1 Chapter 1

1

That’s my dog.The thought popped into Flynn Marlowe’s head almost unbidden. No, seriously, that’s Barley.Flynn took a few steps closer to the red-haired man walking the dog he’d lost last fall on a hike at Discovery Park.

Flynn shook his head. It can’t be. Yes, that’s a beagle, about the same size with similar markings. He even has that same little black thumbprint on the top of his head!Flynn lowered his gaze away from the dog and the man walking him for a moment, his heart seizing up with despair. For a moment he was back to that awful day when Barley had disappeared in the park’s hundreds of wooded acres, beaches, and trails on a quest for a squirrel who refused to be caught but was only too happy to lead Barley on a merry chase—a chase from which he never returned. Flynn’s vision blurred a little as he looked up at the man and the dog once more, coming closer.

It’s wishful thinking. Barley isn’t around anymore. A whole winter has passed. I did everything I could to find him—and no luck. But God, he looks so much like my little guy!Flynn considered simply turning and leaving Green Lake Park, where he’d gone for a run this July morning, dashing back to the safety of his Mini Cooper, which no longer had a dog-hair-covered blanket in the backseat or chew toys on the floor. He knew leaving right now would be the best thing he could do for his mental health—and his heart, which felt like it was breaking all over again.

But he couldn’t. He stood rooted to the same spot on the trail where his eight-minute-mile pace had come to an abrupt halt after first spying the dog. His mouth dropped open at the sight. It felt like his heart was going to stop beating as man and dog came closer, closer.

He tried hard to find a difference in this beagle from his Barley but failed. He took in the guy walking him and even allowed himself to think how he was exactly Flynn’s type—a relatively little guy with a taut build, short red hair, and—oh Lord—a red beard. His nose sported a ridge of freckles. He wore a green tank top and camo shorts with a pair of Chuck Taylor high-tops. Under other circumstances Flynn might attempt to cruise him, doing the head-turning thing all gay men had done at one time or another in their romance careers.

But these weren’t those circumstances. That redhead, cute as he was, had hisdog! It was possible, after all. It wasn’t like Barley had run off that day in the park and been found later, sadly, by the side of the road, a victim of a hit-and-run. No, Barley had neverbeen found.

Or…maybe Mr. Redhead here had found him.

And kept him.

Flynn narrowed his eyes, wanting to make certain the dog, now within three or four feet of him, was truly the dog he’d lost.

Everythingwas the same. Right down to Barley’s rapid little waddle, as if he perpetually had too much junk in his trunk. It was something he and his best friend, Clara Brown, used to laugh about as they trailed after Barley in this very park on a Saturday morning.

Flynn wasn’t absolutely certain this was Barley until he made eye contact with the beagle. When their gazes met, the dog stopped, and Flynn swore his face and warm brown eyes registered surprise, shock even. Recognition? Flynn nodded. Certainly. That pup knows me.

The clincher, though, was when the dog opened his mouth and barked. See, beagles in general have a bark that could be described as mournful. It’s characteristic of the breed. But Barley’s was mournful-plus. Mournful over-the-top. So mournful you felt like clutching your chest when you heard it to prevent your very heart from breaking in two. That bark clenched your heart for all the sadness and world-weariness it personified. Adding to the general effect was Barley’s raspy voice. If you didn’t know better, you’d think Barley was a two-pack-a-day kind of hound.

Barley’s bark was unique.

Flynn felt a rush of joy flood through him as he automatically squatted down in front of the dog, now almost close enough to touch. “Barley!” he cried, reaching out.

And the dog charged toward him, ears flapping, baying as though he were on the trail of a rabbit. Could this be it?Flynn wondered. The reunion I thought would never, could never, happen?A laugh escaped him like a hiccup.

He went from a squat to his knees and held out both arms. His wayward prodigal was coming home at last! Again, tears sprung to Flynn’s eyes.

The redhead yanked back on the rope leash. “Hamburger!” he barked. “Heel! Behave! Whatever!” He chuckled, and the dog stopped, turned, and looked back at the redhead and then down at the ground, as though abashed. Barley, or the one who could be his twin, plopped down on his hind legs, looking from one man to the other.