Page 34 of Israel

And that path led to sex and smooshy feelings and broken hearts. She’d told herself she was not going down that road.

But here she was, sitting on the back of his motorcycle wearing a too-big helmet, with her arms wrapped around those sexy abs, trying to resist the urge to grab onto the monster dick every time the bike leaned as they went around a corner.

And she didn’t even know where they were going.

It was a short ride, and then they were pulling up outside… “The Museum of Natural Wonders and Wildlife Art?” she said. “This is your idea of a date?”

He removed the helmet and ruffled her hair. “This isn’t a date,” he said. “Is it? I thought it was a sacred pilgrimage.”

She smoothed down her hair, smacking his hand away playfully. “Celebrity. Glamorous. Perfection,” she said. “You never know where there will be cameras.”

“Get over yourself, Diva,” he told her, grinning. “Everybody isn’t always looking at you.”

“Only because you’re blocking my light,” she said.

He shrugged, still grinning. “I can’t help it if I have giant muscles,” he said. “The better to eat…um, protect you with.”

Hot flash.

He paid the admission and they went inside. Ashley wanted to start with the first gallery, but Israel consulted the museum map, and then took her hand and pulled her to the far gallery on the first floor. “This is it,” he said.

The gallery was called “Myths and Legends of the American West.” There was a lifelike wax replica of Johnny Appleseed sowing orchards, an enormous Paul Bunyon with a blue ox, and…

A life-sized diorama of cowboys sitting around an unconvincing campfire made of faux logs and a flickering orange lightbulb. One held a guitar, and their mouths were open in a grotesque parody of singing. Just in case anyone thought they were screaming in pain, hokey cowboy songs were playing over a tinny sound system. Best of all, surrounding the cowboys were huge stuffed jackrabbits with spreading antlers grafted to their heads, some crouched artistically amidst the grass and tumbleweeds, others halfway out of their burrows. Their mouths were also open in song.

The sign read, “Jackalopes and Cowboys on the American Plains.”

“See?” Israel said, a wicked twinkle in his eyes. “It’s a sacred shrine to your people. I always knew they were real.”

Ashley sat down on a bench and laughed until she almost choked. “Oh my god, they’re fabulous. Look, that one looks like Max in How the Grinch Stole Christmas, with the antler tied to his head…” She went off into another peal of laughter.

And Israel just stood there, looking totally proud of himself, watching her laugh herself silly.

Once Ashley tore herself away (with difficulty) from the jackalopes, they went through the rest of the museum. Ashley had Israel take her picture next to Paul Bunyan’s blue ox, and then, after looking at some breathtakingly beautiful animal paintings and sculptures, dragged him into the gift shop and made him buy her a stuffed jackalope with a cowboy hat, that played the song “Cattle Call” when she wound it up.

They were getting to the last gallery when Ashley took a pit stop at the restroom. “Go ahead in,” she said to Israel. “I’ll meet you there.”

When he hesitated, she said, “The stalker’s not here. This place is practically empty, and Harrison’s the only one who even knew we were going anywhere. Go on.”

When she came out, she found him alone inside the gallery, surrounded by wolves. Like with the Myths and Legends gallery, there was a big, life-sized diorama, this one featuring a whole wolf pack playing, eating, snuggling and fighting.

The center of the gallery was dotted with wolf sculptures of all sizes, and on all the walls were photos and paintings of wolves, gray and brown and black and cream-colored. Ashley made her way slowly to where Israel was standing, studying the paintings, marveling at the intelligence in the eyes of these beautiful animals.

She suddenly wanted to see Israel in his wolf form, touch his fur, see his wild nature.

He was standing in front of a gorgeous painting of two wolves, one black and one white, lying on a hilltop. Behind them the night sky was luminous with the colors of the Northern Lights, but the two wolves had eyes only for each other. They lay close together, the white wolf’s muzzle tucked under the black wolf’s chin, his head curved protectively over hers.

The love emanating from the painting was unmistakable. As unmistakable as the yearning on Israel’s face as he looked at it.

“Hey,” she said softly, coming up next to him and touching his back. “There you are.”

“Here I am,” he said. He glanced over at her. “How does it feel, having wolves all around you?”

“A little nerve-racking for a bunny,” she said. “You must feel right at home, though.”

“Yeah,” he said. “Although, a real wolf pack is a lot louder.”

She laughed. “I can imagine.” She looked at the painting in front of them. It had a magical quality to it. “That’s a beautiful painting,” she said. “It captures such a sense of emotion. You can feel the love.”