Page 15 of Beware of Hodags

“My lady,” Shepard booms loudly enough that half the festival has to hear him. “You have my loyalty, my axe—and my heart.”

That’s it. I absolutely must kiss him now.

Collectively, the crowd calls, “Awwww!”

Face hot from all the attention, I’ve got a chest full of butterflies about to burst out of me. I reach down to grab him by his flannel collar and drag his face up for a kiss.

The crowd roars.

I release Shepard so I can press my hands over my flaming cheeks.

He lunges up, tosses his axe to the side, and brings his callused hands gently atop mine, protectively cupping my face with me as he tilts his head and goes in for a longer, much more intense kiss.

Much to the crowd’s loud, raucous delight.

When he pulls back, I can feel that my blush has burned my skin a permanent tomato red. I meet Shepard’s handsome heated gaze and think, Oh well. I’ll live!

Holding one of my hands, Shepard bends down to scoop up his axe. He raises it up victoriously for the crowd and waves to them with it before he hauls me away from everybody.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to embarrass you,” he tells me, looking at my face .

Biting my lip, I shake my head. “I’ll recover.” I turn my stare full on him. “That was very romantic.”

“Don’t. Don’t look at me like that,” he warns. “I don’t care that we’re in public.”

Overheated to the point that I should probably worry about brain damage, I try to restrain my grin.

“What do you want to see next?” Shepard asks. “Want to check out any of the craft tents?”

“Nahhh…” I point to a gathering of men. They’re standing near stumps, all of them holding long axes. There are piles of logs set up for each man. “There’s a chopping contest over there.” I lift and drop a shoulder, then look at Shepard. “You could enter.”

He doesn’t take his eyes off me. “Not a good idea. I’m a little worked up. Win or lose, I can’t promise that I’ll stop at kissing you.” Holding my gaze, he brings our joined hands up to his mouth and kisses my knuckles.

I exhale a gusty sigh. “Okay.”

Growling, he slams our hands to his chest and looks at the sky again. “You’re killing me.”

“I think I’m ready to go back to the cabin,” I tell him, my voice breathy.

He shakes his head but the movement is jerky, like he’s having to force himself to tell me no. “Not yet.” He lowers our hands back down to our sides.

“Why?” I ask.

“Because I need a minute to cool off before I get into any semi-private space with you.”

My heart does a backflip at his declaration. “Well, it is a pretty long walk back to the truck. We can head back super slowly.”

Shepard gives me a harried look but sets a leisurely—yet somehow tension-filled—pace .

I only regret my footwear a little on the long walk back to the parking lot. But with Shepard, it’s still a nice walk.

The tension is thick in the truck.

Shepard’s movements are controlled and precise as he puts his green beast in reverse and backs us out of our parking spot.

Competence is crazy appealing, I decide, biting back a sigh as I openly watch him.

He casts me a cursory glance—then does a double take at whatever expression is on my face and he steps on the brake, giving me a very confused once-over.

“Seriously,” he addresses me, his eyes narrowing.

“Someday you’re going to tell me why you look at me like that when I’m driving this truck,” he warns, before putting us in drive and rolling out with the line of other spent festivalgoers.

After giving me a solid thirty seconds of mock broody face, his expression clears. “Did you have fun?”

My cheeks hurt from trying to contain my smile. “I did! Thank you for taking me.”

“My pleasure,” he says warmly.

We reach the park’s exit, and Shepard turns us onto the main road.

As he accelerates, my ears catch a light flapping noise of some sort.

It gets progressively louder as we get up to speed.

It originates somewhere below and on the right side of the truck, near my door if my ear is pinpointing it correctly.

Eh. Old trucks.

The silence between us isn’t uncomfortable. We go a couple miles before Shepard suddenly asks, “What’s that sound?”

“I don’t know. I’ve been hearing something too.”

His face screws up in light confusion. “Is something sticking out of your door?”

My eyes go wide. I snap my head to the side, looking down at my—

“Oh CRAP!”

“What?” Shepard asks, sounding concerned .

“My skirt is caught in the door!” My white! Skirt!

“You locked your skirt in the door? Do you need me to pull over?” Even as he asks, he’s slowing the truck.

“No,” I growl. I jerk on my skirt—then pullllll the fabric in until, with a last stiff yank, it frees itself and manages to exist all the way inside the cab.

I scowl as I get a look at what the door has done to the wayward lower half of my outfit. Grease marks streak the mangled lace.

The formerly beautiful, delicate lace. Grrrrrrr…

Shepard takes his eyes off the road long enough to take in the damage too. “Hey,” he offers helpfully. “You can’t even tell the ketchup stained it.”

And just as he intended, I can’t help but throw back my head and laugh.