1
Ophelia
“Quit looking at me like that, Bogo. You know you needed a walk anyway,” I huff, tired of his condescending look.
In response, Bogo looks at me as if he wonders how I walk around by myself at night. I scrunch up my nose and then stick out my tongue. He’s not the first one to think that way, and I’m sure he won’t be the last. Bogo looks at me with his judgmental—and a tad freaky—blue eyes and snorts.
I ignore him. He’s always grumpy. It’s a wonder I love him like I do. We walk another fifteen minutes in silence, but Bogo doesn’t let the time pass without letting me know he doesn’t want to be here. There are times that I actually have to pull him to get him to come with me. He’s such a damn diva.
Truthfully, I’m just as tired. It started off as a fun little trip. Communing with nature, hunting for morels, spending quality time with the man in my life.
Fun times.
The first hour was good. This second hour has been zero on the fun meter. Worse, I’d never tell Bogo—and he’d likely ignore me anyway—but, I think I might be a tad lost. It seemed simple enough, keep going straight until I got tired and then turn around and go straight back that way.
I thought I did that, but when I turned, maybe I turned too much to the left, or the right. There’s not a clear trail either and it all looks the same. Trees, trees and more trees, that’s all I see. Well, that and some rocks, there are definitely rocks.
Rocks that all look the same.
I jump as the sound of thunder rumbles in the distance. When I started it was sunny, but it’s definitely cloudy now. The thunder was in the distance, but I know that it’s not that far away.
“Shit. I should have checked in with the weather before we decided to look for mushrooms,” I mumble under my breath. Bogo of course just shoots me that silent look that shows he’s disgusted with me.
I’m really starting to wonder why I love him.
It’s then, I happen to look down and see—just two foot from my flip flop—which in hindsight wasn’t the best choice of foot apparel for a day out, the biggest, prettiest mushroom I’ve ever seen.
Okay, I’m not sure mushrooms can be called pretty, but then neither can dicks, and I can’t seem to stay away from them either—and Lord knows they never bring me anything but hell. I bend down to capture my prize, snapping the mushroom off so there is still some stem in place. Next I gently shake it, hoping the spores fall off, planting seeds for future rebirth. The, I carefully put the mushroom in my bag I brought—which is really a navel orange bag that has tiny holes for the spores to escape as I walk.
Mother Nature may give us what we need to survive, but you have to be gentle with it and not be a person who takes without thought.
Or at least that’s my motto.
“What are you doing?”
I jump and squeal, jumping back and falling on my ass because I lose my balance, twisting my ankle.
“Coming close to peeing on myself,” I sputter, when I put my hand at my brow to block the sun and look up, and up—and up, at this giant of a man standing over me.
He really is a giant of a man. He might be the tallest man I’ve ever met in my life. I’m sitting down, so it’s hard to judge, but I’d say he is at least 6’5”, or more. He’s wearing these tight, worn blue jeans that fit his body like a second skin, but in a masculine way that makes me feel warm and flushed all over. He’s golden tanned with the sun. I’m not just talking about his arms, though certainly they are too, but also his body. He’s not wearing a shirt, so I can see all the glorious evidence for myself. He also has this long hair. It’s covering part of his face and it’s black, thick and wavy. I have the urge to reach out and touch it, but the way he’s scowling at me keeps me from it.
Well, that and the shooting pain in my ankle and calf. I rub it on reflex, while continuing to stare up at the man.
“You’re on private property,” he snarls, sounding like a wounded bear. That combined with the look on his face, makes me wonder if he’s going to tear me apart like one of those, too.
“I…I’m in the woods.”
“You’re on my land.”
“Oh. I’m sorry. I didn’t see a fence—”
“Doesn’t mean I don’t own it.”
I breathe out, frowning up at grouchy drawers. Maybe he forgot his morning coffee or something.
“There wasn’t a private property sign,” I argue, wondering if I can manage to stand up despite the pain in my ankle. The man doesn’t speak, but he points. My gaze moves in that direction and I look at the large metal sign that says, “No Trespassing.”