Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
Callum
The sky’s still dark when my alarm drags me out of sleep, but there’s that first edge of gold starting to push up over the mountains.
I keep my pace steady. Not too fast, not too slow. Routine. Always routine.
My route’s always the same: loop the pond, dodge the occasional goose with an attitude problem, then take the long way back around to the parking lot. I pass a woman walking two pugs wearing matching hoodies. We nod, the unspoken “early riser solidarity” agreement in full effect.
When the last track on my playlist fades—“The National,” mellow and moody, just how I like my post-run vibe—I finally slow to a walk, pressing my fingers to the side of my phone to pause the music.
And that’s when I see it.
One new message—Heart2Heart.
I stop walking. Crap. I still have that app installed?
Tom, one of my closest friends, has been on me about “putting myself out there” for the past year, especially since the last guy ghosted me after three weeks of texts and two perfectly pleasant dates.
I downloaded it to shut him up. Swiped a few times. Messaged no one.
But now there’s… this.
I hesitate. I should ignore it. I’ve got a full day of admin ahead—budgets, franchise numbers, updating supplier invoices, checking in with the downtown grooming team. Fun, right? Living the dream.
Still, I can’t leave a notification unread. It’s a compulsion. Like clicking Clear All or having your desk perfectly clean before starting a task.
So I tap it.
The message loads.
Angus: 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 read it twice. Then a third time.
Huh.
I tap on the sender’s profile, and it pulls up his photo. Big guy. Beard. Real lumberjack energy, like the kind of guy who actually can split wood and doesn’t just keep a beard because his favorite barista complimented it once.
He’s… hot. But there’s something in his expression too. Something open and maybe a little unsure. He’s holding a beagle like it’s a slightly cursed toddler, the picture captioned: Temporary guardian of chaos. Please send help (or treats).
I huff out a laugh, caught off guard by how real it feels. I don’t know what I expected. Definitely not a hot mountain man needing backup with a beagle battalion. This could be a trap. Or a joke. Or another beautiful guy who turns out to be emotionally unavailable or vaguely allergic to commitment.
But it doesn’t sound like that.
It sounds like someone who’s way in over his head and decided to ask a stranger for help—and maybe, just maybe, someone who didn’t expect the request to lead to anything other than survival.
I glance at the time. I’m already mentally budgeting my day, but somehow, this message is still hovering there. Waiting.
Screw it. Tom said to live a little, right?
I start typing.
Me: Hey. Gotta say, that might be the best opener I’ve ever received on here. Four beagles, huh? That’s either very brave or a cry for help. I do know my way around a leash, actually, but I also run a pet grooming business. I’m off tomorrow. If you’re serious… I’m game. Just tell me where and when.
I hover over Send. Then I hit it before I can change my mind. What I don’t expect is for my phone to immediately vibrate with a Heart2Heart notification. I glance down, thumb already swiping across the screen—and I laugh. Loud. Like, honest-to-God belly laugh, right here on the sidewalk.
The photo Angus has sent is pure chaos: Two beagles are tangled in a single leash like they attempted synchronized spinning and failed spectacularly.
One is wearing a towel like a cape, and the other has a suspicious smear of peanut butter on its head.
In the background, I can just make out a half-eaten slipper and what might be a chewed-up copy of Vogue Living.
Angus: Operation Beagle Walk was a disaster. I think I’ve been outsmarted by small dogs with ears like pancakes. I’ve already apologized to two neighbors and a goose. So. How’s your morning?
I can’t stop grinning.
Me: I have so many questions. But mostly: Why is one of them dressed like they’re auditioning for a Marvel movie?
Angus: That’s Lady Wigglebottom. She’s dramatic. Also mildly obsessed with my sister’s bath towels. I think it’s a power move.
Angus: Also, I’m not sure what Cranky ate, but it might’ve been a corner of the welcome mat. Is rubber toxic? Asking for a friend. A weirdly judgy beagle-shaped friend.
By the time I’m back home and in the shower, we’re still messaging. He’s funny in a low-key, self-deprecating kind of way, the kind that doesn’t try too hard. Refreshing, considering the usual onslaught of Hey and u up? I’ve grown used to avoiding.
Between drying off and pulling on jeans, I ask him about the beagle situation. That’s when he tells me.
Angus: They’re my sister’s. She had to leave for a last-minute work trip to Hong Kong—27 days, not that I’m counting or anything. Her usual sitter had an emergency appendectomy (rude, tbh), and now I’m the stand-in Dogcle.
Angus: Dog Uncle. Dogcle. It’s official now.
Angus: I know nothing about dogs. Like, actual zero. I thought they just… existed. Sat there. Ate kibble. This is so much more high-stakes than I expected.
I lean against the kitchen counter, coffee brewing behind me, absolutely hooked.
Me: I grew up with six dogs, three cats, two turtles, and a very aggressive cockatoo named Tofu. My childhood smelled like kibble and wet fur. You adjust fast. Or you lose socks. Sometimes both.
Me: I’d offer a crash course, but I feel like you’re already getting it the hard way.
Angus: That’s what he said.
Angus: Sorry. Couldn’t resist. Please don’t delete me.
Angus: Also, what kind of name is Tofu for a cockatoo? Was it ironic? Did Tofu eat meat?
I’m still laughing when I walk into the office. My phone buzzes again in my pocket, and I have to physically stop myself from checking it the second I sit down.
Across from me, Manjit—my hyper-efficient PA who is both terrifying and the reason I don’t forget to eat—raises an eyebrow as she sets my coffee down in front of me. “Everything all right, boss?” she asks, giving me a slow once-over.
“Yeah. Why?”
She crosses her arms. “You’re smiling. Like, full teeth. Did we finally get approved for the Henderson expansion and nobody told me?”
“No,” I say, still smiling like an idiot. “Nothing like that.”
She narrows her eyes at me. “Do I need to make you a medical appointment? Is this a stress response?”
I blink. “Wow. I’m not that bad.”
She lifts her brows and doesn’t answer. Instead, she slowly backs out of the room, shaking her head.
I reach for my coffee, trying to focus, but then my phone vibrates again.
Angus: Cookie just barked at her own reflection for five straight minutes. I think we’re both broken now.
Angus: So, about this dog-walking date thing…
And just like that, I forget about the franchise reports. About the invoices waiting for my approval. About everything, really. I tap out a reply, grinning like someone who’s not sure what he’s falling into—but kind of hopes he keeps falling.