you have my attention

Discord: callsigncole

Reading blog: @colereads​​

Bullshit Blog: @colerambles​

Instagram: @n.scole

Tiktok: @cole1191

Tips are appreciated.

Cashapp: $elocin831

Paypal: [email protected]

Venmo: cole1191

You have the navigation instincts of...well, what’s the animal with the worst navigation? Whatever that is, yours is worse. And you wandered far off the aforementioned path and got lost in the woods. Like Kristoff, minus the cool song and reindeer.

Something about the man in the black slacks and fitted white dress shirt screams “I don’t get lost; I’m precisely where I intend to be.” It should terrify you. It kind of did, which is why you are standing as still as a statue watching the material stretch over the broad shoulders as he dug. 

You suppose you have shoddy survival instincts as well.

Something about that thought makes you want to laugh but you suppress the giggle and quietly snort. The man stops what he’s doing and stands straight up, his head beginning to twist and turn as he tries to find something. It takes you a second to realize he’s looking for you and your heart gets lodged in your throat, pounding away like ritual drums and drowning out any sounds with the rumble of blood wooshing through your ears.

“Who’s there?” He calls. 

His accent is a surprise. Nothing about him screamed ‘British’ until he spoke. He turns around and you get a glimpse of him from the front and suddenly, your pulse is not the only thing throbbing. 

Crimson is spattered across the otherwise pristine, white cotton in a configuration too perfect to be print. The drops and sprays line up exactly as if he were splashed with paint. Of course, you realize, it’s not paint. Paint doesn’t absorb the way these spots have.

It’s blood.

Your brain catches you up and starts screaming in your ear to run. There is a man covered in blood in the middle of the woods digging a hole. A dead body can’t be far away.

But your feet remained firmly planted, your gaze focused on his thin, muscular frame as you peer at him between the trees. The more you stare, the more you start to make excuses because this man is attractive. 

His dark hair, his dark eyes. The stoicism in his face. The power in his shoulders and the dexterity in his hands. You’re so busy admiring him that you almost don’t notice when he plants the shovel in the ground with one, swift motion and stalks your direction.

Your survival instincts take over and you quickly start heading back the way you came, tracking away from the man that is likely going to kill you if he finds you. 

Your only concern is making it back to a more populated area – hopefully the path – before he catches up. Unfortunately, you underestimated him.

An arm wraps around your chest and presses your back into something hard and warm at the same time a hand clamps down over your mouth, muffling the instinctual scream that tries to escape your lips.

“Oh, what do we have here?” His British accent coos in your ear. “Now, love, don’t struggle. I’m not going to hurt you.”

He loosens his grip and slowly moves to your front, removing his hand from your mouth. 

“See?” His hands are empty, except for a little dirt, and his eyes – brown, you notice – are light and curious. A smile plays on his thin lips, something more akin to curiosity than amusement evident in the slight tilt of his head.

“I didn’t see anything,” you rush out quickly.

“Oh, I know you didn’t,” he shrugs, “because there’s nothing to see. Just me with a shovel in the forest.”

“With blood on your shirt,” you add before you think better of it and clamp your lips shut.

“That isn’t evidence of wrongdoing, though,” he points out, his slight smile widening to a lopsided grin. “But what is a lovely darling like you doing this far into the forest?”

“Running.”

“Yes, I quite noticed that. But before that?”

“I was running. On the path,” you explain, “but I got a little lost.”

“Terrible,” he hums. “The only thing to do is lead you back to the path, then, love.” 

He steps to the side and gestures you to follow him.

“That’s it? You lead me back to the path and then what?” You question as you take steps behind him.

“Nothing comes after. Why do you Americans always expect someone is going to kill you?” He looks over his shoulder and you deadpan him, raising your eyebrows as if to call out his obvious bullshit. “Okay, strange man in the woods with a bloody shirt and shovel, I can kind of see it. But, really. I don’t even have a weapon on me.”

“Don’t need one. Plenty of ways to kill someone without a weapon,” you point out. Once again, you regret your quick wit and smart mouth until you hear him laugh.

“You sound like you’ve got some knowledge in that area. Tell me, love, are you a killer? You hardly seem the type,” he teases as the trees thin, the path coming into view in the distance.

“Tell me, love,” you repeat, “would you admit to being a killer if asked by a stranger leading you out of the woods?”

“You’ve got me again,” he notes as he stops. 

It doesn’t escape your notice that he’s paused behind a large tree that shields him from the path. You take a few steps to the side of the tree to make sure you’re visible before turning to face him again. “Thank you for taking me back to the trail.”

“If I may be so bold,” he starts as he reaches a hand in his pocket.

You tense up and prepare to bolt to the path when he pulls out his hand, a small card tucked into his fingers. 

“You are a remarkable person from what I’ve seen and I’d like to offer the invitation of having a chat over coffee or drinks one evening. My number is on here,” he explains as he hands over a card with his name, email, and cell phone number, “if you’d like to take me up on it. If not, we can forget this ever happened.”

You smile as you take the card from his outstretched hand and look down at it. “I’ll think about it, Buck.”

He nods at you before heading back the way you came, into the denser part of the forest that hides his questionable actions. As he disappears from view, you look down at his card again and grin.