Zade's POV
"As much as I would love to stay and continue this illuminating conversation, I have plans. It was undeniably not a pleasure to meet you." With that remark, laced in arsenic, the diminutive woman swiftly turns her back on me, clearly uninterested in sparring further.
Disappointment and relief play tug-of-war as I stand rooted to the spot, gaze never leaving the infuriating, sassy, beautiful woman valiantly trying to ignore me. Never before have I been so tempted to leave a woman alone and shelter her at the same time.
I must be a little loopy from skipping breakfast this morning; infuriating and beautiful do not belong in the same sentence.
Running a hand along the side of my face, I can feel the effect of three-day stubble. Involuntarily I grimace, feeling a little bit like a hobo who has experienced life on a tilted axis. Returning attention to the problem at hand, it is quickly apparent that my morning tormentor realizes she can't make it down the trail alone. A small smile escapes from my ice-man facade as I envision her groveling for my help.
Abruptly, the disarming beauty wobbles around until she is facing me, shoulders straight as a rod, face posed in granite, battle-ready.
For a single moment our eyes clash together and her stormy brown eyes, flecked with bits of honey and gold, lock onto mine sending an electric current shooting throughout my body. Unwilling to entertain the idea of attraction, I drop my gaze briefly to study her enlarged ankle, before lifting to her oval-shaped face.
A pink lip pouts out as two white teeth bite down briefly before she manages to grit out words which feel like sandpaper upon the tongue, "I need some help please. I don't think I can make it back down alone." She gestures jerkily toward the direction of the parking lot.
Swallowing a sarcastic retort to the effect of 'I could have told you that' I bask in satisfaction which tastes almost as sweet as Champagne.
Cupping my right hand next to my right ear, I tilt my head in her direction. "Huh, I didn't catch that. Were you begging for my help?" I stand up to my full height and flex the rock hard biceps I work so diligently to maintain, commenting smugly "I do have these incredible muscles you were ogling earlier."
If eyes could shoot sparks of fire, those hazelnut beauties would char me like the outside of a campfire marshmallow.
Slim arms cross her chest, chin jutting out defiantly, eyebrows raised high. "I have never ogled anyone's muscles." Managing to hide a smile behind a fake cough, the rapid tapping of her fingers against her left thigh catch my attention as I realize she is squelching the urge to stomp her foot like a small child.
In spite of my initial annoyance with having my morning run carelessly interrupted, she seems harmless enough and wielding humor and charm instead of a battle ax just might be the solution to rescuing the damsel in distress without us killing each other. Having lived sixteen years with two younger twin sisters, humor tends to be one of the best deflection methods when tensions are escalating.
"Darlin', we were both there. Just admit it, you're attracted to me." Shrugging one shoulder, I am conscious that the hours I pour into strength training sessions are on display via an amazing six pack and defined leg and arm muscles.
Throwing her head back, she murmurs incoherently toward the blue, cloudless sky before huffing out a long sigh. "What I want is to make it down this trail, to the car, and home to ice my ankle. Are you going to help me or not?" Waves of annoyance hit me where it hurts, my pride.
In three long strides I'm crouched right next to her, observing brusquely, "dang you're sassy," before abruptly placing one arm behind her back and sweeping her long tan legs up with my other arm. Hoping she will ignore the stench of sweat and pine I exude, I swiftly stand up and begin walking back down the hill.
Squealing loudly, the deceptively strong woman wraps her arms about my neck, enclosing it in a death grip.
Sputtering, her words come out as a high pitch shriek, "what do you think you are doing? You might drop me. Put me down." She squirms frantically in my arms, causing us both to stagger to the left before I regain my balance.
After a few futile attempts to breathe normally my reply is laced with exasperation, automatic but stilted, "Calm down woman... I'm doing...what you asked...playing your knight...in shinning armor."
As if realizing her frenzied motions are causing issues, her grip loosens a minuscule amount, enough that I am able to take in a deep cleansing gulp of fresh air. Those Hollywood movies always depict the hero valiantly assisting the heroine without even breaking a sweat. Next time I meet with Director Howie Cooper I'll have to mention the extreme discrepancy. Carrying a woman down a fairly rocky decline is no walk in the park.
Rolling her eyes, her response is typical sass, "If I'ld wanted a hero I would have called on Captain America; he's hot." Her shoulders relax as she leans into my chest, loose strands of silky hair tickling my nose. Scents of lemon and coconut are intoxicating; I'll be dreaming of the tropics for weeks.
"What is it with girls and superheroes? Those guys get all the chicks," I lament while carrying on a slow but steady pace, stepping over rocks and tree roots carefully, very aware of the mouthy cargo ensconced in my arms. While I'm not People Magazine's Sexiest Man Alive, I am used to a fair amount of women's appreciation. Facing indifference is a new and unpleasant experience.
Wait, do I even want her attention? She's high maintenance for one, and she snaps more than a starving crocodile.
As if sensing my unease, I'm seared by a reflective gaze. Instead of the expected and perhaps anticipated sarcastic barb, an attempt at humor pierces the air. "He actually has muscles," she teases, a small smile gracing her lips as she stares dreamily off into space.
Briefly I entertain the idea of asking my agent for a part in the next superhero blockbuster before humbling myself. Affecting a deflated sigh I pout appropriately, "thanks Sassafras, way to burst my ego there."
She stares unblinking off into the treeline, a genuine smile breaking through her tough facade; a rainbow after a dark storm.
"Happy to help," she chirps brightly. I wonder if she realizes her moods need a barometer to gauge from one moment to the next.
A ladybug lands gently on my right shoulder and begins to descend my back. Ever so lightly a soft hand slides down rippling muscles in order to catch the red lady. Flinching at the intimate touch, I swallow audibly.
"Ladybug," a soft feminine whisper floats next to my ear. It's not even a true caress, simply a breathy murmur, but my arms are covered in goosebumps and my throat constricts, leaving me completely tongue tied.
Pressed up against each other, both heartbeats pound in synch. I'd be lying if I said I held apathy for this woman. Irritation, yes, attraction possibly, but an absence of feeling, no way. The silence is almost unbearable, broken only by a barrage of questions. Relieved for the distraction, the inquiry is welcome.
"Why did you call me Sassafras? Isn't that some type of tea? Is that the way Southerners insult people?"
Unrepentant, I grin like a Cheshire cat. Those questions are simple, uncomplicated. Nothing like the dynamite cradled in my arms. "You're sassy and I like tea. If you had some red hair instead of that brown mess you could be Fireball." Gazing off into the landscape, visions of the little spitfire as a red-head cloud my mind.
Hacking coughs akin to a cat spitting up a fur ball draw me out of the intriguing daydream. Apparently Fireball isn't going to be an acceptable nickname.
Having my attention, I become aware that her plump bow shaped lips are once again disappearing in that tight line she loves. "I have a name you know. How would you like it if I called you Big Ego Maniac?"
One again, agitation is building up, a volcano ready to spew.
Childish, I know, but I can't resist mimicking her voice, "I have a name you know." It's a poor imitation of her higher pitched tone but I could care less. Annoying her has become a source of amusement in a crapy situation.
Endeavoring to be the bigger person, she simply sighs loudly in my ear, refusing any ounce of fun to seep through that concrete wall she has erected.
Abruptly, we come to a halt as the proverbial light bulb sparks to life.
Turning my head slightly and tilting my chin down I force her to look me dead in the eye. "You do know who I am, right?" My question is laced with a dose of suspicion and a hint of confusion. Long Way To Eden, my first movie, has become a blockbuster hit in the span of a mere five weeks. Not only do I co-star with legendary Hank Warrick but I also sing three of the songs on the soundtrack. Advertisements in magazines, on Billboards, and online commercials bombard the public with news of the flick.
"Apparently you're my knight in shining armor" she deadpans with a furrow of her brow. "Of course I don't know who you are. This is the first time we've met." Her condescending tone begs the impression that she finds me a bit dense, an assumption which causes my blood to boil. I loathe being judged solely on my outside appearance and country accent, as if a dimple and some sculpted muscles make up for any brains or personality I possess.
"If you don't realize who I am then you've been living under a rock lady." It's all
I permit myself to say. There's no use trying to persuade a woman, who I'm certainly never going to meet again, of all the positive qualities I possess.
Pale skin dotted with tiny mocha-colored freckles heats up, spreading a rosy hue across high cheekbones. Whether out of embarrassment or vexation, she ducks her head away from mine, refusing to speak. Her body is almost completely rigid, as though she is trying to hold herself back from relaxing into me.
My leg muscles tighten and cramp from the extra load I am carrying. A dull pain spreads up the left calf indicating I need to take a break. About 10 yards down the pathway is a lovingly crafted cedar park bench. Nodding my head in its direction I announce, "we'll stop there for a breather."
Upon reaching the bench, I carefully set her down, attempting to minimize any jarring of her injury. Silently, she reclines back and closes her eyes. Her mouth pinches at the edges as her fingers dig into the wood planks, betraying her discomfort.
A faded white sign is tacked to a nearby tree reading: .5 miles. Relief settles in my chest, a blanket of warmth around my heart. Half a mile and I'll be free of my good samaritan duties.
Bending from the waist, I complete a few stretches, desperate for any alleviation from the recent exertion, as a family of five walks by. The mother reads a trail guide while the little boy stares intently at his compass.
Twin girls, about the age of 12, giggle as they cast blatant glances my way. Rosy blushes paint their cheeks as I bestow a megawatt smile, ending with a small wave in their direction. Awe, wonder, vulnerability...these emotions flit across their round faces, reminding me of a little boy who used to feel the exact same way every time his father took him to the Grand Ole Opry...until that day when it all changed.
The family continues their trek up the trail but the image of the little boy remains etched in mind-sight. Refusing to wallow in self-pity, I stomp over to the bench and tap Sassafras on the shoulder. "We need to move it. I have a tight schedule today."
Her eyes widen briefly at my gruff tone before minimizing to slits. Pushing off the bench too quickly, she falters before I catch her under the arms, lifting her up against my chest and off her ankle. Once again we glare at each other, neither one of us wanting to appear weak. Finally she emits a low growl. "Just get me to the car."
"Gladly."
I sweep her up into my arms and we make the .5 mile hike back in complete silence. A tall blonde sprints toward us just as my feet hit the gravel parking lot.
"Faith!" Skidding to a halt a foot in front of us her frantic gaze flits up and down before settling on our faces. "What happened? I've been waiting for over an hour. I was worried something happened to you."
A cherry tomato red spreads down her neck as she ruefully answers, "I'm ok Tossie. I tripped and sprained my ankle up on the trail. This man had to carry me all the way down." Nodding briefly in the blonde's direction I lower Faith until she can lean heavily on the shoulder of her friend, no longer needing my assistance.
Wrapping an arm tightly about Faith's waist, Tossie thanks me profusely for my heroic rescue. This elicits a grunt from Faith, mumbling something about me 'not being hero material.'
Satisfied I am in the clear, I stay long enough to watch the two women maneuver into a bright blue car before heading East out of the park. The reflection off of a metallic FitNow gym sticker and a puff of exhaust fumes are the last thing I see as the vehicle rounds a curve.
Walking over to my burnt orange Ford F250, I take a long swig from the Yeti I had left sitting in the cupholder before cranking up the engine and driving to meet with my best friend Colton at his family's cafe. As I pass the sign indicating I've reached the Nashville city limits, my thoughts drift to a brown-haired mess more prickly than an Arizona cactus.
Perhaps it's not just me who has built up walls so high no one can ever scale them.
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Will Zade and Faith meet again in better cirumstances?
Why do they attempt to hide from the world, each in their own way?
Comments are always appreciated.