Page 37 of Horned to be Wild
“What?” he growled, suddenly self-conscious.
“‘Horned to Be Wild’?” she managed between gasps, indicating a bumper sticker he’d forgotten was there—a cartoonish minotaur astride a motorcycle, the ridiculous slogan emblazoned beneath.
Heat crawled up his neck as embarrassment flooded his system. The sticker had been a joke gift from the town mechanic years ago. He’d slapped it on, amused at the time by its absurdity, then promptly forgotten about it.
“I didn’t—it’s not—” he sputtered, uncharacteristically flustered.
Her laughter was infectious though, bright and genuine, with no trace of mockery. Despite himself, he felt the corner of his mouth twitch upward.
“I never took you for the bumper sticker type,” she teased, wiping her eyes.
“Hmph,” he grunted, as he lifted her into the passenger seat before walking around to the driver’s side. “It was a gift.”
“It’s perfect,” she declared, still giggling. “Absolutely perfect.”
The ride into town was punctuated by her occasional renewed chuckles and whispered “Horned to be wild” whenever she caught his eye. Each time, his embarrassment lessened, replaced by a warm glow at the sound of her happiness.
Even in the aftermath of the storm, the town square bustled with weekend activity as they parked. He felt eyes turn in their direction as soon as they got out of the truck, and he stiffened, fighting the urge to retreat.
“Hey,” she said softly, her hand finding his forearm. “We don’t have to do this if you’re uncomfortable.”
Her touch anchored him. “No. I want to.”
They walked side by side, not quite touching but close enough that her arm occasionally brushed against his. Each point of contact sent a ripple of awareness through him.
“So, Horny,” she whispered conspiratorially, “where to first?”
He nearly choked. “Don’t call me that.”
“What about Wild One? Road Warrior? Biker Bull?”
A reluctant chuckle escaped him. “You’re impossible.”
“That’s why you like me,” she replied, her eyes dancing with mischief.
And he did. Gods help him, he did—more than he’d ever thought possible. The realization struck him with sudden clarity as they walked through town. Her laughter, her teasing, her unwavering support—she’d woven herself into the fabric of his life so completely that he couldn’t imagine a day without her.
They browsed the farmer’s market, where Lila charmed the vendors and somehow managed to make his imposing presence seem ordinary. They sampled local honey and artisanal breads. At the craft stalls, several people actually complimented the library murals, leaving him stunned at being recognized for his carving rather than his wood deliveries.
“How do they know?” he asked her.
She hesitated, then put her hand on his arm again. “Apparently most of the town knew about it.”
“But no one said anything.”
“I doubt you gave anyone an opportunity,” she said dryly.
As usual she was right, but he still wrestled with the knowledge that his secret wasn’t as his secret as he’d always assumed.
The rest of the morning passed in a blur of small, precious moments. Her hand occasionally found his, her shoulder leaning against him when they stopped to look at something. The tension in his body gradually uncoiled, replaced by a lightness he hadn’t felt in years.
She was admiring a display of local pottery when the vendor, a tiny goblin with a cheerful grin, handed her a flyer.
“Have you heard about the Art Fair? We run it the same day as the Harvest Festival, over there on the boardwalk.” The malejerked his thumb at the wide wooden pathway bordering the lake. “You should set up a booth. Both of you.”
He froze, but Lila only smiled and took the flyer.
“Thank you. We’ll think about it.”
