Page 6 of Beware of Hodags

RACHEL

I’m exiting the quarter-bath, wrapped up in a luxurious spruce-colored towel that smells like sunshine and feels like heaven, when I hear beeps.

Beeps coming from the front door. Nancy Drew beeps. So confidently tapped in, I know this person isn’t sweating this puzzle.

I freeze. My first instinct is to backpeddle into the quarter-bath but it only has a flimsy push-button lock.

Even if that were enough safety, I’d be stuck in what’s essentially a closet with a shower.

What I need to do is sprint for my cell phone…

but I can’t remember if I set it on the counter when I was in the kitchen or on the bed in the bedroom and I run out of time to pick which way to blaze.

I’m standing like a deer caught in headlights as the keypad unlocks and the door swings open.

The man taking a step inside my cabin stops dead.

Our eyes lock, and a lightning bolt slams down my spine.

“You…” he says.

Not oh gosh I'm so sorry as he trips backward and leaves. Not whoops. But you, as if he’s been looking for me.

And it’s not strange at all. Because I’ve never seen him before in my life, but I know that I’ve been looking for him too.

I’ve been looking for him my whole life.

An electric charge snaps over us like magic—and I know he’s a shifter too. He’s not the same kind, I can’t tell what kind he is, but I can smell that otherness unique to shifterfolk.

Although his is the very best smelling otherness I’ve ever scented .

In fact, he’s the source of the smell I’ve been enjoying since I got here. Him, not a Glade PlugIn.

My nostrils flatten as I suck in a lungful of air and absolutely ogle him.

He’s my height, which, for a man, is probably unfortunate, but I, like most sane women, don’t have some crazy height requirement that a guy has to reach in order to appreciate a man.

My eyes continue to rove over him. That creamy deep voice…

I want to hear it again. He has the perfect voice—pleasantly deep, an almost musical timbre—so attractive he could be a male siren.

Also known as a triton.

Usually they live on the coasts. But him being a triton would explain his stupid good looks. Not just his face—which is darkly, dangerously stunning—but his body.

Oh, his body.

His shoulders, his arms, his chest—all over, he’s slabs of meaty muscle I just want to bite into. He has hair the color of tiger iron jaspilite and a freaking Viking beard. It’s got the shape of a Dane axe blade and everything.

He probably trims it with a Skegg?x by the light of the fire in his longhouse.

Wondering what his beard feels like has my lips and fingers tingling and pretty much steals enough of my attention so that I only, in some distant way, note that he’s wearing pants and square-toed work boots.

But only distantly. Because he’s shirtless.

As I stare, my mouth waters. I’ve only ever had this happen when I’m gazing at dessert.

A crazy voice in my head hollers, You’ve finally found him! Your mate! Your missing puzzle piece. Drop your towel and jump this man!

I make a great effort to ignore this voice and use higher thinking, reason. I have to fight to keep a grip on my towel, but I manage to stop myself from flinging it aside like I want to .

His eyes are wide as his attention dips to my terrycloth-wrapped cleavage.

He’s stuck there for a flatteringly lengthy spread of heartbeats before he manages to yank his focus from my chest and make a visual trip all the way down to my toes, which are painted the colors of my sports team, crimson and gold.

I can feel his stare as it moves back up my body.

And I watch his eyes flare again as they reach my chest region—but then his gaze catches on my hands this time, where I’m gripping my towel, zeroing in to my knuckles, which have gone white with the effort of not throwing my towel aside and leaping on him, and endearingly, he mistakes my crumbling control for fear.

“Easy,” he murmurs, and raises his hands.

I blink at him. He’s trying to put me at ease. That’s cute.

Regret and concern are painted all over his expression. “I didn’t mean to barge in on you.” Then his brows crease, his gaze sharpening. He frowns. “Wait. How are you here?”

“I rented this place?” I mean to say, but it sounds like a question. Because what if the guy who gave me the keycode wasn’t the owner? What if he was a previous renter and he came up with a scheme to rent somebody else’s cabin out? That would be crazy. But I’ve heard of stranger things.

Before I can panic about this possibility, the man before me makes a faint strangled noise. “You’re…” His beard pulls back a little—he’s swallowing, I realize as my ears pick up his gulp. I have to suppress a smile when I realize he's not even blinking. “You’re staying here.”

That he’s so affected by me? Such a heady, incredible feeling. My eyelids go hooded as I reply. “Yes. I rented this cabin from a Mr. Cavoc.”

Slowly, as if in a daze, he nods. “Okay.” He runs a hand through his hair, inhaling as if he’s coming up out of water.

He tries to pull his gaze from mine but it stutters down my body and ends up back at my chest. “I’m Shepard.

.. Shepard Cavoc.” His attention yanks back up to my face.

And somehow his stare doesn’t make me uncomfortable.

His gaze moves over my birthmark-covered face, and his attention is so heated I don’t feel self-conscious.

I don’t wonder if he thinks I’m ugly or a freak.

“Uh, Granddad Cavoc told me to get over here and split logs.

He didn't tell me his renter was already in residence. Usually he has me out a week before a renter gets here.”

“I just nabbed this spur of the moment this morning,” I explain, and readjust my towel.

In response, color streaks over his cheekbones and up his neck.

This time I can’t help the smile.

His gaze drags up to my lips—and his eyes darken.

With a charming amount of obvious reluctance, he takes a step back.

“I came in here for some water but I'll work on the woodpile and just… let you get dressed.” He catches the door by wrapping his hand around the thickness of it. It looks like he struggles with himself before he draws it shut, respectfully backing out. I hear beeps as he resets the lock, although that’s hardly reassuring when he’s just demonstrated his ability to Nancy Drew it.

Good thing I don't need reassurance.

Floating on giddy clouds all the way to the vanity, I give my reflection a wide-eyed look as I silently mouth, “He was so hot!”

Because he was.

Bearded lumberjack doesn’t begin to describe this specimen of Northwoods male perfection. I’m so into it.

Hastily I dress and do my hair at lightning speed.

Then I rush for the kitchen and dig through the cupboards until I find a coffee cup.

Hodags Do It Better, it promises, and a green Rhinelander monster grins at me saucily as I pull it down from the mug tree.

I set the ice maker before I hopped in the shower, and I’m grateful now as I scoop up the modest pile of cubes the machine has managed to chug out and plop them into the mug.

I slap the tap on and fill the mug with cold water .

Although it’s October and it’s all of seventy outside, chopping is hot work. Even if that wasn’t the case, some shifters run hot, and I’m going to guess by his shirtless state that Shepard is one of them.

Outside, rhythmic heavy sounds are calling my attention. THUD. Chunk! Silence for three beats, then THUD. Chunk! Repeat.

Sounds like he’s contributing to the wood pile, just like he said. Biting my lip, I step outside…

And fall in lust.

Still gloriously naked from the waist up, Shepard’s skin has taken on a fine sheen. Afternoon sunlight plays over his strapping, broad shoulders, mesmerizing me.

I’m torn between ogling the way his jeans are cupping his steel buns and watching his fine, fine form as he cracks his axe down on a log, cleaving it in two, sending the split pieces hopping to the ground.

He’s worked up quite a sweat. His skin is gleaming like a stallion’s.

Eyes trained on his brawny back muscles, I grip the mug I brought for him. I want to be a good hostess but I also want to enjoy the show. Before I can decide if I should clear my throat to alert him to my gesture of hospitality, he senses me.

His axe cracks down on another log, chunking two halves into the air a split second before the blade sinks into the chopping block below. His hands drop from the handle and he turns to me, and in natural sunlight, his eyes startle me.

They’re… unusual. Almost the gold of an autumn poplar leaf.

It has to be a trick of the sunlight. Surely I would have noticed them earlier.

The entryway of the cabin doesn’t have any windows and either the light coming in from behind him didn’t show off the colors of his peepers or maybe I didn’t notice before because I was too preoccupied with other things, things that rhyme with…

Well, actually, I don’t know what words rhyme with lickable chest muscles. I just knew that his chest was stunning.

Half-naked like this, he’s magnificent .

It begs the question: what does he look like entirely naked?

I would very much like to find out. Soon.

But back to his eyes—I did notice before that his eyes were nice.

They’re even nicer now that I get to study them. Holy smokes. They really are gold. A bright, sun-flare gold.

As I gawk at him, Shepard is staring back at me. And the look he’s giving me is making me overheat.

One hand gripping the handle, the other cupped under it, I hold out the mug. “Thirsty?”

He steps up to me, closer than I’d usually be comfortable with a stranger, but I don’t mind with him. Which is a good thing because Shepard’s hands close over mine, around the handle and under it—and we both suck in a breath as electricity pops between us.

All my nerve endings are sparking, but I manage not to fumble it and he manages to accept my ceramic offering. “Thank you. What’s your name?”

Static has caused the hair on my head to stand on end like I’m hugging a plasma lamp. I brush it down as best as I can and look at him ruefully. My lips curve up. “Rachel.”

His nostrils flare as he watches my mouth. “Hi, Rachel.” His eyes dart down to my hands. To my right hand—then they flash to my left.

His body visibly relaxes a fraction. “Can I take you to lunch?”

My smile is slow and blinding. “I’d like that.”

***

He has to put on his shirt.

I’d be sad about that, but I’m holding his mug and watching in awe as the performance fabric of Shepard’s T-shirt molds indecently over his arms and pectorals and the impressive slab of his stomach.

Just before they’re obscured, oddly colored hairs on his chest catch my attention, making me want to get closer to peel up his shirt and inspect them. Are they silvering? He doesn’t look old enough for silvering to happen yet, but I’m down with a silver fox.

I jump when he touches me. Just the backs of his fingers, the barest brush on my arm to get my attention.

“I’m glad you came out to see me,” he says, a hint of a smile playing around his beard-framed mouth.

“I'd resolved to tear a rotator cuff chopping wood for as long as it took you to step outside.”

“Well I could hear that you were working hard out here. I didn’t want you to be siticulous and suffering.”

He takes back the mug I’m guarding for him and tips it back, drinking as if he really has been parched.

I watch his throat work and feel my panties go up in flames.

It doesn’t help that, without even trying, my every inhale has been filling my senses with his scent.

Between the smell of him and the visual I’m two seconds from licking him or leaping on him—not that these actions are mutually exclusive—when he lowers the mug and nods to his truck.

“‘Preciate it. Now I’m hungry. I’ll drive. ”

Clearing my throat, I pluck the mug from his hands and use it to motion to the cabin. “Let me just run this inside and grab my purse.”

“Hurry back,” he says, gaze burning into mine.

Turning from him, I strive to walk normally even though I feel him watching me with searing intensity.

I make it to the door, scoot inside, close it—then dash to the kitchen like a madwoman.

I don’t know where I leave his mug, but I’m sliding around the corner, shoes squeaking as I scramble for the coat rack.

I throw my purse over my shoulder and lean my body toward the vanity to wildly check my reflection (and just as I suspected, I have to get a throttle hold on my excitement because my birthmark spots are becoming textured, meaning I’m too stimulated) before I practically trip out of the cabin.

Shepard is waiting for me.

Heat flares in his eyes as he takes me in, thumbs in his pockets. Wordlessly, he tilts his head to indicate I should move for his truck .

With all the outward calm I can muster, I do.

Parked alongside the cabin on the less-traveled driveway, Shepard’s truck is a ‘78 Chevy K10. And it’s an eye-meltingly bright shade of sublime green. The color of Yoshi.

No, Yoshi’s cute. This is more like Nickelodeon Slime.

What was that stuff called? Gak. It’s Gak green.

And it doesn’t make the K10 prettier. I guess that’s the appeal for men.

It’s not a cute vehicle, by any system of measurement.

However, judging by the thinly veiled pride in Shepard’s expression, he’s really proud of it.

Letting his stride lengthen, he moves ahead of me and opens his passenger door. Then he holds out his hand.

Bracing myself to make contact, I step forward, placing my hand in his.

An electric spark pops between us, spiking my heartbeat, making my blood rush.

“Thanks.” I suppress a wince at how breathy my voice comes out.

Before I can embarrass myself further, I hop onto the buckskin-colored bench seat.

The vinyl has some cracks and age-related damage, but it’s clean.

So is the rest of his truck. Very clean. He takes good care of his vehicle.

Giving me a look like he can’t believe he’s caught me, Shepard shuts the door. Then he zips around the hood at lightning speed and launches into the cab, joining me with such enthusiasm that the truck rocks.

When he grimaces at himself, I realize he’s regretting his haste, and I feel a million times lighter.

“If you’re feeling like an idiot,” I tell him, smiling cheerily now, “you’re not alone.”

His eyes slide to me and his mouth quirks up self-deprecatingly. “You’re not the one acting like an idiot. And,” he adds gruffly, “I’m honored to have your company.”

Nervous butterflies shimmer with happiness inside my stomach. “I can say the same.”