Page 8 of In Love With the Leshy

If so, he’s camouflaged, like hunters who try to blend in with their environment, although this takes blending to a whole new level. Instead of hiding in the trees, he’s hiding as if he is a tree.

He stands almost seven feet tall, lean, with broad shoulders and hair comprised of long, green fronds, with either tiny branches or baby antlers poking out of his head. His eyebrows are either blades of grass or the smallest leaves I’ve ever seen. A short beard boasts baby fronds, and single, random leaves grow out on his arms. His lower half highlights brown, bark-like legs, too long and thick for the jeans he wears. His muscular calves show through the bottom of his tattered and torn pants.

“You’re not real,” I whisper.

“Of course I am. Do you honestly think you’re capable of drawing something as great and detailed as me from your imagination?” He doesn’t have lashes framing the bright green eyes pinned on me.

“Since you look like a tree version of Jason Momoa, I’d say yes. I know I’m not lucky enough for you to be real.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because I’d need a canyon of luck, and that’s not how my life goes. If I had any luck at all, I wouldn’t have ended up lost in this hell hole in the first place.”

“Maybe you are meant to be here because you are lucky.”

“Right, and my very own knight in tree armor has come to my rescue. Either that or you’ll do what the others couldn’t and end me.” The words spill out of my mouth without thought of consequence.

His chest shakes. The corners of his oddly shaped orbs crinkle, and a deep, rumbly sound takes the place of laughter. Or is thunder sounding in the distance?

“You’re funny.” I hear the slightest hint of an accent. I can’t make it out. Unless he’s . . . No! It can’t be.

“I am?”

“Yes.” He nods. “You are.”

“I. Amuse. You?” I point from myself to the apparition in front of me. Thinking this is the most incredible hallucinogenic vision ever. Without my realizing it, those assholes must have injected me with some crazy-ass drugs.

“Is it bad that you make me smile?” He looks curious.

“No.” I shrug. “People aren’t usually amused by me. Annoyed. Bored. But not amused.”

“Then you need to find new people with a better sense of humor. Or maybe forget people and find something better.”

“You can say that again.” I roll my eyes, thinking back to my last date. He rushed me through dinner, only to try and fast forward to dessert in the car. Story of my life. I replay the tree-man’s words in my mind. Maybe forget people and find something better. My brain hiccups. I shudder as the words sink in. Something better. Like him?

“What are you?” I whisper.

“First, tell me who Jason Momoa is?” He turns serious, crossing his arms over his broad chest.

“Aquaman, duh.”

His lips press into a line before turning down at the corners, and his brows pull together disapprovingly. Shit. I upset him or, worse, made him angry.

“Is he one of the men you came with?” I hear disapproval in his voice.

“God, no. Do you live under a rock? How do you not know who Jason Momoa is?”

“Not under a rock,” he answers seriously, “more like in a rock.”

I shake my head, dismissing his words before squinting my eyes to take a better look at his thick green locks. Those are leaves. It’s a wig. It has to be. No one grows fronds or leaves in place of hair.

“I didn’t come with them.” I don’t realize the volume of my voice is rising as I set the record straight. “They ran me off the road, shot at me, and chased me into the woods to rape, torture, and kill me, so no. I didn’t come with them for a nature walk.”

“You did show up here on purpose.”

“Yes, I was coming to the woods, but . . .” I groan. Why do I feel compelled to justify myself to a perfect stranger, key word being stranger, or an apparition? “Whatever,” I turn and give him my back. “I don’t need to explain anything. You’re not real.”

“Why don’t you believe what your eyes show you?” He says from so close behind me I feel his unfamiliar energy blanket my back. His warm breath tickles my ear like a gentle zephyr. My body covers in tiny bumps, and I shiver. Not from the cold, but from his proximity.

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