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"It has been brought to my attention, with the gentleness of a brick thrown at my face, how much it sucks to not have a long-term plan."

I turn on the stove, then lean my back against the counter next to it. "You know, I need a plan for a continuous stream of donations. And to get homes for the animals in our shelter. I don't think I'm too comfortable adopting out the girls, for example."

I nod at Rose. As if she senses I’m talking about her, she puts her head on her paws and stares at me.

"It would stress them out. I don't think I can separate them. And who in their right mind would adopt four elderly lady dogs? There are so many animals out there that need loving homes. Luna, and Bean, and Daisy, and Mr. Muffin."

I take a deep breath. "I mean, let's be realistic—we live in the middle of nowhere. There's nobody in this vicinity who hasn't heard of my shelter or animals. If anyone wanted to adopt them, they would have. Which means my only chance to find them loving homes is reaching people outside of this little Wayward Hollow-Kinstead circle, you know?"

"I know what you mean." He crosses his arms in front of his chest. There’s a ‘plop’ behind me, and I stir the soup, then turn back to him.

"But I'm afraid I'll have to disappoint you. Because I got lucky and I plan my content on vibes only." He rubs the back of his neck with a sheepish glance my way. "And I'm fully convinced my success is fleeting. I give it two more years until the interest will trickle off."

"Oh." I deflate and quickly turn around to stir the soup again so he won’t see the disappointment on my face. That is not the answer I was hoping for. Fuck. Then who should I ask? Half of Kinstead and Wayward Hollow operates on phones made in the last century; we’re not exactly a social media nerd hub.

"I mean, I can help you set up the pages, but if you want a real pro to talk strategy with..." I turn to glance at him over my shoulder. "Ask Kylie." He points toward the side of his house, not facing Nic and Lauren's homes. "She's a marketing manager. Still not quite what you need, but she's more knowledgeable about strategies, competition analysis, and targeting than I am."

"Don't get me wrong." His lips curl into a grin. "I can absolutely donate a half-naked dance video to your account. I'll even hold your adoptable animals into the camera to gain interest. But strategy-wise..." He shakes his head. "I'm not the right person to ask. Sorry."

"Don't be sorry." I take a deep breath. "I appreciate you being honest about it. And if you could hook me up with Kylie's number, I'd be extremely thankful."

"Of course." He stares around the living room. "Once I find my phone."

I point to the kitchen counter beside his fridge, where he left it this morning.

"Ah." He gets up slowly, with the grace of an eighty-nine-year-old man. "If you give me your number, I'll text it to Kylie."

I blink at him slowly. "Is this your ploy to get my number?"

"Maybe." His grin widens. "Is it working?"

"Too well for my taste." I turn around and hold my hand out for his phone to type my contact information into.

"Thank you, Kieran."

"Brooke, it's the least I can do."

Chapter 24

Kieran

After three days of Brooke's loving care, I'm as good as new. I totally am. I'm absolutely not out of breath five minutes after leaving my house.

"Oh, wow." I gasp for air, coughing when the cold, crisp winter air burns in my lungs. "Did this hill get steeper while I was sick?"

"It didn’t. You’re only whiny." Brooke pats my shoulder with an amused grin. "But it's okay, Grandpa. I'm sure you'll recover quickly."

"Who's a grandpa?" I glare at her, leaning down to put my hands on my knees as I fight for breath. This is what Kylie must have felt like when she ran over to my house to tell me about the bones in her backyard. I apologize to the universe for every amused thing I thought.

"Well..." She snatches my wool hat and pointedly stares at my hair, then plucks one. "There's a gray one."

"There is not." I snatch my hat right back, pulling it over my hair. "You don't get to pretend to be so much younger than me. It's what, two years?"

"And a half," she says in a sing-song. "Still have a bit more time until the big scary three-oh."

"Now I know what Evan meant when he called you a menace. Hey!" A bunch of snow hits the side of my face.

"Calling me a menace is only Evan projecting," she declares with a death stare, then leans down to grab more snow to throw my way.