"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 seehim.
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 areto 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.
