Page 20 of Beware of Hodags

He wraps his hand around the back of my neck and tugs me to him to peck me on the lips. He lets me go with a loud sigh. “Give it five and I’ll have it ready.”

True to his word, in five minutes he hands me a steaming mug of coffee and we eat at the table across from each other .

“This is beautiful, but it doesn’t seem… standard. How tall do you think this thing is?” I ask, patting the table top.

Giving it a distracted once-over, Shepard shrugs. “Maybe twenty-five inches.”

“Short for a table,” I think aloud.

“My family doesn’t have a lot of tall people,” Shepard shares. “And my granddad made it from reclaimed barn wood so the length was probably determined by whatever scraps he had on hand.”

“Your grandpa made this?” I say, awed.

Shepard nods, and I give the charming farm table an even more impressed perusal as I eat.

Finished, I rise to my feet and tug my purse up on the hodag-made table, digging through it, making sure I have everything I might need.

Shepard gets up too, clearing the plates.

When I try to help, he waves me off, indicating I should finish what I’m doing.

I do as he suggests. “My shift is ten to six,” I announce.

The energy in the kitchen dips. I look up.

Arms crossed, leaning a hip against the counter, Shepard is frowning.

Abandoning my purse, I give him my full attention. “What?”

His eyes are trying to mesmerize me. “That’s a long workday.”

Stepping up to him, I place my hand on his arm, rubbing soothingly. “You know that’s a pretty average-length day. What’s your shift?” I ask.

Catching my hips, he draws me against him. “I have the day off. I work ten-hour days for four days a week, then get three off. Today’s my last free day of the week. Why don’t I drop you off and pick you up?”

“I can drive myself.”

“But if I drop you off and pick you up it gives us more time together.”

“Ooh. I like the sound of that. Thank you. ”

“My pleasure.” He leans in for a kiss. We’ve gotten really good at kissing. So good that we get a little carried away. Shepard’s shirt is off, I’m digging my nails into his back and he sinks his teeth into my neck again.

“What are you, a vampire?” I complain, swatting at his shoulder as I push away from him.

“I can’t help it. You taste good,” he explains. “I didn’t get you hard enough to leave a mark this time,” he tells me, grimacing guiltily.

Giving him the wide-eyed look this deserves, I step away from him to retrieve my purse. Dragging his shirt back on, he resolutely grabs his keys, and we lock up and head for the truck.

***

In the gravel circle of Mirk’s store’s entrance, Shepard drops me off with a hard kiss.

There’s no spark. But then again, Shepard’s kiss isn’t about heat this time. This is him being possessive, much like the mark he gave me this morning.

I pull away. “I’ve got to go.”

With reluctance, he leaves me in his enemy’s territory and I wave goodbye as he makes his way down the driveway.

Then I pull out my phone and text Mirk to let him know I’m here. This sent, I slip my phone in my pocket and turn around to head for the—

“AH!” I yelp.

Because standing directly behind me is Mirk.

Shocked that I didn’t hear him, my eyes drop incredulously to the gravel under our shoes. How did I not hear him?

“Sorry.” He gives me an apologetic grimace. “Didn’t mean to creep up on you.”

“It’s alright,” mutter, clutching my chest. “And hi.”

His smile is still all apology. “Glad you’re here. ”

“Yeah, thanks again for hiring me…” I trail off, peering past him. Because the gently rolling hillside behind him is covered with delicate and strange-looking glittering white veils. “What the heck are all the white things?”

He turns. “Oh. Those are webs.”

My jaw hits the ground. CLEARLY I MISHEARD HIM. “They’re WHAT?”

“They’re spiderwebs.” He gestures to them. “That’s how this species gets water. They make funnels that collect the dew every morning.”

I gape. The hillside is covered with them. “DUDE. That’s SO MANY SPIDERS!”

He looks at me and then looks at them again, like he’s trying to see them for the first time.

Like he can’t relate to my horror because this is so commonplace for him.

“Give it a couple hours and you won’t be able to tell they’re even there.

They fold their webs up.” Mirk’s lips twitch.

“Or we can’t see them once they’re dry, not sure. ”

I give him huge eyes. “How reassuring.”

He laughs. “Come on.”

I fall into step behind him as he moves for the sturdily-built work shed that serves as his farm’s gift shop.

Leaning along the front of the store are decorated wooden signs painted with Welcome and Home and the like. Colorful birdhouses and flower baskets dangle from the overhang’s rafters. Pumpkins and pots bursting with mums form a short hedge from the parking area right up to the gift shop’s door.

Mirk steps inside the shop, and I follow, head swiveling.

Built by Baker Barns, says the metal tag above the door.

Flyers tacked to the pine window ledge advertise this structure as Mennonite-built, and pictures of the shed’s construction and placement by way of a mule (the man toy kind, not the hee-haw kind) are taped to the bare OSB board walls.

Wheelbarrows in the center of the room hold bags of potatoes.

Crates turned upside down on the floor act as tables for bags of onions.

Along the wall on the right is a produce stand, with zucchini, cucumbers, and tomatoes.

Shelves on the back wall have canned jams, chili, and sauerkraut.

Do NOT open the canned goods! warns a sign, written in thick marker on orange poster board.

Interspersed around and in front of the shelves and on the back wall are quilts, barn quilts, and wooden decorations—stuff like farm animals, butterflies, flowers.

Birdhouses hang from the bare rafters, and handsaws painted with farm and woodland scenery decorate the walls between the quilts.

Directly to the right of me next to the door are wooden crates, painted white and stacked on their sides to make rustic cubby shelves.

They offer homemade cranberry toffee, white chocolate cranberry cookies, and cranberry yogurt-dipped pretzels, nuts, and of course craisins.

Below it are slanted shelves with egg cartons.

Fresh Eggs, $2.50 a dozen, says the poster board sign, yet again penned with marker.

The other side of the door has shelves with maple syrup and local raw honey.

There’s also a mini fridge with a clear faced door. Inside are small jars of something called Pure Maple Cream. Curious, I cross to the shelf and crouch, peering through the door at the labels. Wood-fired maple syrup, it says. “What is this?” I ask.

Reaching past me, Mirk lifts a bag of homemade graham crackers from a small stack of goods I somehow missed seeing, then tugs open the fridge, grabs the maple cream jar I was looking at, and holds the items out to me in offering. “Here.”

“Oh, I can’t,” I protest.

“Sure you can.” When I still resist taking his goods, he pops the lid off the maple cream, sending up a burst of scent that’s reminiscent of warm syrup-covered pancakes and maple donuts. He hands me the jar. “Now it’s open. Can’t sell it.”

Making a helpless noise, I accept it.

Deftly, he undoes the twist tie that closes the bag of graham crackers and plucks a cracker out. Then he snaps it in half at its perforation and dips it into the maple cream .

I’m so focused on the fact that the cream is so thick it’s like frosting (I’m that person—the one who enjoys a bowl of frosting with my sliver of cake) that I’m startled when Mirk is suddenly holding the cracker up to my mouth, his eyes alight. “Try it.”

Leaning away with an uncomfortable smile, I reach my hand up and delicately tug the cracker from his fingers. Battling self-consciousness, I take a bite.

“OHMUHGOFF,” I moan, spraying some cracker dust as the maple magic coating the cinnamony vanilla graham cracker goodness melts on my tongue and detonates in my mouth.

Mirk is smiling, looking pleased. “Good, right?”

I can only shield my cookie hole with my hand to prevent more rudeness and waste while I demand, “Whof makes theeffs?” I gobble the remainder of my heaven-coated cracker, swallowing before adding, “I want to hug them!”

Mirk’s eyes flare as he hands me the other half of my graham. “I make them.”

Mid-cracker dip, I falter. “Oh. I assumed it was your aunt.”

His lips twist up, regret stamping his features. “Nope. She tried. But she can’t take on the demand this place requires, not while keeping up with her own, so you’d be hugging me.” Giving me a half-smile, he lets me off the awkward hook by stepping back. “You’ll be making them next.”

I nod my head to acknowledge I heard him and try not to snap my mouth around my cracker like a starved crocodile as I finish it off. With resolve, I firmly spin my bag of graham crackers shut, twist tie it, and clap the lid on the danger frosting.

“Ope,” says Mirk. Sidling for the fridge, he murmurs, “Just gonna sneak past ya.” I step back and take the opportunity to brush crumbs off my chest. “Cranberry cider,” he prompts.

“What?” I look up to find he’s holding out a cup of cider to me, one he’s poured from a jug he pulled out of the fridge. Seeing my hands are full, he tries to take my graham crackers. Although his intention is clearly to be helpful and free up my hands, I have to bite back on the urge to growl.

I’m a little food possessive. Especially if that food is dessert.

“Thank you,” I tell him, taking the cup. “But wow. Killer treats and now cider?” I marvel, reading the label on the jug. “Gosh, home-pressed cider, no less. This is very generous.” I take a sip. My eyes screw shut at the rush of tart sweetness that fills my mouth.

“Last fall’s cranberry harvest was one of our best,” he shares. “Do you like it?”

I savor my next mouthful like it's an expensive wine. “It’s fantastic. Like autumn sunshine.”