I didn’t know where they’d all been hiding until now, but there were a lot of twentysomething guys. Since Kate had a boyfriend, I assumed her intention was to observe while I was expected to do the flirting. “I thought you liked Finn.”

She frowned. “I do. He’s perfect for you, except for that one glaring flaw. He’s not looking for a relationship, and…” Her head swung back and forth, taking in the bar. “There are so many boys here—local boys! Live the small-town single scene. If not for you, do it for me!” She pushed out her lips and rounded her puppy-dog eyes at me.

“Pouting won’t work,” I said. “You’re not my type.” Then I contradicted myself by following her into the crowd.

Twenty minutes and a beer later, I was chatting—for Kate—with Chase, a white man in his late twenties with dark blond hair worn slicked back on top. He had a lean build—Finn was broader, not that I was comparing—and blue eyes. After accidentally walking into his back, Kate had introduced us before conveniently receiving an urgent text from Diego, which I was willing to bet had been prescheduled. Thankfully, Chase was easygoing and friendly, so I didn’t mind being left alone with him. He was a single music teacher and volunteer firefighter, born and raised in Pleasant Hollow. Most notably, the questions he directed at me didn’t suggest an obsession with New York City and its famous inhabitants but merely a genuine keen interest in me as a person.

“I don’t mean to be rude checking my phone, but I really want to make sure Bogie is okay at home,” he said.

And he was polite to boot. My heart zinged. “Who’s Bogie?”

“My rescue dog,” Chase said, his light eyes twinkling. “It’s my first night out since I got him a month ago, and I can’t help checking his status every few minutes.”

I gasped excitedly. “Which pet monitor app do you have? Furbo? Bites 2? Pawbo?”

He did a double take. “You were right the first time! Do you have a dog?”

“I don’t. But I wrote a piece last year for a digital magazine on the best pet-monitoring apps.” I relaxed my smiling cheeks. It was rare I had an opening to tout one of my own articles, and it made me overly giddy. “Can I see a picture of Bogie?” I took the phone he held out and cooed at the multitude of photos. “Is he a German shepherd mix?”

Chase scratched at the hint of reddish-blond whiskers along his jaw line. “We know he’s a mutt, but more than that, we’re not quite sure. He was left at the firehouse. No collar or chip.”