Epilogue #4
I find a radio station that plays fairly clearly—bro country, but it's got a beat, at least. So I'm tapping my hands on the wheel, I've got the window cracked for some fresh air…
How are there mosquitoes in March? There's still snow in spots under the tree cover.
My mind is going over everything I have to do once I get to Tamlin Falls. Tamlin? No, that's not right. Tompson? Tompkins? TomTom? Ugh, no, definitely not that. Whatever. Tom-something Falls.
Go over the menu, find a band—and figure what kind of band I need, first—go over the guest list and nail down final numbers…
silverware, napkins, glasses, chairs, tables, design and procure centerpieces; I'll need a local numbers person since Nathaniel stayed to help Eliza.
What else? So, so many things, each of which takes weeks… and I have days.
My mental checklist is my superpower. It's this thing that lives inside my brain, a living, breathing organism that divvies the world up into manageable, bite-sized tasks and shuffles it all into a checklist. Those checklists run my life. I have a mental checklist for taking a shower, for doing my taxes, for eating a meal…having sex. Not really, but it wouldn’t surprise me if I found a sex checklist in my head at some point—I’m precisely that neurotic.
What I'm not doing is paying very close attention to my surroundings. I'm sure some part of my brain is paying attention—and who hasn't tuned out and driven on autopilot? If your hand isn't up, you're a liar.
A brown something the size of a Tyrannosaurus Rex ambles lazily across a clearing to my left, heading for the road. Is that a cow? A horse? No, it’s too big for either.
And then I realize the creature, which is absolutely and mind-bogglingly enormous, has no intention of waiting until I pass to cross the road.
Its mile-high legs carry it smackdab to the middle of the highway, where it takes up nearly the entirety of both lanes.
I'm in an F350 with a six-inch lift, and this fucking thing is still peering down at me. I brake to a halt six feet or so away from the monstrous creature, which I now realize is a moose.
And I feel like maybe I should go back to Fairbanks and blow the kid who convinced me to take this truck instead of the clown car I was about to pick.
That's a joke; I wouldn't do such a thing.
Eliza might, but I have higher standards; that's also a joke.
For a moment, the moose just stares at me. The moment continues.
I honk the horn, and the god-sized deer wiggles its ears at me.
I honk again. It shakes its giant head at me, ears wiggling and flapping.
Um.
I roll down my window. "GO! GET OUT OF THE WAY, DEER!" I pull my head back in. "Moose, whatever."
Nope. It—he? She? It doesn’t have antlers, but then, I don’t know the first thing about deer and antlers. Do girl moose have antlers like some girl cows have horns? Do they have them all the time? Whatever. The thing lets out a low rumbling sound and shakes its head at me again. More ear wiggling.
I put the truck into park, open the door, and drop the four hundred and sixty-seven feet down to the ground. For real, I need a six-foot-goddamned-ladder to get into the stupid thing.
"Hey!" I shout, waving my hands from beside the hood. "Shoo! Go back into the forest, please."
Urrrgh! It grunts at me.
"Yes, really. You have to move, big fella." I duck down to check out the tackle situation. "Oh, yeah—yep, that's a boy," I say. "Wow, buddy. The lady moose must be happy to see you coming, with a johnson like that. Jesus. Talk about a third leg. Fifth leg?”
Urrrrggggghhhh! It lifts its head as it grunts, shakes its head again, and then lets out a long, guttural sound that's shockingly loud, echoing across the road.
"Ummm…" I rest a hand on the hood, taking a step backward. "Maybe I should have stayed in the truck."
The moose takes a step toward me, and that step, despite the enormity of the thing, is silent and graceful.
"Uh yeah, yep, definitely should have stayed my city ass in the truck."
"Ma'am?” A low, rumbling male voice from behind me startles me so badly that I scream and leap a good ten feet vertically.
A rough, huge, powerful hand clamps around my mouth as the moose dances backward, head shaking as it snorgles at me in obvious irritation.
“Be quiet. Do not piss off the bull moose, lady," the voice growls, sounding as animal as the creature in front of me.
"That motherfucker is seven feet tall at the shoulder and weighs damn near eighteen hundred pounds. "
"Mmmm-mmm," I harrumph a negative sound from behind his hand. "Mmmm-mmm-MMM!”
"Shut the fuck up, goddammit," he hisses.
The moose smacks a hoof into the blacktop and shakes his head. Trots toward us a few feet, rumbling.
"Shit, shit, shit." The big male behind me tugs me backward, one hand over my mouth and the other around my waist.
The moose drops his head, trots toward the truck, pauses, dances in place, shakes his head, and then rams the front left quarter panel; the truck rocks on two wheels, nearly toppling over.
It didn't seem like the moose was even trying that hard.
The man behind me keeps frogmarching me backward away from the truck until we're hidden from the monster animal’s view. The moose bellows again, and the truck rocks a second time, again nearly rolling over from what wasn't much more than a gentle love tap.
Another growl, another louder crunch of metal, and then silence.
"Stay here."
Before I can respond, let alone catch my balance, I'm released. I topple backward onto my ass on the blacktop.
"Well, you're fucked."
Recovering from the shock of being let go to hit the ground like a sack of potatoes, I shoot to my feet. “What the hell does that mean?" I demand.
"Come see."
I head toward the front of the truck. Two things catch my notice.
First, I see the problem. The moose, with his annoyed love-taps, totalled the engine bay. Steam rises from the crumpled hood, which is dented inward at the quarter panel; the grille is in smithereens, too.
Second, I see him.
Six-six if he's an inch, he's built like Colossus from X-Men. Just, you know, not metal or Russian, and he doesn't have a flattop haircut. So not at all like Colossus, except in general shape and size.
I'm weirded out, okay? I'll come up with a better metaphor later.
He's fucking gargantuan, is my point.
"Couldn't you have wrestled it, or something?" I ask. "You're big enough."
His shoulders are the size of tectonic plates, bulging round like boulders.
Arms the size of oak trees within a flannel shirt that's tight on him but would be a tent on me.
Sequoia-sized thighs in dark blue jeans.
Heavy boots smeared in mud up to his ankles.
He's wearing a blue ballcap with the crossed axes-and-helmet logo of a fire department, and he has a walkie-talkie clipped to a strap-thing that runs diagonally across his chest and around his waist. Leather work gloves hang from his back pocket, and mirrored aviators hide his eyes.
He's fucking stunning.
As in my breath catches at the pure, rugged perfection of his features. Dark blonde hair curls under the back of his hat, just a little too long. The sleeves of his flannel shirt are rolled up to his elbows, and he has the sexiest forearms of any man alive.
I'm a forearms girl.
Biceps are hot.
Abs are sexy.
V-cuts get me going.
Broad shoulders and a rippling back? Alright, now.
Cannon balls for an ass? Yummy.
But a set of veiny, muscular forearms? They turn me into a drooling, dripping puddle of woman.
And those forearms are to die for.
But wait, there's more. He steps toward me, peeling off his sunglasses, and meets my eyes.
He has the darkest-blue eyes I've ever seen. They're almost purple, glittering with intelligence and confidence. They don't just pierce, they stab, slice, cut, sear; pick a verb.
"Not much scares me, sweetheart." He towers over me, so big he occludes the whole world, filling my entire frame of view with his body. His eyes seize mine and refuse to let go. "But a pissed-off bull moose?" He shakes his head slowly. "I'll wrestle a mama grizzly before I tangle with a moose."
I frown. "It's a big deer."
He snorts, pointing at the ruined truck.
"You did see this, didn't you? That big fuck wasn't even trying.
I've seen what happens when a moose wants to destroy something.
It ain't pretty. And they don't give a fuck about people.
Bears are scared; they'll run before they attack.
A moose? He'll stare you down, and then he’ll fuck you up just for the hell of it. You saw it happen."
"Point taken." I eye the truck. "I guess I should thank you, huh?"
He shrugs. "All good."
"So…now what? Do I call triple A?"
He grumbles—a laugh, I think that gravelly sound was. “Triple A? Right." He jerks a thumb over his shoulder at his vehicle. "Get in. I'll have Kenny come get this and take it back to wherever you got it from."
"It's a rental from Fairbanks."
"Whatever. Don't really care where it's from. You have insurance?"
Rude. “Yeah, of course,” I answer.
"Rental contracts out here have moose damage provisions, usually. Hopefully you're covered."
"Wait, really? Moose damage provisions?"
"Fuck if I know.” He grins, and the sun seems to brighten, somehow. “I live here, so I don’t rent. I'm just messing with you. No idea what they'll say about your rental getting fucked by a moose."
Annoyance burns in my gut—this guy is a real jackass. "It didn't fuck it, it headbutted it," I point out.
"Whatever. Get your stuff and let's go. I have a shift."
"I could just call an Uber. I don't want to bother you."
The man turns in a slow circle, miming looking for something. "Uber? You really think there's an Uber within a thousand miles?"
"Yes?" I sigh. "Fine. I guess you're my only option, Moose-Man."
"Name's Noel."
"Cool. I don't care." Except, he's my ride out of here, and what if he's an axe murderer? I shouldn't piss him off. "I'm kidding. I'm Demi Kaplan."
I grab my suitcases out of the back seat—they're heavy enough that I have to let them smack to the ground before heaving them up onto their wheels.
I roll them toward his truck—a sleeker, cooler, more badass version of a macho-man pickup than the overcompensating-mobile I was driving.
He grabs one of my suitcases with each hand and tosses them both into the bed at the same time with a grunt.
"Jesus, lady. You packin' bricks?"
“Yes," I answer. "To throw through the windows of the patriarchy."
He blinks. "Okay."
I grin, shrugging. "I'm from California." I figure that explains it.
That's when the most unexpected part of the whole situation occurs.
He follows me to the passenger side, opens the door, and hands me up and in as if I were a Bridgerton getting into a coach at dawn after a ball.
His hand is positively hot, rough as a cinderblock, and enormous.
His dark blue eyes cut like razors as he pauses, and then, standing on the running board, leans in and draws the buckle across my torso, neatly settling the strap between my breasts.
He smells like cedar oil and woodsmoke.
A moment later, he's behind the wheel with his sunglasses on. "So, where were you headed, California?"
"I can't remember what it's called. Something Falls. Tomkins Falls?"
His head slowly swivels toward me. "Tomlin Falls?"
"Yeah," I say. “That sounds right."
"Wonderful," he mutters under his breath. "Why?"
"Why?"
"What's a big city Cali girl like you doing all the way the fuck out here?"
"Event planning, Noel. That's what."
"In Tomlin Falls? Usually, people hire Vicky for weddings and baby showers." A frown. "But she just had her baby. So I guess that's where you come in. But what are you planning?"
"A big ol' party, Noel." I pull out my checklist from my purse—I keep one in my head and a physical one in my bag. "Now, if you don’t mind, I need to think."
"Suits me," he mutters. "City girls. Just a big deer, she says.” He mutters in that vein, his volume slowly tapering off until I can't hear him anymore.
I do focus, mostly.
But if my eyes keep straying to those goddamned delicious forearms, who could blame me?
And why does the man look so familiar? I’ve never been to Alaska, I know that much.
"You ever leave Alaska?" I ask when curiosity gets the better of me.
"Lived in Seattle for a bit."
No, never been there.
Hmmm.
I'm sure it will come to me at some point.
Hopefully, Tomlin Falls is big enough that we don't keep running into each other. God knows I do not need the distraction that this man and his tasty forearms present.
No, I do not.
No distractions.
No Alaskan hookups, no matter how hot he is.
Focus on the job at hand, Demi. Your entire career hangs in the balance, after all.