Page 8 of Beware of Hodags

To my delight, he does. He also tells me about Klondike Days, a massive event that happens in February in Eagle River, where a living history village of trappers and fur traders assembles for the weekend in subzero temperatures—in outdoor tents and teepees.

Visitors get to step back in time and learn what life was like in the 1800s in the Northwoods by trying their hand at building a teepee and panning for gold.

They can also partake in the lost art of brain tanning and sewing animal hides into sturdy, warm clothing—then they can reward themselves by popping kettle corn in a massive wood-fired cast iron kettle .

As if that’s not incentive enough, visitors can join in a Potawatomi Powwow. And tour an ice castle. And watch dog pulls. And take dog sled rides! And eat a bison burger while taking horse-drawn sleighrides!

“I have to go to this,” I declare, bespelled.

Shepard takes me in, his eyes burning, his expression keen.

He looks too attracted, too passionate for the event we’re discussing because the way he’s looking at me has nothing to do with the event we’re discussing and everything to do with our mate bond, which is being formed every second we spend together.

There’s even a word for the process: cakak. It means to entwine, to weave together.

Reaching across the table for my hand, Shepard physically entwines our fingers. “Come with me.”

“To Klondike Days?”

“Everywhere. But yes.”

A Mariachi band explodes in my brain. Shepard is future-planning with me.

Yes, he’s my mate and now that we’ve found each other, building a life together is expected—but nobody ever told me that something as simple as making plans together feels amazing. There’s something about him wanting me with him… Internally, I’m dancing like no one’s watching.

Before I can unglue my tongue from the roof of my mouth, Shepard straightens—and I turn my head to follow his gaze and find our waitress approaching with fellow waitstaff, all bearing a gratifying number of plates.

I was so caught up in Shepard that I didn’t see them plating up our food or finishing my malted ice cream wonder.

Our girl sets my milkshake down in two parts. The first is a fancy vintage soda glass showing swirls of honey caramel sauce and delightfully chunky shake innards stuffed to the rim where a lone mustard-coated pretzel precariously sits atop a mountain of whip cream .

Next it’s the holy grail of milkshake devoration: the frosted metal mixing cup that holds all the extra shake guts. It may have none of the frills, but there’s something about the taste of cold milkshake straight from frigid stainless steel.

The plate of pretzel cookies our girl sets down next to my shake has me salivating. They look gooey in their centers and they’re still so warm from the oven that they're making the air above them shimmer slightly.

The sight seems to have the same effect for Shepard. Making a delightfully rumbly growl, he uses his whole hand to point to my cookies and looks at our waitress. “I’m going to need an order of those.”

“Do you want the Hodag Crunch Milkshake too?” the girl asks. “Or no?”

“Nope,” Shepard says. “Just those.”

“Sure thing! They’ll be out in a couple minutes.”

He nods and stares at my cookies.

We thank the wonderful staff as they finish unburdening themselves, and as they leave, I eye our bounty. The presentation of the food is elegant and unexpectedly showy. “This looks like art,” I observe to Shepard, admiration coloring my every word.

Stealing glances at my pretzelly, mustardy dessert, he clears his throat.

“Pretty, isn’t it? Nicolet College has a culinary arts program, and a lot of the kids work here when Top of the Hill, the campus restaurant, closes for the year.

” He raises his gaze from the spread and meets my eyes as he extends his hand, palm up. “Do you pray?”

It takes me a beat to respond. I lay my fingers in his. “I do.” I’ve never had a man who wasn’t a member of the church or my father pray with me before, let alone invite me to do it. I think I fall in love with Shepard right here, right in this moment.

He bows his head.

Biting my lips to contain my giddy smile, I do too.

“Dear Heavenly Father,” he says, his hand warm around mine, “we come before your throne to give thanks to You for this food we’re about to eat.

We are grateful for Your provision. And we are especially thankful You’ve brought us together.

” His fingers flex around mine. Thrilled, I squeeze his back.

“We ask that You would bless this food of our first meal and continue to guide us along Your path. In the name of Your son Jesus, amen.”

I open my eyes and watch him open his too. One corner of his mouth curves up as he lowers our hands to the table, keeping our fingers linked.

Which I love. But my milkshake is melting. I gently tug on our connection so that I can free my hand.

Shepard doesn’t release his grip. He leans in. “Would you do me the honor of accompanying me to the Lumberjack Festival?”

I blink at him. I work on a college campus where a large chunk of my time sees me training or performing with cheerleaders.

I overhear loads of dating horror stories and have gleaned many a warning about common danger behaviors.

One to get alarmed over is a man who’s too touchy-feely too early on.

Another alarm bell should go off if the man is pushy.

But Shepard holding one of my hands hostage while asking me to go out with him isn’t the red flag that human women would probably take it for. He’s a shifter who’s found his mate. He’s driven to pursue me. His instincts are also clamoring for physical contact.

I know because I’m craving his touch too. To the degree that I’d rather hold his hand than devour my milkshake. He should take this as the high compliment it is.

Captivated by his instant attachment, by the way I can see it’s a reflection of how I’m feeling for him, I acquiesce. “I will.”

With reluctance, Shepard releases me and leans back. “Good.”

My milkshake is a shock of cold after holding his hand.

Seeming to force himself to turn his attention to his food instead of staring at me, Shepard sets in with his fork and knife. He cuts his burger into four neat quadrants. He eats neatly too .

“You have excellent table manners,” I offer.

One half of his mustache quirks up.

I study this. To my eye, it looks… deprecating.

I take a bite of my burger, groan, and blissfully manage the process of chewing and swallowing before continuing.

“I’ll just apologize for my lack of manners ahead of time.

” I use my thumb to swipe at a smear of jalapeno cranberry from the corner of my mouth.

I give myself a second to ponder the propriety of wiping my thumb on a napkin—but this sauce is so good I lick my thumb instead.

Shepard coughs.

When I look up, he’s watching my mouth. When he drags his gaze up to mine, he blinks the stomach-curling heat out of his eyes and says, “I was recently forced to learn to eat like this.”

I wait for him to expound on this, to give me an explanation as to why he’s being forced and more details on why it’s a recent development, but he doesn’t. So I ask, “Why?”

He uses his thumbs and fingers to frame around his beard, emphasizing it like a hairy bib.

“This bad boy.” He drops his eyes to his burger and shakes his head.

“Every other bite of any kind of food, I chomp into my mustache. And for every attempt I make to feed my face, I end up feeding my beard. Crumbs can be brushed out so they aren’t so bad.

But sticky stuff? The other day I wanted pancakes.

” He looks at me, a touch traumatized. “I ended up with my face in the sink, washing maple syrup out of my beard.”

“I bet it smelled nice.” I grin to let him know I’m deliberately trying to lighten his discomfort over his hairy handicap.

He huffs and picks up his first burger section. He tips his face down as he bites into it, almost as if his instinct is to hide.

I’m kind of fascinated. I had no idea bearded men had to put in so much extra effort to eat. But I don’t want him to feel self-conscious so I try not to watch.

I try to think of what I could say to put him at ease.

“Your suffering is not in vain,” I assure him as I introduce one of my waffle fries into a red sauce that was included with my meal.

It’s not ketchup, that much I can tell. It looks almost like strawberry jam.

“Your beard may be extra work, but you look very handsome.”

His mustache tips up. “Thanks.”

My eyes are on my food, but my attention is on him. He’s more relaxed as he takes his next bite. Less self-conscious.

Yet… he keeps slanting his head down to take bites.

After a few minutes, I realize it isn’t a ducking motion to hide but an angling.

He has to angle his face to feed his mouth and not his mustache and beard.

I try not to be obvious about the fact that I’m absorbed with learning how one does something as simple as eating when they’ve grown such a manly face hedge.

Forcing my gaze down, I taste my red-coated waffle fry. It’s cranberry sauce, huh. Not bad.

I move to drown my next fry and suddenly Shepard’s fingers are next to mine. He hovers his potato wedge over my ramekin of cranberry fry sauce, silently requesting permission to dip.

“Gosh,” I muse. “I must like you a lot.”

His fry still hovering, he eyes me. “That so?”

I nod. “Yep.” I wave my fry for him to go ahead and dip. “Because I don’t share food.”

He flashes me a triumphant smile. “Thanks for making me your exception.” His brows rise when he tastes the sauce. I expect him to comment on it, but casually he asks, “What’s your last name?”

It’s only inwardly that I wince. Because like I told Mirk, I was teased terribly for it. The instinct to brace myself whenever I say it is a knee-jerk reaction. “Bruiser.”