Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
Angus
I stand in front of the mirror, staring at myself like I’m trying to read my own aura. “You look fine,” I mutter, even though I absolutely do not believe myself.
I’ve changed shirts three times. The first was too wrinkled.
The second too tight. This one’s… okay? It’s a soft gray Henley that shows just enough forearm to look like I don’t not know how to chop wood.
Which, in fairness, I actually do—perk of growing up in a family business built around lumber supply.
These days, I run one of our custom millwork crews, mostly out near the Red Rock area, so I spend more time surrounded by sawdust and pine than people.
It’s a good job. Honest. Physical. I build things that last—stairs, mantels, live-edge tables the size of minivans.
People take one look at me and assume I’m some tough guy, probably drive a lifted truck and arm wrestle for sport.
Which, I mean… I do drive a truck. But I’m not into dick- or muscle-measuring contests.
Which is why I’ve been second-guessing this dog-walking-not-a-date thing all damn day.
I’m not exactly an expert at this stuff.
Most of the guys I’ve gone out with in the past ended up being more into my arms than my brain.
Callum, though… he’s something else. Smart.
Funny. Somehow professional and warm. And if he actually shows up after the tornado of chaos I described in our messages, he’s already braver than most.
I glance at the time. 4:56 p.m.
“Okay, kids,” I say, turning to the four beagles currently giving me varying degrees of judgment. “Let’s not make me look like an idiot today.”
They all blink at me. Cookie yawns. Cranky farts.
I double-check their leashes and grab the little drawstring gift bag I’ve been debating about all afternoon.
It’s cheesy. Possibly borderline embarrassing.
But he mentioned his Friday grooming shift and how much he hates office days, and I—somehow—ended up picking up a little hand-poured soap shaped like a dog paw from the weirdly fancy pet boutique downtown.
It smells like cedar and eucalyptus and something I can’t name but kind of want to wrap myself in.
“You’re an idiot,” I mutter to myself, tucking it into my backpack anyway.
We’re meeting at a small dog-friendly park on the edge of Henderson. It’s shaded, quiet, and has enough room for the beagles to sniff every inch of terrain twice.
I spot Callum before he sees me—leaning casually against the back of a bench, hair still damp from a shower, dressed in a soft blue T-shirt and jeans that hug his thighs just right. His eyes catch the light when he looks up, warm and steady and way more real in person.
My stomach flips.
He grins as I approach, and my nerves spike. The dogs, of course, do not help. Cookie tries to run ahead, Cranky attempts to trip me, and Mopey starts up his usual “my life is so hard” howl, just for dramatic effect.
Callum starts laughing. “You weren’t exaggerating,” he says, stepping forward like he might actually try to help untangle me. “You’re basically walking a barbershop quartet with boundary issues.”
“I think Cranky resents that,” I reply, trying to wrestle Mopey back into line. “But yeah. This is my reality now.”
Callum crouches to greet them all, letting them sniff him all over, totally calm and confident like he’s made of dog-whispering magic.
And for a second, I just watch him. Then I remember the thing. The gift.
“Uh, hey,” I say, fumbling with my backpack zipper.
“So, I got you something. Just, uh… don’t read too much into it.
You mentioned grooming, and this store had this ridiculous thing, and I thought it was kind of cool and maybe you’d like it, but it might be dumb, so feel free to pretend it’s a joke—”
Callum gently takes the little bag from me, peeks inside, and pulls out the paw-shaped soap. He holds it delicately, like it’s some rare artifact, and sniffs. His whole face lights up. “No one’s ever brought me a soap paw before,” he says, genuinely pleased. “This is adorable. You’re adorable.”
I freeze. “Wait, I’m adorable?”
“You just wrangled four dogs across town to meet a guy you found on a dating app,” he says, smiling at me like I’m the sun peeking out from behind a cloud. “And brought a themed gift. That’s peak adorable.”
I rub the back of my neck, ears probably going red. “Well. When you say it like that, it sounds…. Yeah, okay. I’m adorable.”
“Come on, Dogcle,” he says, brushing his fingers lightly against mine as he hands the soap back so I can put it back in my backpack. “Let’s walk your minions.”
The late-afternoon sun filters through the cottonwood trees, casting soft gold over the gravel path as it winds through the park.
The beagles, mercifully, have settled into a semi-functional rhythm—meaning they’re mostly moving in the same direction.
Callum walks beside me, relaxed, one hand in his pocket, the other occasionally reaching out to redirect Lady Wigglebottom when she gets too interested in a trash can.
“How do you make it look so easy?” I ask, glancing at him as Mopey attempts to launch himself toward a squirrel that has delusions of grandeur.
Callum chuckles and steps in, gently adjusting my grip on the leash. “Try looping it like this so you’ve got better control without yanking. And keep your posture a little more upright—you’re letting them lead too much.”
“I am letting them lead,” I mutter. “I’m a human sled.”
“You’re doing fine,” he says, voice calm, reassuring. “They’re testing you. That’s what dogs do. But they’re also looking for someone to follow.”
“Great,” I say dryly. “Now I have to be a role model and a pack leader. The pressure.”
He laughs again, and damn if it isn’t the kind of laugh that makes you want to earn it.
The path curves around a small pond, and we slow a little as the dogs all decide to investigate the same bush like it holds the secrets of the universe. Ducks float serenely across the water, totally unfazed by Cranky’s low grumbling.
We walk a little farther in comfortable silence, the warm breeze rustling the trees. A couple jogs past us, and someone walking a golden retriever gives us a wide berth—probably sensing the chaos aura radiating from Mopey and Cookie.
“You know,” I say after a beat, “I wasn’t sure if this would count as a date or a cry for help. Still not sure.”
Callum shoots me a sideways smile. “Why not both?”
I pause, bubbles fizzing in my stomach. “Okay, good, because I brought… provisions.”
He arches a brow. “Provisions?”
I gesture to my backpack. “I, uh… made lemonade. And some homemade trail mix. My sister left a pantry full of stuff, and I got bored. It’s nothing fancy, just lemon juice, honey, a little mint.
And the trail mix has those tiny peanut butter pretzels, which, let’s be honest, are the reason anyone eats trail mix. ”
Callum stops walking and looks at me, that soft amusement blooming across his face again. “You made lemonade? For a dog walk?”
“Is that weird?” I ask, suddenly doubting every life decision that led me to this moment. “Because it felt like a good idea, and now it maybe sounds like I’m trying too hard—”
“No,” he cuts in gently, smiling like he means it. “It’s great. I love lemonade. And trail mix. And guys who show up overprepared and a little nervous. It’s kind of charming.”
I exhale slowly, my tension melting just a bit. “Well. Good. Because I also packed biodegradable poop bags and a first aid kit. I might be charming and slightly unhinged.”
“You’re winning serious points,” he says, stepping close enough that his arm brushes mine for a second. “Let’s sit. I could definitely go for a snack.”
We find a bench tucked under the trees, the dogs flopping down in various stages of beagle exhaustion. Cookie immediately rolls onto her back, tongue out like she’s just hiked Everest.
I pour lemonade into two reusable cups and offer one to Callum. “To beagle survival,” I say, raising mine in a mock toast.
He clinks his cup against mine. “And to unexpected afternoons.”
After a sip, Callum pops one of the peanut butter pretzels into his mouth and leans back on the bench, one arm slung casually over the backrest. The dogs are sprawled around us like little furry landmines, too content (or full of dirt) to cause more chaos—for now.
“This is really good,” he says, gesturing with his cup. “You might’ve missed your calling as a lemonade mogul.”
“Lemonade mogul,” I say with a smirk. “Yeah, that sounds about right. I can see it now—‘Angus’s Artisan Elixirs: For Men Who Chop Wood and Feel Too Much.’” I wince on the inside. Feel too much? The hell? Talk about coming across as a doofus.
He laughs, a warm sound that settles somewhere between my ribs and loosens my wince. Maybe he likes dorky? Here’s hoping.
“I’d buy it.” He smiles. “Especially if it comes with dog-themed puns.”
“Oh, there would be puns. I’m not proud of it, but it’s who I am.”
Callum turns toward me slightly, one leg tucked under the bench, eyes curious. “So, lumber guy by day, lemonade baron by night…. What made you want to do that kind of work? The woodworking, I mean.”
I shrug, looking down into my cup. “Family business. My dad started it when I was a kid. I always liked building things, making stuff that lasts. There’s something grounding about it.
You mess up, you sand it down. Start again.
And at the end, you can see what you made with your hands. ” I glance over at him. “You?”
“Pet grooming empire wasn’t in the original plan,” he admits with a smile. “I went to school for business. Worked in corporate finance for a while. I was good at it, but… miserable.”
I nod. “Yeah. The paycheck-and-soul-crushing combo.”
“Exactly,” he says, then laughs. “One day I volunteered at a shelter for a fundraiser and ended up washing this massive Saint Bernard who hated baths. He drooled on me, sat on my foot, howled the entire time—and I swear, I was happier than I’d been in years.”
“That’s kind of awesome.”
“It felt like breathing again,” Callum says, softer now. “So I quit the job. Started small. Now I’ve got a few shops, a team I trust, and one day a week where I still get to scrub Great Danes and dodge corgi zoomies.”
I watch him as he speaks—his face animated, his hands moving when he gets excited. I kind of want to pinch myself. Is this man seriously the real deal? Warm. Passionate. Funny. And yeah, stupid handsome.
“You ever think about doing something else?” he asks after a pause, tilting his head at me.
“Like what?”
“I don’t know,” he says. “You just seem like the kind of guy who might secretly write poetry or do amateur blacksmithing or—”
“Whoa,” I interrupt, grinning. “Now hang on. You’re way too close to the truth on that second one.”
Callum blinks. “Wait. Seriously?”
I pull out my phone and scroll for a second, then hold it out. “This is a bottle opener I made last year. For Christmas gifts.”
He takes the phone and whistles low. “Okay, that’s… genuinely impressive.”
I shrug, a little shy now, and I’m pretty sure my cheeks are glowing. “I like metalwork. It’s messy and hot and kind of badass. Plus, I get to use a hammer, which feels primal.” Sure, I’m teasing, but there’s a lot of truth in those words too.
“I knew it,” he says, handing the phone back. “You’re basically a lumberjack blacksmith with a golden retriever’s heart.”
“That’s the weirdest—and most accurate—compliment I’ve ever gotten.” My cheeks burn hotter.
Callum leans a little closer. “I’ve got range.”
I glance sideways at him, heart beating a little faster than before. “We actually have a weird amount in common, don’t we?”
“Yeah,” he says, voice low now, thoughtful. “I wasn’t expecting that.”
I take a slow sip of lemonade, watching the way the sun catches in his hair, how his smile softens the longer we sit like this. “Hey, Callum?” I say after a beat.
“Yeah?”
“If you want to do this again sometime—another dog walk-slash-snack situation, maybe a full picnic—I’d be into that.”
He meets my eyes, that lopsided smile back in full force. “I’d be very into that.”
And suddenly, the beagles stir again, as if summoned by fate to break the moment. Cookie starts licking my shoe.
“Okay,” I say, standing, “date’s over. I’m being assaulted by peanut butter paws.”
Callum stands as well, laughing. “They’ve spoken. But next time, I’m bringing dessert.”