"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."
