2 Chapter 2
Tongue hanging out, eyes wide, and having my balls tingle between my legs, I watched him chop! chop! chop! againand again. I must have accidentally moved where he saw me because he stopped his manly exercise. The stranger dropped the ax’s blade to the ground and positioned its handle against his left side. Its silver head rested on the crisp earth near his left boot. Cocking his stare in my direction (it was the first time I had seen his piercing and glinting and reflecting Adonis-blue eyes and felt the earth tremble beneath my Trumble legs) and called out to me, “Who’s there?”
I said nothing at first, deciding exactly how to respond to his calling. One, I could run back to my aunt’s cottage and make myself believe I hadn’t witnessed his Herculean and sexy body in action; a total turn-on for me. Two, I could step forward, be a brave neighbor, willed to confront the stud, and introduce myself to the man. Or three, call out to him in a derogatory tone, starting shit with him.
Sadly, I chose option three and hollered in his direction, “None of your business! Who are you?”
* * * *
I was going to die. No lie. Stranger let the handle of the axe fall against the ground and rushed in my direction like a pissed off bear. He charged me, pounding through the woods. His handsome and muscular bulk moved steadily forward, lumbering quickly.
Doomed, I thought. I’m doomed. Oh…what a fool I have become.
New options surfaced within my thoughts. One, I could turn and run to safety, back to Aunt Mirabella Trumble’s woodsy abode, locking myself inside. Two, I could drop on the ground and play dead; I wasn’t above being an opossum when the time suited. Or three, I could stand my ground and face the handsome and chiseled woodsy ogre, man against man, a champion battler in action to one’s death. I chose number three, unafraid of the hulking and alluring beast, foolishly feeling that I could satisfactorily tame him. Something like David and Goliath. Or Shaggy and a ghoul in a Scooby-Doocartoon.
As the lumberjack pressed forward, heated and angry, fury on his rugged but sexy looking face, baring white teeth pointed like a wild cougar’s, shoulders the size of a wooden bridge, and meaty legs that pounced over one fallen tree trunk to the next, a little sprits of pee leaked out of my now-limp joint and ran down my right leg, into my shoe. It wasn’t the first time a massive man had caused me to pee myself, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last, I had guessed. Maybe I considered myself proud of the brand I created. Good for me. Who knew?
In defense, realizing my immediate death, I raised both arms and palms in the lumbering bear’s direction. “Hold on! There’s no need to overreact!”
The big and beautiful stranger stopped approximately six feet in front of me; a blue glint raged in his eyes. I couldn’t take my intoxicated gaze off his sweaty and hairy chest, or his handsome face. Rugged seemed too harsh of a word to describe him since he resembled a beautiful, Hollywood screen star: good cheek bones, pump-pink lips, commercial-worthy hair. But the description sufficed for the time being, before he decided to murder me, probably having the thought of burying me nearby.
Sweat clung to his brow and his sizeable chest heaved. The thick veins in his bar-like arms that crossed over his biceps thumped with blood and testosterone. His eyes flickered an angry blue that reminded me of a wishing well’s pool of water following a thunderstorm: spirited, tarnished, alluring, dangerous, and evil. The look on his chiseled face clearly explained that he wanted to smash my face in with one of his fists, or both.
The bear didn’t touch me, blowing my mind. Rather, he stood over me, huffing, shielding me from the autumn’s dull sun that hung behind his head and sprawling back, shadowing my frame. The top of my head barely reached his chin, which clearly defined his height. He ground his teeth together and growled, “What do you want?”
I smirked, unintentionally irritating him. “I’m a best-selling writer and need some quiet. I’m trying to finish my third book. You’re chopping is a distraction. I can’t write because of you.”
“Writer…chopping…distraction,” he repeated, shaking his head.
“Good to know you’re listening to me.” I pointed to his right at the fallen logs behind him. “Any way you can save your lumberjack activity for another day? I’m trying to get through chapter three. Be a pal and give your chopping a break.”
“Any way you can kiss my ass?”
Depends what the ass looked like, I thought. If it looked as desirable as his bare chest, his Hollywood face, and the package between his legs, I might have accomplished more than just a kiss to it. No promises. “You don’t have to be crass. Show some manners. I’m not here to ruffle your feathers. I’m simply asking if you will help a writing man out.”
“And youdon’t have to be in my fucking business, city boy. I suggest you spin around and take your rich candy ass back to your aunt’s cottage and stay over there.”
Interesting that he knew of my aunt, her cottage, and my candy ass. Funny how people find things out on their own about other people. I couldn’t deny his details, knowing them accurate. Obviously, he knew of my life, my family, and my bank account. To some people it became obvious, and quickly, though. The bear in front of me just happened to be one of those people.
