Page 22 of Beware of Hodags

He leaves for a bit and returns with some low-sided water pans and a giant low-sided water bowl so the puppies have plenty of hydration options. We laugh as the puppies rambunctiously race around in the sun and crawl back into the shade to gnaw on each other while they recharge.

“Come on,” Mirk finally says, and he leads me into the store where he tells me that customers usually pay cash but in case they want to pay by check, have them write it out to the farm name.

Next he discusses my break time with me and how to go about taking it.

Then he slides a cook book across the kitchen’s counter, asks me to whip up cranberry sugar cookies first, and leaves me to get to work.

I quickly get acquainted with the kitchen and use the dried craisins he left me to make the batch .

As the oven preheats, I text Shepard to let him know my break time.

I set the dishwasher. I bake more cookies.

Mirk brings me frozen blueberries and a gallon bucket of cranberries so freshly collected that I have to pick out a couple plant leaves.

He directs me to a recipe for blueberry cran muffins, and soon the shop is filled with their fruity, tangy, caramelized aroma. It’s mouthwatering.

Quite a few customers stop in for eggs. Some pick up cookies and snacks too.

Everyone pays cash and I don’t even have to make change—they’re all regulars and came prepared.

One lady asks if the puppies are for sale and I direct her to the business card stack that Mirk left me, and tell her to call him for down payment info.

I find myself smiling even when the shop is empty. It may only be day one, but I like it here. And my morale goes through the roof every time I glance out the window and see puppies gamboling across the grass.

When my lunch break arrives, I pull out my phone. I find that Shepard texted me a one-word reply to my breaktime announcement: “Good.”

I’m moving to the door to switch the sign from open to Mirk's handwritten sign, which reads, ‘Be back in 20—but come on in and use the honor system!’

Mirk told me to exit the store and make use of the bench behind the building or take a walk around the farm’s garden—because Murphy’s Law insists that if I’m in the store during my break, customers will show up and chat away my breaktime.

But before I reach the door, it opens. I raise my gaze from the sign I’m holding and feel my face split into a grin as Shepard strides in.

My heart leaps.

I take one look at him and employ my sleuthing skills (that unlike some people —Adrian, cough, cough— I didn’t earn by way of a million computer game hours) to deduce that he’s been working on his truck .

The big clue is the grease stains on his gray T-shirt. He also smells strongly of pumice soap and it looks like there’s some grease trapped around his fingernail beds. He still looks handsome as ever. Maybe more handsome. I think I like Shepard a little dirty.

He’s staring at me. Leering might be a fairer word. “You’re hired.”

I clasp my hands (still holding the break time sign) behind my back coquettishly. “Oh?”

With a playful growl, Shepard stalks me. “I need a baker for my kitchen. Do you come with that apron?”

Coyly I step back. “No, but I do come with this hair net. Very sexy.”

He looks at me like I’m wearing lingerie. “I’m about to strip it off of you using just my teeth.”

I let him catch me around my hips. “Rawr.”

We grin at each other and then he swoops down and kisses me.

When he straightens up, his eyes take on a teasing light. “I saw the little mustard pretzels outside.” He tips his head toward the puppies just beyond the gift shop doorway. “And now I’ve got this craving.”

I growl. But I was prepared for this. Tossing my break time sign on the counter I swipe a snack bag off a nearby shelf and lob it at him. “Catch,” I warn, my voice a touch frosty.

Easily he catches it, and when he sees what it is, he sends me an unrepentant grin. “Would you look at this? You got me mustard pretzels! Pre-cooked,” he adds with a saucy wink.

I narrow my eyes at him. “You’re not cute. And that will cost you three twenty-five because I left my purse in your truck.”

He fishes into his back pocket for his wallet and digs out a five-dollar bill. He holds it out to me. “Keep the change, darling.”

I sniff. But when I go to snatch his money, he catches me around the waist and dives his nose against my neck, nuzzling me.

Half-heartedly, I push at his arm for a second, but he smells really good and his face is too attractive.

I sigh at him. “Despite what this looks like, you aren’t being rewarded. ”

“Mmhmm,” he agrees, and nibbles on my neck. “I’ll remember that while I’m eating my mustard pretzels.”

“You aren’t. And don’t threaten the adorable puppies if you don’t want your mate upset with you,” I warn even as my knees turn to jelly.

Shepard pulls back to grin at me and, as toothy and unapologetic as it is, it still does things to me. “I like it when you say mate.”

I shoot him a glare to let him know I’m not thawed, but it’s hardly effective. When I purse my lips, his attention drops to my mouth—and he lunges for me, hungrily attack-kissing me until I’m forced to melt in his arms.

His hand sneaks under my shirt. “Come to a movie with me after work. Rouman Cinema is sure to be playing something good.”

I catch his wrist. “What are our options?”

“No idea. I couldn’t care less what we watch. I just want to spend time with you. When can we make this happen?”

“Depends on—” I let him kiss me. When he lets me breathe, I gasp out “When—” he goes for my mouth again. “Showtimes… are. Mirk thought… he might need my help, so I was thinking,” I kiss him back, then try to speak coherently, “I could work late today.”

“No,” says Shepard.

His voice—and his grip on me—is so possessive, I laugh breathlessly. “I could probably do it tomorrow and the rest of the week instead.”

Shepard pulls away to nibble hungrily over the unblemished spot where he bit me last this morning. “Mark?”

“No, not Mark,” I pant. “Mirk.”

Shepard rears up and sneers. “Mirk.” He growls. “You mean Shelob. Shelob Mirkwood Lycosid…” His gaze has snagged on something past my shoulder.

With a sinking feeling, I know what he’s spotted.

It’s a carved tusk leaned up against a window pane. It’s the most expensive item in the shop. The label tag hanging from it identifies it as ‘ Scrimshaw Bestia Cornuta Sylvestris Ivory.’ The reverse side of the tag helpfully translates the Latin.

Horned Beast of the Woods Tusk.

The line under it says, ‘Collected from a felled hodag.’

Shepard’s expression darkens to rage.

It could be fake, I pointed out to myself earlier. It looks a lot like a bovine’s horn and could simply be a bull’s horn that someone’s carved and creatively labeled. But then I sniffed it.

It’s real bone. And it smells a lot like Shepard.

Sparing him a sympathetic grimace, I try to distract him. “Yeah, my boss goes by Mirk. It’s like Mork from Mork & Mindy. Try to be nice.”

That gets Shepard’s attention. He stops glaring at the hodag tusk in favor of giving me a wide-eyed look of disbelief. He leans away from me like I just told him I might have rabies. “It’s not like Mork from Mork & Mindy. That was a funny, harmless character. Your boss is named after—”

“His grandma, I know.” Mentioning her has me wanting to share the awful story Mirk told me today but I stop myself.

I’m not sure if it’s a family secret that Mirk would want shared.

Although Shepard is my mate. Keeping a secret from your mate is rarely a good idea.

I need to call my mom and ask how to navigate this.

“His… Yeah.” Shepard is frowning at me. “You’ve never read Tolkien, have you?”

Now it’s my turn to frown. “No. Why?”

The door of the shop slams open so suddenly and with such force it bangs off the wall.

I jump.

A protective growl rips out of Shepard. He spins around, keeping me behind him.

Mirk fills the doorway, looking unexpectedly murderous. “Get away from her. ”

He doesn’t shout the words, but he may as well have. They’re so full of the promise of violence that Shepard’s shoulders stiffen—and it could just be a trick of the light, but his skin is taking on a troubling hue. A green one.

I put my hand on his arm.

Shepard continues to lock glares with Mirk for another two interminable seconds wherein his eye contact promises pain and possibly death before he wrenches his gaze away and looks at me with a strong frown. I’m trying to protect you is what his eyes are saying.

I try to silently communicate: it’s okay. I’m not in danger. I’m not being threatened here.

Shepard scowls and pins his eyes on the aggressor blocking our exit.

This could go badly. I address my boss. “Hey, Mirk? The kitchen needs a restock before tomorrow. We’re pretty low on sugar and vanilla.”

There’s a protracted moment where neither man moves—I don’t think they even blink—but then, to my immense relief, Shepard makes himself relax. Looking at my face, he blinks like he’s coming out of a trance… if trances are like a haze of aggression. But this time the tension lessens.

I suck in a silent breath of relief. “Um,” I say, more in hopes of dispelling the remaining testosterone in this little building than for any other reason. “If you want me to make any more marshmallow squares, we need more cereal.”

“That’s fine,” Mirk manages civilly enough even though his teeth are bared and he’s directing a dark look at Shepard, but his words for me hold no heat or spite.

“Means a Trig’s run.” When he finally stops trying to instigate another glare down, it's to send an assessing glance over me—a concerned one, as if he’s visually confirming I have no life-threatening injuries. “We’ll go now.”

My hand flexes on Shepard’s tensing arm. “Both of us?” My forehead has furrowed. “I should stay here. ”