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ADAIR

“ H ey, my favorite space cadet — Earth to Addy!”

I realize I’ve completely zoned out when Gigi taps me on the shoulder. “I’m sorry, what?”

“When Paul said he had to order more almond milk, did that mean we’re totally out of it?” Her voice rises above the sounds of the morning rush.

“I think there’s still a couple of cartons on the bottom shelf of the walk-in.” I use the back of my hand to wipe my wavy, dark-blond bangs off my forehead.

“OK, I’m on it!” She darts towards the back. I juggle order-taking with pulling shots of espresso until she reemerges with the almond milk moments later. She pulls her hot-pink hair into a messy topknot as she goes back to rattling off people’s orders with the speed and proficiency of an auctioneer.

Gigi and I are the regular weekday baristas at Bean-Go, the independent coffee shop at the end of the main drag. I’m preoccupied because Paul, the owner, just told us we’d have to start closing earlier — again. I kind of enjoy having the late afternoons to hike or read outside, but if my paychecks shrink any more, I don’t know how I’ll pay my bills.

A fter Gigi and I lock up for the day, I head straight for the big state park outside of town. If I’m not behind the counter at work or curled up with my nose in a book, I’m in the woods.

Being raised by a single mom who worked her butt off just to keep the heat on when I was a kid meant that I spent a lot of time with my granddad. While she was logging extra shifts as a nurse’s aide, he taught me to love being outside with a breeze at my back and a trail in front of me. After cancer got him when I was fourteen, a hilly hike was the best way I found to keep his presence close.

From the main trailhead, I take a little-used side trail that winds away from the lake on a gentle incline. I inhale the spicy smell of fallen leaves and try to empty my mind. The way I see it, hiking and reading have a lot in common: Woods and words can both take you on a journey away from everyday life for a while.

The sunlight is golden and slanted by the time I reach a clearing with a picnic table. Since I knew I wouldn’t be out here long, I didn’t bother to bring my daypack. I’ve just got my tablet in a sleeve with a shoulder strap. I brought it with me in case I found someplace to read until dusk. Someplace just like this picnic table.

It’s perfect. I saved up for the pricey model with a cellular connection, so I download the newest release in the book series I’ve been devouring lately. An all-male wolf shifter polycule whose pack is also a crazy-fierce motorcycle gang with crossover mafia ties from the author’s last series? Fuck yeah. I sprawl out on top of the table.

Some people might consider it cheesy, but romance novels are a great escape from the stress of real life — which is rising. It’s getting pricier to live here as more people flock to the mountains, and I don’t have a lot of career options that don’t involve grinding beans and steaming milk. I had dreams of going to school for graphic design when I graduated high school four years ago, but there’s never been enough time or money.

At least I have my imagination. I can’t help it; I’m still stupidly optimistic in spite of all the disappointments life has chucked my way. So while I might not have much experience in the boyfriend department, I can — and do — dream about being in fierce, filthy love. I don’t think it’s too much to ask.

But having a wild imagination can get me in trouble, too. Sometimes, I get so wrapped up in a book that I completely flake out and forget where I am or what I’m supposed to be doing. Or not doing.

Like right now. When the first big stand-off between two pack rivals turns into hot, dirty hate-sex, I’m so caught up in the smoldering chemistry on the page that I unbuckle my belt and loosen my pants enough to reach my cock. I’ve already got a semi by the time I wrap my hand around it, and I’m zoned out in the best way possible.

Until a twig snaps behind me. I start at the sound, which is much closer and louder than the squirrels and chipmunks scampering around beyond the treeline.

Fuck. It’s a bear. I bet it’s a bear. I lay down my tablet, trying to tuck my dick back into my underwear and zip up my pants as I turn.

I’m not sure if I’m relieved or more scared when I recognize the figure looming just behind me. I find myself staring into deep brown eyes, molten with anger, beneath thick black brows lowered into a scowl. He’s wearing the ranger uniform of green fatigue-type pants and a matching short-sleeved button-down.

“What the fuck are you doing?” he growls. I feel like it’s a rhetorical question. Because from where he’s standing, I’m pretty sure he knows exactly what the fuck I was doing.

Maybe he’s trying to rattle me. If so, I’m sure he’d be happy to know he succeeded. That is, if he’s ever happy about anything .

I’ve seen him around a bunch of times in the park over the past several months. He first caught my eye because I was reading a trilogy about bear shifters. What can I say? Between his appearance and his attitude, imagining him as one wasn’t much of a stretch.

I don’t know what his deal is, but his expression is always grumpy and glowering. And every time he sees me, he scowls at me like he hates my guts. Although I guess I gave him a really good reason just now, lounging on a picnic table with my pants undone and my cock in my hand.

Fuck me — seriously. I wish the ground would just open up and swallow me. I didn’t know it was possible to be this embarrassed.

The ranger tips his head down a bit so the shadow of his hat with the state parks logo on the front falls over his eyes. Hair so dark brown it’s nearly black is pulled into a low man-bun. It matches his full beard and the thick dusting of black hair on his arms, which he folds across his chest as I sit up straight. I bring my feet to the bench, rebuckling my belt hurriedly as he squares his broad shoulders. The corded muscles of his forearms bunch up as he tenses.

I am dead. So fucking dead.

With my mind spinning aimlessly, my body takes the wheel. I use the bench as a springboard to vault myself into the tall grass. I’m running by the time my feet hit the ground. I hear him curse, but I’m sure as hell not stopping to turn around.

I think I know a shortcut to the parking lot, so I plow through the underbrush. Batting branches away from my face and ignoring the thorns that scrape my arms, I run until I can see the nature center and parking lot through the trees.

Relief surges through me —too soon.

Arms grab me around the chest as I’m tackled from behind. When I stumble forward, he angles my momentum to the side, slamming me chest-first into a giant oak tree and knocking the wind out of me. I exhale a grunt of surprise and jerk my face to the side so I don’t scrape it on the lichen-covered bark.

This is… not good. When I suck in as deep a breath as I can take, there’s still the cozy, comforting smell of an autumn forest in my nostrils, but it’s almost overpowered by the scent of the man pinning me between the tree and his body: balsam, leather and a whiff of sweat, along with whatever he must use to give his beard that slight luster.

Fuck — he’s either going to kick my ass or have me arrested. I should not be thinking about how good his beard looks. Or smells.

He’s so close I can feel his breath tickling the little hairs on the side of my neck as he pants, his breathing still heavy and rapid from the chase. I realize I’m no match for his strength, so I scramble to free myself by scooting down, hoping to have enough leeway once I’m below his torso to wiggle out of his grasp. But when I push back against his lower body, he inhales a quick hiss and freezes.

I freeze, too, because I’m really not sure of the proper etiquette for trying to escape the very large, angry park ranger you failed to outrun when you’re almost one hundred percent sure you just rubbed against his hard cock.

Abruptly, he steps back, releasing me so suddenly that I stumble a step or two away from him. His hair must have fallen out of the bun while he was pursuing me because now it hangs loose, falling over his shoulders. The brim of his hat obscures his eyes. It lowers further and I realize he’s studying me. I glance down. I’m a little rumpled with some bits of bark stuck to the front of my shirt.

And fuck me. Again . Because I couldn’t be any more visibly aroused unless I was standing stark naked in front of him. I’m going to curl up into a ball and officially die of embarrassment. If I wasn’t afraid to move a muscle, I’d be cringing.

He snaps his head in the direction of the parking lot. “Get the hell out of here, you fucking sicko,“ he snarls.

He doesn’t need to tell me twice.

My legs are still jelly by the time I get back to the now-deserted parking lot and open my car door. It’s only when I flop into the driver’s seat that I realize I left my tablet behind. I slap my hand to my forehead with a groan at my flakiness.

“Stupid, stupid, stupid,” I mutter as I get out of my car. I close the door quietly in case that burly, mad-as-hell ranger is still nearby and itching to bust me, my balls or my face. As I retrace my steps, I take deep breaths to try and slow my pounding heart.

Adrenaline is surging through my veins, along with a feeling I can’t put into words. At first, I fled because I thought he was either going to flatten me or call the cops on me for jerking off in broad daylight. But looking back, it dawns on me: I wasn’t running just to avoid the consequences of what I’d done. I was running because I wanted that scowling, bearded man to chase me — and catch me.