Page 13 of Beware of Hodags

“They’re beef bacon strips,” the kid manning the window says. He’s more open with his staring than the last food truck was, but I don’t mind. I get it.

I give him a quizzical look. “Alright…?” Because bacon is bacon and bacon sounds good to me .

He shrugs. “Some people don’t like their bacon to be beef. But the name wouldn’t work if we used pork bacon.”

“Waaait. What’s the name?” Shepard asks—and, already guessing at what it must be, his smiling mouth stretches into the biggest shit-eating grin.

“It’s called the Bulldog,” the kid says. “Get it? Beef bacon wrapped around a hotdog?”

Shepard could not look more delighted. “Ha! A bull dog!” He slides me a highly amused look and opens his mouth to speak.

“I will drown your pancake in syrup,” I warn him tartly.

He coughs into his fist and orients toward the window to place his order, fighting to keep his face straight.

Minutes later I’m holding both our plates of pancakes and Shepard is burdened with my inglorious hotdog and a set of inconspicuous brats for himself. We manage to find an empty picnic table and slide in beside each other. I take exactly one bite of my hotdog.

“Dog gone it,” I yelp.

“What?” Shepard asks, attention flying to my face. Then he follows my gaze down.

I flail my hand at myself in frustration. “It squirted ketchup on my skirt! My white skirt. This will never come out,” I bemoan.

Reaching for a handful of napkins from the dispenser at our table, Shepard carefully takes up the section of lace covering my lap.

He dabs at the glaring red stain as if it hasn’t already instantly and permanently fused to the fabric fibers.

“It might.” He works at it for a few moments, his arm and shoulder brushing me slightly, so patient and so hopeful it’s endearing.

But the continued lack of success wears on even his optimism.

It isn’t long before resignation claims his features.

His lips twist—yet he brings a napkin to his mouth and licks it before going at the spot again.

My mouth curves. Him tending to me is making me warm all over. “You’re sweet. ”

He grumbles up at me a little abashedly. Finally, shaking his head in disappointment, he accepts he’s having no luck erasing the damage and he straightens back up. “Cripes. Sorry, it’s—”

I catch his arm.

His eyes jump to my face. I push past my nerves and dart in to press my lips to his.

He stiffens.

I’m already pulling away—but his hand wraps around the back of my neck and he turns his head, kissing me back.

FIREWORKS! Tingles. Magic—

His mustache goes up my nose. The tickle is fierce. I snort on him.

“Sorry!” I jerk back. “How attractive of me,” I mumble self-consciously.

His hand is still on the back of my neck. He adds pressure until my mouth meets his again and as I do, he wraps his other arm around me and yanks me to him.

Then he really kisses me. His beard brushes over me but it doesn’t activate any unpleasant reactions this time. No more nostril tickling, no more snorting in his face.

But when someone whistles, Shepard’s mustache walruses over my face as he chuffs in some frustration.

I stifle a giggle at the feel of it on my face. It’s surprisingly silky… yet at the same time, it almost has a harshness, or a coarseness. Like the guard hairs on an animal pelt.

When Shepard pulls back, we share a long stare. “Eat your food,” he tells me.

“You eat your food,” I retort.

“Food isn’t what I want to eat right now,” he says, still staring me right in the eyes.

“Oh my gosh,” I mumble, darting looks around us to see if anyone was close enough to have heard him. Thankfully no one is paying attention to us. With a last glance at Shepard, I settle into my food. Reluctantly, Shepard follows suit.

Our pancakes are stone cold of course, and our dogs are no longer close to hot. But judging by the way Shepard keeps sliding me hot looks, his mind is not on the temperature of our food.

That’s fair. Pretty much all my brainpower is focused on the temperature of our kiss and what he hinted he wants to eat. A lukewarm hotdog and a tepid pancake are a small price to pay when the rest of me is on fire, so I try to settle my heartbeat and concentrate on my meal.

Unlike me, Shepard can’t simply dig into his food.

Out of the corner of my eye I watch as he rolls his pancake into a tight wrap, sealing the powdered sugar in for as mess-less an entry as he can engineer.

Then he uses his finger and thumb to raise his mustache with one hand so he can shovel it into his mouth with the other.

Once again, I don’t want Shepard to feel ill at ease so I try not to watch. I get up.

Shepard glances up in surprise. “Something wrong?”

I shake my head. “I’m going to peoplewatch.”

“You can do that next to me,” he points out, but I just smile and move to the other side of the table, turning my attention instead to the crowds milling past. Happy families and couples.

Lots of moms and strollers and dads with cute kids on their shoulders, all talking, laughing.

People seem cheerful. Engaged with each other. It’s nice to see. I like it here.

Occasionally I catch stares. Every so often, someone glances at my face, trips, and takes a second glance.

I wave and smile. I get it. Curiosity is fine. Confusion is understandable. It doesn't bother me as long as it isn’t too excessive and doesn’t turn mean .

I no more than think this when a pair of teen girls stop and gawk at me. Then they start pointing, talking to each other in horrified tones that carry to my ears even over all the other noise.

I stiffen—but then the girls’ attention leaps to something just behind me. Their eyes widen. Then they’re nearly falling over themselves to leave the outdoor food court.

When I glance back at Shepard, I see he’s scowling after them.

His eyes are hodag red.

I reach across the table and lay my hand on his arm. “Thank you.”

He spares me a glance, but his gaze returns to the retreating girls for a moment before he grumbles and bites into his brat with a little more savagery than the situation requires.

My heart feels much lighter. Patting him, I retreat to my side of the table and return to people-watching. Or that’s my plan anyway, until Shepard swallows and says, “Come back to my side.”

These are small tables so I could be more graceful as I force into the tight fit, but I rejoin him, my side pressing up against his in a way neither of us complains about.

We finish our food, and I’m wiping my hand with one of the wet towelettes the pancake stand offered when Shepard says, “Hey.”

I bring my head up.

He kisses me.

And this time our kiss is perfect.

When he pulls back, he asks me, “Is my beard clean?”

Blinking, I try to process his question. “W-what?”

He surprises me by kissing me again. When he pulls back, he asks again, “Is my beard clean?” And I love how his beard is trimmed low enough on his cheeks that I can see the top half of a pair of dimple hollows.

My stomach flips, enjoying his teasing.

My gaze drops to his beard. I give it a once-over, then shake my head sadly. “I think I need another kiss to be sure... ”

He obliges.

Someone moves past us, weaving to the middle of the picnic tables, but I hardly pay them any mind. Until I almost go deaf when they holler, “FREE MUSEUM TOURS!”

Wincing, I pull back from Shepard to rub my ear.

At full volume, the crier adds, “Come see a legendary monster at the Hodag Park Logging Museum!”

Hands cupped around my shoulders, Shepard lets out a growl that has the crowd around us hushing.

I place my hand on his chest. “It’s okay,” I promise him. “I just wasn’t expecting it.”

He isn’t convinced. Not thawing, he pins the hawker with a hard stare before moving his gaze to me, assessing. “You sure you’re okay?”

“I’m sure.” I lean in to peck a kiss to the part of his cheek not covered in hair. “Believe me, I’m used to much louder. But I walk into those situations knowing to expect shouting to deafen me.”

I go to lean back but Shepard follows, his eyes glued to my lips. His chest rises and falls before he exhales hard and looks at the sky like he’s under supreme torture. “Ever been to the logging museum?” he asks, not looking at me.

“No.”

He takes my hand. “Come on.”

There’s a path worn into the grass leading to the museum.

The dirt transitions into a brick road, and a complex of lodges made from hewn logs comes into view.

The largest looms ahead of us, and entering it, we find the floor plan splits three ways.

The bunkhouse is to the left. A gift shop is straight ahead.

And the cook shack and dining hall is to the right.

We hang a right. We explore exhibits, eventually finding ourselves in the blacksmith shop, then the sawmill.

We wander into the fire equipment museum, which I find so much more interesting than I would have anticipated.

When we make it back to the gift shop, a sign above the doorway boasts that it’s home to a taxidermied hodag.

“Not a real one,” Shepard assures, answering my curiosity-filled look of concern.

He walks us to a giant glass case that holds… an ugly plaster hodag.

Number one, this isn’t taxidermied. And number two… “People do not know what you look like,” I marvel.

“And what do I look like?” he murmurs.

“Terrifying,” I say without thinking. More thoughtfully, I add, “Impressive,” because it’s true. He’s terrifyingly impressive.

Shepard looks at me.

Not sure what his expression means, I indicate the monstrosity behind the glass. “That looks like a drunk eighth grader made it. No offense, but I would throw it in the garbage.”

And suddenly I can feel how pleased Shepard is at my words. He isn’t offended by what I’ve said, or worse, hurt. No, he’s thrilled by my reaction to his other form.

“Stop smiling at me like that,” I complain, covering my face.