Eleven days. One meddling French bulldog. Zero chance of walking away clean.
Frankie Bissonnette does not do temporary.
He rebuilt his whole life into one small, sharp, perfect grooming shop on the east side of Toronto — his name on the lease and nobody else’s, exactly the way he needs it after the last man who called him "the future" left him holding the debt.
The flamboyance is armor. The rule is simple: no shiny men just passing through.
Then a French bulldog named Nigel meets a skunk an hour before a film-festival party, and the dog’s owner walks into Frankie’s shop in a ruined thousand-dollar suit — and everything gets complicated.
Malcolm Reeves
is warm, unhurried, Atlanta-charming, and in town for exactly eleven days to premiere the first film he ever made because he wanted to.
He’s also, by his own calm admission, never once wanted a man in his life — right up until a copper-haired groomer with a quick mouth and gentle hands looks at him like he’s a problem worth solving.
It’s supposed to be a fling. It turns into a countdown. And when the festival ends and the plane is boarding, both of them will have to decide whether safe was ever the same thing as happy — or whether it’s finally time to get off the leash.
