"Whoa!" Louis was very nearly yanked off his feet, barely catching himself before he went down face first on the pavement. He'd been paying attention, and was normally diligent but the young Great Dane had spotted something that really piqued his interest on the side of the road. Still a pup at eight months of age, but weighing in at over one hundred pounds, he was powerful, his sense of adventure very fresh and motivated. He'd gone up on his hind legs and plunged forward.

Louis regained control by giving the leash a sharp tug, momentarily reminding the huge pup that he was being walked, and wasn't out on an excursion solely for his own amusement. Little Trinket had been left behind for a couple of seconds, and Louis, without meaning to, had jerked her leash. She was an adorable tiny Shih Tzu who wasn't accustomed to this rough treatment.

As soon as Higgins, the Great Dane was obediently back at his side, Louis scooped Trinket up.

"I'm sorry, liitle one. We've gotta watch that big bruiser and his exuberance, yeah?" Trinket, forever forgiving, and never having met a person she didn't like, because after all, everyone loved her, wagged her tail and licked Louis' face. He was one of her favorite people in her entire small world.

Louis sighed, but with palpable contentment, and walked on. Never in his wildest dreams had he ever even pondered being a dog walker. A dog walker, of all things. But that's what he was. Financial analyst making mega bucks, to dog walker, all in the space of a few months.

But he was happy.

Louis was young-only 29, but he'd been exposed to more than your average young man by a mile. He'd been an over-achiever, and had been one of the youngest financial analysts around. Graduating early from high school, and then finishing college in three years, then getting his degree in finance in record time, he'd gotten his four years of work experience in, and by then, had proved himself.

Living here in Hollywood was . . . well, interesting. There were more descriptive words, but, coming from Louis' sometimes unfiltered mouth, they'd also be rather indelicate. Hollyweird, they called it. And for good reason. He'd seen stranger things here than anywhere else he'd ever been, and it was on a consistent, daily basis. People here were never, ever normal, by most other's standards.

People sashayed about in various costumes, looking to make money by having their photograph taken with tourists, others walking along and singing at the top of their lungs for no discernible reason, a young man doing cartwheels, and leaping into the air, doing a full somersault mid-air while crossing an intersection; and here were some of the wildest clothes and hairstyles you'd find anywhere in the country.

Hollywood was his home, and it wasn't half bad. It was always entertaining, if nothing else. A person could simply sit and people-watch all day and never be bored for a second. Of course, there was the occasional movie star you might run into if they weren't in disguise. And if you were so inclined, that was a perk. People who lived in Hollywood just generally had a different mindset. In some ways, it was like living on a different planet.

And dog walkers were paid well. Not as well as a financial analyst, but surprisingly better than many jobs. Hell, Louis got thirty dollars to walk a dog for an hour. He often-in fact, most of the time-took more than one dog. Three to five was pretty average. For five dogs, that meant $150 an hour. How many people made that kind of money at most jobs? The dogs that had to be walked alone because they were intent on attacking other dogs, were charged fifty an hour. Louis tried to avoid them when he could. They were a pain in the ass, and also cost him money he could be making by walking several mellow dogs. So, overall, it was a lot more profitable to walk several at a time. And Louis had it down to a science. All his clients had their particular time of the day that they had booked his services, and lately he was even having to turn people away because he only worked five hours a day, and didn't work weekends.

Louis was uber popular because he was efficient, was strict about safety measures, and it was clear to clients that he loved dogs. It wasn't fake or artificial. He truly adored them; it was pretty apparent. And word spread fast. All of his contacts were through word of mouth. He'd only needed to advertise for the first few weeks.

"Come on, Chester! This isn't the time to sniff!" he growled at the Pointer that had his nose buried in a bush. The last walkee, Tiffany was a Sheltie, who never did a thing wrong. She trotted right beside Louis, adjusting her speed precisely to match his pace, always looking like a regal little queen, tail waving pleasantly, and breathtaking with her long, silky hair and big brown doe-like eyes. The epitomy of gentle and mild. Louis gazed down at her affectionately.

"Your name should've been Princess or sommat like that. You're so bloody cute and well behaved. If all me dogs were like you, me job would be a walk in the park, lass." Louis chuckled at his own joke, because, speaking of "walk in the park," Louis crossed the street to the dog park.

Louis kept an eye on his cell phone to be sure he was running on time. After this bunch, Matilda was next, and she had to be walked with Horace, as they were both senior citizens, and couldn't move as fast as his younger charges. Louis was never late; that was another reason he was a favored walker, and it was a reputation he intended to keep.

Some people only wanted their dogs walked a few days a week, but it didn't matter—he had no trouble filling in empty slots. He actually had a waiting list.

"Okay, we have half an hour left, lads and lasses," he announced. "Then we'll have to head back."

After seeing to it that there would be no dog fights, as the dogs at the park right now were, gratefully, all laid back and friendly, Louis let Higgins the Great Dane loose in the section intended for large breeds, and the little ones in the other section that was labeled for small breeds. There was a fence between that Louis could easily scale if need be. Higgins was making friends with a husky, so Louis stayed with the three smaller canines, watching them romp, bark and rejoice in their freedom. One eye on them, and the other on Higgins.

A young woman was there with her Pomeranian, and noticed Louis immediately. Louis could feel her eyes on him. Shit. What was it about women? They seemed to be drawn to him. He could understand it back when he held the corporate job, as they knew he made the bucks from the way he dressed, the car he drove, and the expensive briefcase he had carried.

But here he was, in a dog park, in a graphic t-shirt, jeans that had seen better days, and walk-worn tennis shoes with no socks. His dog walking clothes. He'd found out the hard way that you don't wear new or expensive clothes when you walk dogs unless you wanted drool slopped all over them, or worse, if you had a leg-lifter that fancied using you as a fire hydrant. And stepping in dog poop was inevitable sooner or later.

So what was the appeal? He didn't have long to mull it over, as here she came, using the dogs he'd brought with him as a conversation starter. Convenient.

"Oh, how cute!" she gushed, bending down to pet Trinket, Tiffany and Chester. Her Pomeranian barked non-stop in a very shrill type of screech—very grating on the nerves, but apparently she was immune to it because she didn't even appear to hear it.

"This one isn't a small breed," she said of Chester, the Pointer.

"Well, he's not a large breed either. I reckon he's mid-size, so that's why he's in this section," explained Louis.

"Oh, but he should be in the large breed section," she countered. "I think anyone would agree."

He felt like snapping at her, telling her to mind her own business. But that was the old Louis. The new Louis would never be that rude. He was trying to change his prickly, irritable ways, and it was a hard road, but he was smoothing his sharp edges off slowly but surely.

He was no longer pressed for time and bound by deadlines. No longer being treated like somebody running an assembly line, expected to move faster and be more productive, no matter how fast he was already moving. No more sixteen-hour days, with no time for any kind of outside life. No dating, no entertainment such as a simple movie, no life at all, really, outside of his cubicle existence, solely because he was just too tired to do anything but sleep when not at work. The phone had never stopped ringing, either at work or at home; someone was always sticking their head around the corner, wondering when that report would be ready, and the endless meetings . . . he'd hardly had time to eat most days.

After only a bit over a year of it, he'd burned out completely. Some people have the temperament for it, and some did not. It was taking a toll on his health. His doctor had warned him that, while it may be great to make tons of money, he would pay for it in the long run. Corporate employees were at extremely high risk for heart attacks and strokes among many other health issues. Yes, even at his young age.

So he'd made a major life decision when he had decided to quit that lifestyle and learn to live again. And, so far, he wasn't one bit sorry. He loved dogs, he liked to exercise—and walking being an excellent form of it made the job ideal. And he did actually like the dogs' owners—well, most of the time. There were some overbearing ones, some quite eccentric ones too, but after being a financial analyst, he knew how to deal with people, how to placate them and smooth ruffled feathers. He also occasionally pet sat for people when they were away from home for a few days or even a week or two.

The girl was checking him out quite overtly. Her eyes roved over his physique, and they lit up as if she was planning on trying to win the big prize.

"So you have four dogs?" she asked.

"No, I'm a dog walker," explained Louis. He was used to frequent and prying questions when he was seen with several dogs—sometimes up to six, on the end of leashes.

"As a hobby?" she asked.

"No, professionally."

"Part time? I mean, what's your regular job?" she persisted.

"This. This is me only job."

"Get out!" she cried. "You mean to tell me you walk dogs for a living?"

She definitely looked dubious now.

"Yes, for a livin.'"

All he wanted to do was wander around with the dogs, enjoy the day and be left alone. He wasn't unfriendly, or opposed to pleasant conversation, but he knew what this girl was after. Him. And he wasn't interested. Not in the least. Not that she wasn't attractive, because she was. Very. But he was gay, and he didn't fancy having to explain it to every girl who approached him. It was no one's business anyway. Any road, it was a dreadful situation.

So he usually just told relentless women that he had a girlfriend. This one, though, was shifty and sly. He could read her like a book. She wasn't interested in whether he had a significant other or not. She was after his body, and she didn't care if he was attached or spoken for. He knew the type—he was exposed to them all the time. They were bold and unshakable, and you had to hurt their feelings before they would withdraw. And he didn't relish having to do that.

"My name's Brooke. What're you doing after this?" she gestured to the dogs bounding about. Bold, indeed.

"I have lots of others to walk today," he said evasively, hoping she'd get the hint, but knowing she wouldn't. Truth was, he only had the two older dogs, and then after that, another three dogs that could be walked at the same time, and he'd be done for the day.

She was wearing a tank top and short shorts. She had long wavy golden brown hair, and big eyes that propositioned him even when she didn't speak. Most guys would jump right on it, but she didn't afford a second glance from him. She looked a little bewildered at his lack of intrigue, but figured he'd come around. He supposed she liked challenge. Just his luck.

Her eyes continued to wander up and down his body, openly appreciating his tan, his muscled legs, his biceps that were defined from the weight lifting he did a few times a week, his handsome face, his ocean blue eyes. Her big mistake was not realizing he truly was disenchanted and definitely disinterested.

"Well, since you're busy today, how about another day? Coffee or something?" She scribbled her name and cell number on the back of a bank deposit slip she pulled out of her purse and handed to him.

He took the paper out of courtesy, stuffing it into his pocket, and planning to ditch it in the nearest trash can on his way to take his present dogs back to their respective homes.

"Your name?" she asked, nonplussed that he hadn't offered the information.

"Louis."

"Okay Louis. Talk to you soon! And by the way, I looooove your English accent!" she gushed as Louis nodded and walked slowly away, toward his client's dogs, smiling and waving as pleasantly as he could manage.

He left a little earlier than he wanted to, because Brooke was still hanging out at the dog park, her furry Pomeranian still yapping, making him desperately want to escape. He'd just walk the dogs a little farther before getting them home exactly on time.

Higgins proved almost impossible to catch, and he felt he was making a spectacle of himself as he chased, dipped and dove to grab the dog's collar, finally resorting to tackling the big brute as he galloped by. It was really quite impressive when all was said and done. Several people even cheered and clapped.

Finally, all four dogs captured and trotting by his side, he left the dog park, feeling like there had to be someone out there who would like him for himself. Not the corporate finance guy he'd been, or for how he looked, or how fuckable he supposedly was. Just for him. Someone who wanted to know all about him, his favorite foods, what he dreamed about at night, what he liked to do. Someone who liked him simply for his personality, his sense of humor. Okay, so there wasn't much sense of humor yet, but he was working on it. He needed to stop being so dry and sarcastic.

And that special someone couldn't know about his background, or he'd be right back where he'd started. They'd want to know how much money he'd made, what high falutin' parties he'd been to, what kind of clout he'd had. He wanted a real life romance with someone who wasn't impressed with all that bullshit. That wasn't looking for a sugar daddy. He wanted to be desired on his own personal merits, and that didn't include the job he'd once had or how much was in his bank account.

You never knew who was real in the corporate world, or who was trying to get something from you. It was all so . . . fake. Those who appeared to be your friends might just be trying to pick up hints from you on how to make it big. People used you, and once they got what they wanted, they kicked you aside. It was all about getting ahead, and to hell with who they walked all over to get there. He was sick of it.

He had begun to wonder if there were any genuine people left in the business world, or the world period. In fact, he was suspicious of just about anyone he crossed paths with. And it had made him into a sour, temperamental, inflexible person who was jaded and intolerant in general. And he hated that about himself. He was determined to change it.

He strove now to amend his attitude, and hoped he'd meet sincere people who accepted him for what he was—a dog walker, a nice person, and a loyal companion. Because he sure hadn't found that at his old job. And if people knew he was a dog walker and still liked him, he wouldn't have to worry about judgment from shallow individuals in disguise.

Taking his charges back to their homes, he finished the remaining jobs for the day, and two hours later, he was free. It was one pm. Not bad, and only half a day's work, if you wanted to call walking dogs work, which he didn't. Not really. He found it invigorating, and the exercise certainly was beneficial. His legs had beefed up, and he had more energy in general.

Walking back to his apartment, he sat down with a beer and lunch—a salami sandwich with store bought potato salad, and realized he really did need to start eating more healthy to compliment the exercise. Mint chocolate chip ice cream was his favorite, and he found himself indulging in it two or three times a week. He supposed all the walking was working it off, as he hadn't gained any weight. But he was getting older, and he might not have the luxury of eating whatever he wanted for much longer. Before it caught up to him, and he ended up with a beer belly. He'd never find a boyfriend then.

Sometimes, he got terribly, miserably bored. He longed for someone to hang out with; someone who found him interesting and would hold a lively two-way conversation. Something that had nothing to do with the stock market or any kind of finances. An intelligent interchange. Someone who would stimulate his mind. He was also tired of people who only cared about the conversation if it centered on themselves. He'd loved it if someone asked his opinion, instead of always finding himself asking them about their lives, how they felt about things, disregarding his own feelings.

He might be abrasive and grumpy at times because of his previous job, but he knew that, in order to try to live a normal life now, that he'd have to find friends that weren't full of themselves, arrogant and pompous. There were people out there that were like that—there had to be. But he had yet to make any friends because no one had proved to him that they had no ulterior motives. Not that he told that many people about his former job, but he was so gun-shy that he withdrew from friendship out of habit. His fear was real. In a way, he supposed he was damaged goods. He would overcome it though. One thing he excelled at was determination.

He'd thought about going to one of the many gay bars here in Hollywood and Los Angeles, but he wasn't after quick sex in a bathroom or alleyway. And that was usually all you found in a bar. Especially a gay one. Meeting people who were decent and respectable was harder than one would think. He had to face it—he was lonely. His childhood friends were all in England, and the few friends he'd made here had moved away or ghosted on him when he had gotten the "dream job." If only they knew! Now, for the first time in years, he actually had spare time, but no one to spend it with.

He flicked on the telly, but nothing caught his attention. He was restless, and decided to get a few things at the grocery store. He opened cupboards, writing down what he needed on his running list. He called it taking inventory. He loved lists, and felt lost without them. They offered him a strange sense of security.

Slipping his sunnies on, getting into his car, which, by the way, was no longer a Mercedes, but a classic '66 Mustang GT, he hit Stater Brothers. When he'd picked up what he needed, he had half a cartful, and wondered how long it would last. Quite a while. His was a single person household, and he had no friends to come over and raid the fridge for snacks; no pets, no kids. His family was in England. He really did lead a dull life, he reflected as he waited in line. He wasn't worried about how long the groceries would last anyway—he had more than enough money in the bank to get as many as he wanted, as often as he wanted. He just liked to calculate in his mind how much he spent on different things each month. Obviously his overanalytical thinking process hadn't slowed down a bit. Another thing to work on.

A guy was in line ahead of him. At first glance, from the back, he'd thought it was a girl. A very tall girl. Probably close to six feet. The long, dark, thick and curly hair was so impressive that it looked like it had required some major curling iron time. But when the person turned to face the cashier, he saw it was a guy. A guy with a baby face, startlingly green eyes, and when he smiled, an arresting dimple that made Louis feel like he'd been kicked in the chest by a horse. It caused the breath to lodge in Louis' throat.

Louis tried not to gawk, he really did. But turning his head away, or even his eyes, seemed an impossibility. It was a contradiction, but against his will, he wanted to keep staring. He wanted to keep drinking this guy in for at least the next eight hours. He couldn't look enough.

Then, for some reason, the guy turned his head and glanced at him. All Louis could do was continue to stare, because he physically could not do anything else. He felt as if he was made of stone. He wasn't even aware of the fact that he looked just like how he felt—as if he was in some kind of spellbound trance . . .