Chapter 23 Live & Moose #2
He kissed me. On live stream. Just claimed me in front of everyone watching. Holy shit. Holy shit. The comments are probably exploding right now.
He breaks the kiss, pulling back just far enough to speak but still close enough that I can feel his breath against my lips.
"You can tell your followers," he says, his voice low and rough and doing things to my insides that should probably be illegal, "particularly those Alphas commenting, that your 'friend' had a claim on you first."
My whole face goes nuclear.
I can feel the blush spreading from my neck to my hairline like wildfire.
"D-driving!" I stutter, my brain short-circuiting. "You're driving! Eyes on the road!"
Nash huffs, turning his attention back to the highway ahead.
Then he curses—sharp and sudden.
"Fuck!"
The truck screeches to a stop, tires squealing against asphalt. I'm thrown forward against the seatbelt, phone nearly flying from my hand. The smell of burning rubber fills the air.
When we finally stop—inches from disaster, the truck's front bumper so close to the massive animal I could probably reach out and touch her if I were stupid enough—I look up and see her.
Standing in the middle of the road like she owns the entire highway, the forest, and possibly all of Millbrook is the biggest moose I've ever seen in my entire life.
I blink once.
Twice.
Try to process what I'm seeing.
"IS THAT A MOOSE?!" I squeal, pointing at the massive creature blocking our path like that's not completely obvious.
She's enormous.
Taller than Nash's truck by at least a foot, maybe more.
Her shoulders are massive, muscled beneath dark brown fur that's matted in places with bits of frost and what might be dried mud.
Antlers spread wide like bare tree branches, intricate and beautiful and probably capable of goring someone if she felt inclined.
Her eyes are watching us with what can only be described as complete and utter boredom. Not fear. Not aggression. Just this flat, unimpressed stare that suggests she's seen this scene play out a hundred times and found it tedious every single time.
She looks like she's judging us.
This moose is standing in the middle of the road, judging our life choices.
I love her already.
"Ohmygosh she's beautiful!" I'm already unbuckling my seatbelt with fumbling fingers, camera still clutched in one hand because content waits for no one. "Can we go touch her?! Please? I want to pet her! Look how majestic she is!"
"Reverie, absolutely not—"
But I'm already out of the truck before he can finish that sentence, my boots hitting the cold pavement with enthusiasm that probably isn't warranted, given we're standing in front of a wild animal that weighs approximately one thousand pounds.
The November air is even colder out here without the truck's heater. It smells like pine forests and winter and moose—which apparently has a distinct earthy, musky scent I've never noticed before.
"You don't go touching wild moose, dammit!" Nash's voice comes from behind me, sharp with genuine alarm that cuts through my excitement.
Then suddenly, my feet leave the ground.
Nash has literally picked me up off the pavement—one arm around my waist in a grip that's both gentle and completely immovable—hauling me back toward the truck like I weigh absolutely nothing. Which is flattering and annoying in equal measure.
The motor oil and leather scent of him surrounds me completely now, mixed with a sharp edge of Alpha alarm pheromones that my Omega hindbrain recognizes as protective instinct. He's worried. Genuinely worried I'm about to get myself trampled.
Which is sweet, but also, I wasn't going to get trampled. Probably. Miss Moose looks chill.
I manage to keep hold of my phone despite the sudden elevation change, flipping it around to capture the moose who's still watching our antics with that same profoundly bored expression. She hasn't moved an inch.
Just standing there like a furry statue.
"Wait!" I protest, squirming in his grip, which does absolutely nothing except make him hold me tighter. "Nash! Put me down! I’m still broadcasting and everyone can see—"
SMACK.
The sound of his hand connecting with my ass echoes in the quiet winter air like a gunshot.
I squeak—a high-pitched, undignified sound that I'll be mortified about later when I remember that twelve hundred people just witnessed this.
"And I'll spank this ass in front of all your followers," Nash growls close to my ear, his voice dark with promise and possessiveness, "if you put yourself in danger like that again! Wild animals aren't pets, Reverie!"
Oh my god. Oh my god. I'm still live. This is all being broadcast. Twelve hundred people just watched an Alpha spank me for trying to pet a moose. The comments are going to be absolutely unhinged.
This is either the best or worst content I've ever created, and I can't tell which.
My face burns even hotter than it was from the kiss.
"I can defend myself! I'm flexible, and I took two self-defense classes! I know moves!"
Nash pauses in his march back to the truck, looking down at me with an expression that's half exasperation, half amusement, and entirely skeptical.
"One self-defense class. Singular. The second one, you didn't even show up for!"
I huff indignantly, squirming in his grip, which does absolutely nothing except make his arm tighten around my waist.
"How dare you call me out like this! In front of everyone! That's slander!"
"It's not slander if it's true," he points out with infuriating logic. "And you texted the group chat at seven in the morning saying you were too sore to move."
"I simply slept in because I was so sore and exhausted from the first class that I slept through my alarm!" I defend myself passionately. "We did like a hundred squats! A HUNDRED! My thighs were screaming! That's not the same as deliberately skipping!"
He rolls his eyes—this big, strong Alpha lawyer rolls his eyes at me like I'm being ridiculous.
"I can think of plenty of other ways to leave you sore and exhausted," he says, his voice dropping to that low register that does things to my insides, "than having you pretend you can fight off a fucking moose with your one self-defense class."
My brain short-circuits again. The implication. The way he says it. The possessive hold he still has on me.
I groan in frustration and use my free hand to punch his chest. It's like hitting a brick wall.
"Put me down! I hate your guts!"
"You can hate me in the damn truck," he counters, still not setting me down, "with your silly followers who promoted this nonsense."
"Silly?! My followers are amazing and supportive and—"
"Encouraged you to approach a wild animal—"
"I wasn't going to approach her! I was going to admire from a respectful distance!"
"You were three steps from petting her nose!"
"She looked friendly!"
"Moose kill more people in Canada than bears!"
We're fully bickering now, voices overlapping, neither one backing down. I'm still suspended in his arms. He's still refusing to put me down.
The moose is still standing there watching us like we're the evening's entertainment.
Then a laugh cuts through our argument—deep and warm and thoroughly amused by whatever spectacle we're providing.
We both freeze mid-bicker and look toward the source of the sound.
An older gentleman stands on the side of the road, maybe fifteen feet away, close enough to have heard our entire argument but far enough to have avoided being caught in the crossfire.
He's wearing a red and black plaid jacket over worn denim jeans and sturdy work boots that have seen better days.
Silver hair peeks out from beneath a dark green knit cap.
His face is weathered from years of outdoor living, creased with laugh lines that suggest he smiles often and finds joy in simple things.
He looks like someone's favorite grandfather. The kind who tells stories and slips you cookies and teaches you how to fish.
"Wow," he says, his eyes absolutely twinkling with barely suppressed laughter. "We always get the most exciting set of guests in our town. Young couples arguing in the middle of the street. People trying to pet wild animals. Once had someone try to ride Millie like a horse."
"Someone tried to ride her?" I ask, momentarily distracted from my embarrassment.
"Drunk college kid on spring break," Harold confirms with a shake of his head. "Didn't end well. Anyway, thank goodness you didn't hit Millie. We're quite fond of her despite her attitude problem."
"Millie?" I repeat, looking at the moose with new interest. "The moose has a name?"
The man gestures at her with obvious affection, like you might gesture at a beloved pet rather than a thousand-pound wild animal.
"Oh yes. She's been doing this for years. Stands in the road to scare off visitors. It's her favorite pastime. If she isn't careful, one day a car's gonna hit her, but she doesn't care one bit. She's an old beauty with more attitude than sense."
I blink, processing this new information.
"Wait, she does this on purpose? Like, deliberately stands in the road to mess with people?"
"Every single day," the man confirms cheerfully, like this is completely normal behavior. "Sometimes twice a day if she's feeling particularly ornery. We've tried everything to get her to stop. Signs. Barriers. Nothing works. She's stubborn as they come."
A moose with a vendetta against cars. That's the most Canadian thing I've ever heard.
I look at Nash. He's still holding me, though his grip has loosened slightly.
His expression suggests he's trying very hard not to laugh.
"Who are you?" Nash asks, finally setting me back on my feet but keeping one hand on my waist like he doesn't trust me not to bolt toward the moose again.
"Name's Harold Morrison," the man says, extending a hand. "One of the guides and longtime residents of Millbrook. Been living here for sixty-three years. Seen just about everything this town has to offer."
Nash shakes his hand, professional despite the ridiculous situation.
"Nash. And this is Reverie."
I wave, still holding my phone, which is—oh god—still broadcasting everything.
Harold's eyes twinkle with warmth and welcome. "You folks just passing through on your way somewhere else? Or actually looking to experience our little town properly?"
"We're here to check out all the Christmas festivities," I say, my natural excitement and enthusiasm bubbling up despite the chaos of the last five minutes. "And maybe do some shopping! I heard Millbrook has the cutest boutiques and the best Christmas market in the region!"
"Well!" Harold claps his hands together, looking genuinely delighted.
"In that case, would you two like a proper tour?
I know all the best spots—the hidden gems tourists usually miss because they stick to Main Street.
Plus, I can make absolutely certain you don't accidentally try to pet any more of our wildlife. "
He says that last part with a pointed, grandfatherly look directly at me.
I pout, clasping my hands together and looking up at Nash with my very best pleading expression. Wide eyes. Bottom lip pushed out slightly. The full arsenal of Omega charms that I'm not above using when I want something.
Nash looks down at me, his expression softening despite his best efforts to stay stern and Alpha-like.
I can see the exact moment he caves.
"Why not?" He sighs, but there's fondness in his voice. "We only had plans to do some shopping here anyway. A guided tour could be... interesting. Educational. Probably safer than letting you wander around unsupervised."
"Hey!" I protest, but I'm grinning too wide for it to be convincing.
I squeal and throw my arms around Nash in an impulsive hug without thinking, forgetting about the camera clutched in one hand, forgetting about the twelve hundred people watching our every move, just genuinely happy and excited about the prospect of exploring this adorable town with a sweet local guide who probably knows every story and secret Millbrook has to offer.
Then I remember.
The live stream. The camera. The audience.
I lift my phone with slow, dawning horror, looking at the screen with eyes that must be the size of dinner plates.
The viewer count has jumped to twelve hundred. Twelve HUNDRED. That's not just a new record—that's obliterating my old record and setting a bar so high I'll probably never reach it again.
The comments are an absolute mess of chaos and excitement and questions, and demands for more content. They're scrolling so fast I can barely read individual messages but I catch glimpses:
OMG DID HE JUST SPANK HER
THIS IS BETTER THAN ANY ROM-COM
i ship it i ship it i ship it
MOOSE CONTENT + ROMANCE = PERFECT
who is this man and where can i find one
THE CHEMISTRY THO
The hearts are pouring in nonstop. My follower count has jumped by over two hundred in the last ten minutes alone. People are tagging friends. Sharing the stream. Creating clips that they're probably already posting to other platforms.
This is viral. This is going viral. Holy shit.
"Oh my gosh," I gasp, covering my mouth with one hand while keeping the camera steady with the other.
Professional instincts kicking in even through my shock.
"You guys! I'm so sorry! Things got a little crazy there—okay, a lot crazy—but we're all okay!
Nobody was hurt, Millie the moose is fine and judging us heavily, and we're about to get an amazing tour around town! "
I beam at the camera, letting my natural enthusiasm and excitement shine through.
This is why people follow me. Not because I'm perfect or polished, but because I'm genuine. Real. I let them into the messy, chaotic, beautiful moments of life.
"Let me get situated and organized, maybe put on some ChapStick because that kiss definitely smudged everything, and I'll be back in a few minutes to show you all of it! Every shop, every decoration, every bit of small-town Christmas magic! This is going to be amazing!"
I throw them one more bright smile, waving enthusiastically.
"Thank you so much for being here! See you in a few!"