamon bun that fell in the dirt.

And when it comes to dogs? No clue. Didn’t grow up with pets unless you count the occasional ant farm or school goldfish.

But hey, I’ve watched Ally’s crew before. Sort of. I mean, I’ve petted them. Maybe once fed them a slice of pepperoni pizza when I wasn’t supposed to. That counts, right?

The front door clicks shut behind her, and suddenly it’s just me… and three judgmental pairs of eyes.

“Well,” I say, clapping my hands. “What’s up, my dudes?”

Cranky finally wanders in from wherever he was brooding, probably under a bed. Or maybe he’s really been plotting to dismantle society.

“Okay. So, roll call,” I say, crouching down. “We’ve got Cranky, Mopey, and…” I squint at the one licking the floor. “Lady Wigglebottom.” She sneezes in confirmation.

The last one—the roundest, with an underbite and the eternal look of someone trying to solve a math problem—barks once.

“Cookie. You really do look like you’ve been eating all the cookies.” I smile and scratch behind his ear. “I can relate, bud. Cookies are best eaten in multiples.”

Cookie accepts this with a regal air, which I respect. But then Mopey lets out a long, soul-shattering whine by the door, ears flattened and eyes doing that thing that could summon angels or demons depending on how you react.

“Right. Distraction,” I mutter. “What do dogs like? Walks? Toys? Do you guys do… Netflix?”

Lady Wigglebottom jumps up onto the couch, tail thumping. Cranky gives me the side-eye.

I run a hand through my beard, already regretting most of my life choices. But hey, I’ve survived worse.

“All right, gang. Dogcle Angus reporting for duty. Let’s do this.”

It’s not properly dark yet, and the sun is barely still up, but that doesn’t stop me from sweating like a roasted ham.

Turns out, walking four beagles is less of a stroll and more like being part of a very poorly choreographed dog sled team—except I’m the sled, and the dogs have their own separate agendas.

Cranky wants to mark every single bush with surgical precision.

Lady Wigglebottom has decided today’s mission is to greet every living soul like she’s the Mayor of Henderson.

Mopey refuses to walk in a straight line, instead spiraling like a moody tornado of tangled leash, and Cookie has made it his personal quest to chase any leaf that flutters in the slightest.

“Okay, left—nope, right, we’re—oh, goddammit, Mopey!” I stumble as the leashes cinch together around my legs like anacondas with a vendetta. I somehow manage to stay upright, but dignity? Dignity is gone.

A neighbor gives me a sympathetic wave. I might have flipped her off. Accidentally.

By the time we get back to Ally’s house, I’ve got grass in my sock, a weird smear of something on my shorts that I really hope is mud, and an ache in my shoulder like I’ve just wrestled a gorilla. The dogs, of course, are thrilled. Tongues lolling, tails wagging like they just won the lottery.

They prance inside, victorious, while I follow them like a defeated man.

Once they’ve been watered and fed (which, yes, involves me reading Ally’s laminated “Dinner Chart” like it’s the Rosetta Stone), I collapse onto the couch and stare at the ceiling. “How the hell does she do this every day?” I ask the universe.

The universe offers no reply—unless you count Cookie farting under the coffee table.

I pull out my phone. “Okay,” I mutter. “I need help. Like, professional help. With the dogs. Not mentally. Yet.”

I start searching for local dog walkers. The first few listings are fine. Then I get deeper. One woman lost a dog in the desert for six hours. One guy apparently confused a bag of beef jerky with treats. Another review says simply: He smelled like soup and made my corgi cry.

Hard pass.

Then I see it—a photo that catches my eye mid-scroll.

Not an ad. Not a review. Just a picture posted on some random neighborhood forum captioned: Nothing better than a run with this guy #HendersonTrails

The “guy” in question is a shaggy mutt with ears too big for his head and a tongue lolling out in pure joy. But the other guy—Callum—is the one who stops me cold.

He’s crouched next to the dog, arm slung over its back like they’re best friends.

He’s got dark curly hair that looks like it has no interest in being tamed, kind brown eyes, and a lopsided smile that kind of messes with my brain chemistry.

Athletic build, too—like someone who actually enjoys running (as opposed to doing it only when chased).

And it says he’s local. Henderson. That’s where Ally lives.

I click his name without thinking, expecting a social media profile or some kind of community post. Instead, I’m redirected to an app.

Heart2Heart.

I squint. “Wait… isn’t that the—”

Yup. Dating app.

The splash screen greets me cheerfully: Welcome to Heart2Heart—Where Real Connections Begin.

I freeze. Okay, this is technically not what I’m looking for. I’m a dog uncle in crisis mode, not out here looking for love—or whatever it is people use apps like this for. But then again… he’s cute. Really cute.

He likes dogs. He runs on trails near here. There’s no mention of him owning a pet, but he clearly loves being around them. And dammit, he looks like the kind of guy who wouldn’t panic if four beagles got tangled around a fire hydrant.

I hover over the Download button.

This is probably a terrible idea, right?

But then I think about trying to survive the next twenty-six days without backup. I think about Mopey’s desperate howling at dusk. Cookie’s sock-eating tendencies. Cranky’s thirst for power.

And yeah, I think about Callum’s kind eyes and that crooked grin.

Screw it.

I download the app, sign up, and choose “Friendship” as my main interest—because, well, baby steps. When it asks for a profile pic, I upload that ridiculous one Ally took of me holding Cranky like I’m cradling a bag of disgruntled laundry.

Once I’m in, I search by location. And there he is—Callum. Again. His profile is simple. No job listed, just Big fan of sunrise runs, breakfast burritos, and dogs that look like they tell secrets.

There’s a second photo of him at a dog park, kneeling by that same floppy-eared mutt, squinting into the sun. He’s got sunglasses in one hand and a leash in the other, and he looks like someone who probably smells like cedarwood and clean laundry. Probably doesn’t even mind early mornings.

I stare at his profile way too long.

Okay. It would be weird to message him just to ask if he wants to help walk my sister’s dogs. That’s not a date, that’s a… job request? But then again… it could be a date. Like, a walk-dogs-together kind of date.

Not that I’m looking to date. Not seriously. But I’m also not not looking. And if it means maybe I get to hang out with someone who actually knows what he’s doing—and is possibly distractingly attractive—well, it wouldn’t exactly be a hardship.

I type out a message, pause, delete it, and then retype something slightly less unhinged.

Me: Hey, this is super random, but would you be up for a dog-walking date? I’ve got four beagles, no clue what I’m doing, and I saw your pic with the dog. You look like you know your way around a leash (in the non-weird way).

I hit Send before I can overthink it. Then I throw my phone on the couch, grab a snack, and wait—heart pounding ridiculously fast.