2020-03-27 - Running into Trouble

Spring has sprung! Which, in the forest, means things are slow to dry, leaving the trails muddier than they would have been a few weeks ago. Not unmanageably so, though, judging by the footfalls making their way along a trail just outside town. Ten footfalls, specifically, Garrett jogging along in gray sweats and a white t-shirt reading 'Everything is Awful' in orange letters, a leashed dog on either wrist. To his left, what is clearly a German shepherd. To the right, a mastiff of some sort that seems to be too leggy to be an adult. The latter occasionally tries tugging his human into the woods, the former running cooperatively at Garrett's side.

Running at a good pace for the slippery mud and the uneven trail in the direction approaching a sweats-clad ranger and his two dogs, Hazel slows when she hears him and far before she sees him. She's wearing a good pair of trail shoes that are splattered with mud, stretchy grey leggings and a darker grey tee shirt a size too large that reads 'I like running and maybe three people'.

By the time Garrett rounds the nearest bend in the greening spring forest, Hazel is standing to one side of the trail with her hands on her hips, breathing heavily, two spots of color high on her cheeks. Her chestnut hair is pulled back into an easy ponytail. Only a few tendrils have escaped to cling damply to the side of her face and neck over the course of her run. Those brown eyes are alert and her posture suggests some measure of wariness. She's wearing a small backpack that could likely hold a bottle of water and a few other emergency items that one should have when trail running.

Garrett slows as he rounds the bend and sees someone standing to the side of the trail, giving the mastiff a bit of a tug to get him closer. "'ey," he greets, sounding slightly breathless from his own running, flashing a smile as he walks past to prevent splattering an innocent bystander with extra, unnecessary mud. "Nice of the trail to finally start clearing up, yeah?" The London accent is hard to miss, but even harder to miss is the mastiff eagerly trying to come say hi to the new person.

Hazel nods faintly in response to Garrett's greeting, her gaze flickering over the two sizable dogs and then from head to foot and back again over Garrett himself. "Good morning." The words are quiet but audible, pleasant yet not really in the realm of cheery. Maybe it's the dogs. What devious-minded man wanders a trail looking for victims with two dogs in tow? Maybe. Maybe if the dogs looked aggressive, but they really don't.

Hazel's breathing is quickly returning to normal: the sign of a regular runner. "I don't know. It's pretty nice in worse weather knowing it's just yourself and nature. But I suppose I shouldn't be selfish." Those brown eyes threaten a smile that never quite manifests.

"There is that," Garrett concedes of the benefits of presumed isolation in poor-weather running. "Surprised I haven't run across you before out here if you're a regular," he comments, giving the stranger a moment of consideration and apparently deciding to stop rather than walk and talk at the same time. Several paces away, far enough that the leashes of his companions won't be long enough to allow for unwelcome kisses, he comes to a halt, offering another small smile. "I'm Garrett.....?" he offers, trailing off to a hint of a question, half-smile still pulling, albeit hesitantly, at the corner of his mouth.

If there's any mood Hazel gives off, it's one of watchful caution. But there are hints. Hints that her wary demeanor is relaxing minutely, bit by bit. For someone perceptive, it's there to see first in her eyes. It follows in her shoulders, but only when she has relaxed them does it become apparent that they were tense, a tight line across the top of her body. So, relaxing shoulders. Her hands drop from her hips and slowly flex and then close loosely once more. "Yeah. I tend to mix up when I run. I like being unpredictable." Take that for what it's worth. "Is this your usual time?" She shifts her weight to one hip, flickering a glance to the closer of the two dogs and back up to the strangely unassuming and not over-the-top friendly man. "Are you sure?" Deadpan, but the words could be teasing.

Garrett watches as tension gradually eases up in the stranger's demeanor, smile growing. Somewhat. "Well, I /was/ sure up until someone started questioning it," Garrett responds. His wrist gives the sporadic gentle tug at the clearly eager mastiff tryi g to say hello despite Garrett's clear intentions of not letting him do anything of the sort. "But no, I don't really have a normal time. More of a 'when I get a free hour', you know?" A small, noncommittal shrug accompanies the answer. "How about you? Usually a morning person?" he inquires before giving the mastiff a Look. "Wishbone. Sit." The command is given sternly enough that the dog stops his eager pant-smiling for a moment to look back at Garrett before he does, in fact, sit, tail thumping the muddy ground as he looks back at Hazel and resumes his pant-smiling.

The German shepherd, for his part, has already decided sitting is a splendid idea and parked himself as Garrett's side.

Garrett doesn't seem too friendly. Nor does he seem suspicious. And Hazel will always revert to suspicion if there is the slightest bit of call for it. Again, it's the dogs. The young woman's gaze drops from that smile, a sketch of his body language, then to the closer, leggy mastiff. Wishbone. The name is so incongruous. "Now you find that you might be a Mark or a Paul or maybe a Vincent, and not a Garrett?" She seems to address the dog at that, as if querying it about its owners name. She goes on to tell the dog, "I'm Hazel."

Is she a morning person? "I'm definitely a morning person. People start wanting coffee crazy early." Whatever that means. "What do you do that makes you take an hour where you can get one? Are you a doctor?" Her attention slides back up over Garrett with that same unassuming yet assessing quality. "An emergency plumber?" There might just be a hint of a smile now, and heck if it doesn't warm those brown eyes considerably. "No, I've got it: a private detective." Hazel seems to catch herself. "Look at me. I'm keeping your dogs from their run. Please don't let them suffer to be polite to a strange barista in the forest."

"I'm still fairly sure I'm Garrett, but I'll now be marginally less surprised if I wake up and find I've been a Jacob all along," Garrett replies, following Hazel's gaze down to Wishbone. "You can say hello if you'd like. He's harmless, if a bit rambunctious sometimes," he offers, nodding at Wishbone.

The job suggestions get a curious look, but each one is met with a faint shake of his head. "Park Ranger up at Olympic," he answers, pointing vaguely northward and returning her smile. The offer/suggestion that he continue his run gets a shrug. "I can get out of your hair and let you cool down and whatnot if you want, yeah. Strange men accosting you probably isn't the ideal morning run," he agrees, making a little clicking noise that gets Wishbone to come all of an inch closer to his human, who in turn gives an amused, exasperated eyeroll. "C'mon, pup."

"It's good to be certain of things, I've found," Hazel replies. "At least as certain as possible." Garrett reveals his occupation and it looks as though it startles the young woman. "Park Ranger. Does that job demand you at all hours? Now you've got me curious. It's the ornery fiddlehead ferns, isn't it?" A glance to Wishbone, "Nice to meet you, Wishbone," she says as if addressing a person instead of a dog. She'd likely shake the dog's paw if she'd already crossed the path between them to do so with Garrett. But she's still holding her side of the forest up, as it were. "He seems pretty well behaved, if you ask me." The oblique joke is that she appears to be telling Wishbone that about Garrett.

Garrett speaks almost uncomfortably directly to Hazel's initial concern. "It's true. I'm pretty damn allergic to being accosted. I tend to get my elbows, knees, fingers and such in all the painful places." Now she smiles? It's a revelation of an expression. Entirely different from her neutral demeanor. But gone so quickly, like the sun on a cloudy day. The man seems to be preparing to go, though. Hazel frowns faintly, but doesn't stop him. "I was nearly through," she answers quietly. Almost too quietly. They're no further than a three quarters of a mile from the nearest pull out used for parking when using the trails.

"It can. Depends on the day, if I end up stuck working on a project longer than expected, all that," Garrett explains with a shrug. Wishbone, being addressed by Hazel once more, promptly disregards his human and goes back to looking at the woman and tugging slightly at Garrett who continues to stubbornly keep him away.

" Hmm, who knew accosting caused such similar reactions on both sides. I hear accosters get really bad cases of knees in unfortunate places," Garrett muses lightly. "...generally, not when accosting you specifically. I've only just met you," he clarifies before glancing up the trail. "If you'd like some company heading back towards the car park, Wishbone seems terribly eager to go with you. Means your stuck with me for a bit longer, though. Can't be sending my dog off with strangers, you know," he offers with just a hint of teasing, head cocked to the side as he gives her a moment to consider.

Depends on the day? "Maybe sometime you'll come in to the shop and I'll buy you a cup of coffee and you can tell me about Ranger emergencies," Hazel suggests slowly, as if not quite certain she should be making the offer in the first place. "They sound interesting. And I have a vested interest in the forests around here, you see." Because that covers her tracks and sounds less like an invitation. Right?

The agreement about the fate of accosters tips a hint of that brief smile back to Hazel's lips. "That they do. Preferably with dire results. Lots of pain and suffering. You know the kind." Not quite the threat it could be when accompanied by the smile.

Would she like company? "But weren't you just getting started with your run?" She glances to the direction she just came from and back to Garrett. But it's because of Wishbone. She steps one pace forward and back onto the trail, extending a hand palm up, still two paces from the mastiff. "May I?" she asks in reference to offering Garrett's dog her hand to smell. "Wishbone," she tells it. "You have such an unfortunate name. You're much more a Meriwether or a Darwin. I'll call you Meriwether, okay?" She's not asking for Garrett's approval. "Okay, I mean, if Meriwether wants to go west, it doesn't look like you have many more months before you're going to have to either be very persuasive or just go with his flow." She starts walking, expecting the man with the dogs to join her.

"And where do you perform your barista duties, if I found myself inclined to take you up on your offer?" Garrett inquires. "I'd be happy to tell you about ranger duties, though I suspect it will be less entertaining than you might be hoping," he 'warns' with a grin.

The request to finally give Wishbone the attention he's been craving is met with a small nod. "Go ahead," he says, easing up slightly on the mastiff, letting him take a half-step forward to sniff and immediately lick the outstretched hand. "To be fair, I didn't name him, a friend did," he clarifies as the two get acquainted, smiling. "West it is," he agrees, turning to walk with Wishbone Meriwether between them. "This is Zeus," he adds, introducing the second, much more mild-mannered dog.

After a moment, Hazel names the coffee place in Gray Harbor where she baristas just about as many hours as she can get them to give her. Espresso Yourself! "Do you live in Gray Harbor?" she asks as they walk. She shakes her head, "I think that you think it's less entertaining because you do it every day." A beat, she glances over at Garrett. "How long have you been doing the job, anyway?"

Hazel doesn't show any aversion to being smelled, licked, or nosed by Garrett's nearer dog. "Likely story," she murmurs conspiratorially to Wishbone. "Meriwether here puts up with it, so there's that." Zeus is introduced. "Zeus. Now /that/ name fits your stoic, German friend. Hello, Zeus." If anything, her conversing with the dogs is positively friendly, only a glimpse of which is seen in her slightly more formal conversation with Garrett. "So what else do you do besides wander trails for work and pleasure, contemplate the truth of your name, and range the parks of the Pacific Northwest?" She keeps to her side of the path. The mastiff between them helps with this effort.

"Ah, I've been in there a few times, won't have to twist my arm to get me there again, I suspect," Garrett says, nodding along with the explanation. "And you might be right. Novel to you, routine to me, et cetera," he agrees. "Started there the same time I moved to town here, this past July. You're running and work here, so presumably also a local?" he ventures. He smiles as well, though it's hard to be certain if it's because of the conversation itself, or her apparent getting along with his canine companions.

" Oh, I keep the schedule pretty busy with those, but when I find an abundance of free time, music. Play guitar, sing a bit, play bass in Lowered Expectations, brave karaoke once in a great while." He pauses to breathe, clearing his throat. "Yourself? Hobbies when you're not selling coffee to morning people and enjoying the quiet of the forest?"

Hazel offers a nod to the trail at large at Garrett's statement about knowing the coffee place. Her tee shirt clings to her sweaty skin. While walking at a leisurely pace, Hazel traces two fingertips down 'Meriwether's' furry back. "You're getting it now." Routine to him. "No, I'm not really a local. Grew up in Seattle. Moved to the Harbor this September. I do a lot of working. I run in my spare time. There's not a lot of time left over after that." There's something about Garrett. The cautious woman lets more information slide than she might typically.

His abundance of free time. "You play the guitar and sing?" Garrett actually earns himself another of those assessing looks. Karaoke? That triggers a hint of a grin that's gone before he sees it unless he's looking back at her. "So if you were at karaoke right now, what would you be singing?" This is a test. This is only a test. Hobbies? She pretty much just told the man she doesn't have much of a life. "Aside from running? I mean I love running enough to spend the bulk of my free time doing it. I guess I spend some time thrifting. And I --" She pauses as if trying to decide whether to share the next bit. She must decide yes. "-- I like to draw."

"Well, Seattle is more local than I am," Garrett points out, playing up the London accent just a touch. The fingertips down Meriwishbone's back get a noticeable increase in tail wags from the mastiff. "More guitar than sing, but yeah," he confirms with a nod. "And if we were at karaoke right now, I'd sing Ben Franklin's Song," he answers without any hesitation, something about his own answer making him laugh quietly to himself. Genuine interest ignites in his eyes at the latter answer that is hesitantly given. "Oh? What do you like to draw?" he asks, watching his new acquaintance with curiosity.

Hazel's gaze only flickers back to the path to make sure she doesn't trip over a rock or something before returning to Garrett. "So the accent is real?" The light behind those brown eyes could be teasing. It's hard to say. "Why'd you come to Gray Harbor from somewhere British?" Of all the places in the world she could be if she had the means, Hazel doesn't think she'd choose the Harbor. "Meriwether," Hazel pauses to say to the mastiff, "You're good people."

It's a handful more steps before the song choice sinks in. "Ben Franklin's Song?" She considers Garrett. "That's gotta be either School House Rock or Hamilton." Hazel makes her own guess about which it might be. "Maybe you should sing some of it for me." Was that a dare? While he thinks on the challenge, she answers, "Anything really, but I find people interesting. Their hands. Their eyes. The asymmetry of their faces. The way they hold their bodies."

"Indeed it is. Longer story than I much feel like telling just now, but came here via Minnesota, if that helps at all; wasn't a direct transfer," Garrett offers, smiling at her assessment of his dog, the dog also looking pleased by, if not the words themselves, the tone in which they're delivered.

"No, it's the Decemberists," Garrett counters, looking teasing and triumphant, pausing for a beat. "...after Lin-Manuel Miranda decided not to use it in Hamilton and asked them to write music for it," he admits with a chuckle. "Oh should I?" he asks, an eyebrow arching upwards, not immediately responding further than that the to the challenge. The preference for people gets a nod that seems understanding, though. "Makes sense. Each person is different. Hell, the same person on a different day is different," he muses. "...you're not easily offended by swearing, are you? Because I will absolutely sing."

Hazel's steps slow just perceptibly, though she keeps moving. Somewhere British via Minnesota. She'll settle for that. There might even be something reassuring about that. Or the way it's said. "Maybe over that cup of coffee," she allows. Yes, she definitely likes Meriwether. Zeus isn't bad either. He just happened to be on the wrong side of Garrett to get the closer scrutiny.

"The Decemberists?" Now Hazel is intrigued. "They wrote a Ben Franklin song. For Lin-Manuel Miranda.." A beat. "Oh, you definitely should," she parses in echo of his query. She nods about nuances and differences. "The only thing that offends me, Garrett whatever-your-fancy-last-name-is, is strange men in my face." Oddly specific. Apparently he's either not strange, or he's not in her face. "So no. Swearing is fine. And you absolutely will." A bit of that smile emerges for a few moments, lingers even, then is gone.

"Over the coffee seems fair," Garrett reasons with another little nod and half-smile. His eyes light up at the apparent recognition when he mentions the Decemberists. "You know the Decemberists!?" He beams, then laughs at himself. "You're from Seattle, suppose that makes sense. Sorry, most people back home don't have a clue," he explains, clearing his throat, faint embarrassment at his fanboy moment. "But yes, they did. And I'll be sure to stay well away and out of your face," he assures with an overly-solemn nod. A brief pause, a deep breath, and then he's singing with comfort and confidence,
"Electricity, you can all thank me...."

"Coffee always is fair. It's just the nature of the bean," Hazel replies mildly. His energy when she recognizes the group teases another smile from the woman who tends to keep to herself. "I mean I know of them. I wouldn't say I'm incredibly familiar. But maybe you'll convince me to listen to some. No pressure." All the pressure.

She nods in agreement that being from Seattle and of a certain generation suggests one should at least be familiar with the Decemberists. "Back home in Minnesota? Or back home somewhere-more-continental-and-mysterious?" Hazel lifts a hand to brush the hair clinging to the side of her face back and away around behind her ear. That embarrassment? That draws another long glance. "Oh, I don't think you're going to have a problem staying out of my face. You're really not giving off the assault-and-misogyny vibe. So if that's what you're going for, you're doing a really shitty job. I'm just saying."

The man actually starts singing. Definitely a performer. She can tell from the first handful of notes that drift up into the temperate rainforest canopy. There are bits of the song where the barista laughs. Bits that repeat where she waves a finger back and forth. And here and there she nods her head encouragingly.

Garrett is smiling and pleased with himself when the song ends. And he does sing the whole thing. "Not the standard example of the Decemberists, but still has their sort of vibe," he says, taking a few deep breaths. "And Minnesota home, not London home," he clarifies. "I suspect they have more of a following in London than Minneapolis, but that's just a guess. I didn't really hear of them until after I was on this side of the pond, though, so can't be sure."

Another arched eyebrow. "Well. Good to know. Assault and misogyny are kind of the opposite of what I'm going for pretty much always, so yeah, call this another win," he decides. "So, Hazel the barista, what brought you here from Seattle? Seems like... not the move most people would make." Pause. "Not that you're the only person I know that's done such. Maybe it's more common than I realize."

"Well, tell me a couple Decemberist songs and I'll listen to them between now and whenever you may or may not show up at the shop." Hazel stops walking and shrugs out of her backpack in order to dig into it and pull out her cell phone. While she's at it, she tugs out a hydroflask and takes a long drink, then stuffs it away, zips up the pack and pulls it back on. Tap taptap tappitytappytap. She goes through several screens, then looks up expectantly. If he does indeed name some songs, she notes them for memory in her phone.

Once that is done, she simply holds her phone in her left hand and pets Meriwether, who stands nicely between herself and Garrett, with her right hand. Perhaps the conversation is interesting enough to stop walking for a bit. Perhaps petting a dog and tapping info into her phone is enough for Hazel. Who can say? Her demeanor is more open now than it was before they started walking. Maybe even edging toward friendly.

"Minnesota home, not London home. Check." Assault and misogyny are not what he's going for? Hazel laughs. And for a few moments it's a lovely sound to hear, warm and contagious. "What brought me here from the Emerald City? I suppose my answer is a lot like yours. A long story that's probably best for another time. Suffice it to say that I think there's nothing wrong with a little running away in some situations. Gray Harbor is a great place to disappear to when you don't have any money and you can't go far, but it needs to be far enough, you know?"

Hazel nods in agreement. "I'm working under that assumption, yes." That it's not the move most people would make. He knows other people who have done something similar? Her brows tip up. "I suppose people coming and going is a thing that happens. It's probably just more noticable in a small town." She tips her head to one side and measures the man who stands a good five inches taller than she does, waiting to see whether he agrees or not.

"Songs. Yes. Absolutely. July, July definitely. Um." Garrett takes a moment to consider, then he's off to the races. "The entire Hazards of Love album, which is obviously more than one song, but concept albums are gonna concept. Rocks in the Box. June Hymn. January Hymn. Rusalka, Rusalka." After the initial pause, the rest comes in a rush before he stops himself. "...that's probably a good enough start," he decides, grinning.

He also makes no effort to continue walking when Hazel's pause for backpack digging lingers into a full stop. "That's fair. And now I won't feel like I'm being interviewed when I spill my story," he adds. "Huzzah for fringe benefits." A little nod at the 'just far enough' reasoning for Gray Harbor, and no further prying, lest he ruin the hypothetical coffee conversation.

"Could be, probably, yeah. My first small town experience, so I don't have others to really compare to," he muses, then pauses. "Not that I suppose you really do, either, coming from Seattle," he adds, returning Hazel's gaze and offering a small smile.

It's easy at first. July. Then Garrett braindumps and Hazel just ends up staring at him. "Yeah, Garrett. That's definitely a start." Hazel looks back to her phone and taps in what she can remember. She shakes her head slowly, quelling a smirk.

Being interviewed? "Nah. I'm not going to look for an audience for your deepest, darkest secrets. It's bad for business." Barista-ing? But Hazel does give off the impression of someone who keeps her own counsel. "Think of me like a bartender, but one who serves caffeine. I'm a pretty good listener."

Garrett calls Gray Harbor and its secrets a fringe benefit and she accidentally laughs again, her eyes sparkling. Catching herself midway through she clears her throat and glances off into the trees on the other side of the trail, fingertips stilling atop Meriwether's back. The ranger starts talking again and Hazel drags her gaze back around to him, solemn but open. "And what's your verdict so far?" Of the small town experience. His smile tips her gaze down to his mouth and then back up to his eyes and she offers a small smile in return.

Garrett has the good grace to look at least a little abashed after his possibly excessive suggested listening list. A little. There's a hint of approval in his expression when he sees the suggestions actually being recorded, though, smile widening slightly.

"Like a bartender, hm? Where everybody knows my name?" he inquires playfully. "But I can't complain too much about the small town experience. Most of the people I've met so far have all been pretty decent sorts, best I can tell," he assesses with a pointed look and deliberate widening of his smile directed at Hazel.

It is possible that Hazel will listen to some of those songs. Definitely possible. As for the Cheers reference? "You really don't look like a 'Norm' to me, Garrett. I'm sorry. Best you could do would be Frasier. But a spinoff is a lot of work. And you'd have to marry Lilith." The girl knows a sitcom from more than a decade before she was born. What does that say? "I suppose if you came in for coffee every day, we could talk about everybody knowing your name after a few months." Hazel leans her hip into the massive dog's side and pets a bit more. "I feel a little guilty for keeping you from running, this morning. And these two, too." Pat pat.

Garrett blinks a few times. His surface reference was clearly run with a bit further than he's ready to keep up with. "Right. Well. You win this round," he informs her, because there is apparently a scoreboard being kept somewhere. Daily visits for a few months get yet another raised eyebrow. "Running that low on regulars, are we?" he teases with a grin, reaching down and giving each canine a little scritch behind their ears. "They're alright with it, I think. They got to meet a new person and still got their walk in," he says, shrugging, clearly not overly concerned. "And I'll call meting a friendly face a fair trade for a run, so all in all, solid start to the day. For me, at least."

Hazel's brows tip upward and then she smiles and the expression remains a bit longer after she's proclaimed winner. "We're not so low on regulars. I just remember faces pretty well. So how do you take your caffeine?" She's serious. "I think you're the first person in the Harbor to call me a friendly face, Garrett. Now you're stuck with it. Even if I'm bitchy and morose." She nods slowly as if that were her usual. "You're definitely a pragmatist. And it might be edging into the optimist category. But I'll take that under advisement until I hear more of your story." When they reach the place that widens to the parking area that's just barely enough for six or eight cars along the side of the road, Hazel's is the only other one there aside from whatever Garrett drove. And it's in sad, sad shape. A light blue Honda Civic from sometime in the eighties that looks like it is ready to give up the ghost any second. Or maybe it already has. Without pulling her backpack off, Hazel reaches back up to a side, mesh pocket and extracts a keyring from there with only a few keys. "Are you still going to run?" She transfers the keys to the hand still holding her phone.

"Hot, mostly, but occasionally iced and usually with more milk and sugar than Manly Men (and one can almost hear him capitalize it) are supposed to," Garrett answers of his caffeine intake, then gives Hazel a touch of side-eye. "I said most. Maybe you're the exception," he 'warns', but does an awful job of keeping from grinning, so just gives up trying. "You didn't run from or mace the strange man with two big dogs in the woods. These days we'll call that friendly, even if your face wasn't actually friendly. Which it has been definitely been working its way towards," he tells her. His own vehicle is newer.... but only because of the vehicle it's being compared to. His Wrangler is probably early-mid 2000s, 15 years old. if one is being kind with their estimate, and the rust around the fenders speaks of years of experience with salted roads in winter. "No, I don't think I will. Already back at the car now, seems silly to go right back out to the woods," he answers. "Anything exciting on the dance card the rest of the day?"

"So you're a drip-man, hmm? You know, the kind of coffee a person drinks is a huge tell." Hazel is laughing again by the time he talks about the cream and sugar, her words ringing even more true. "Oh, Garrett," she begins sounding like a southern 'bless your heart'. "There is pepper spray. And it's in reach. Just because you didn't see it doesn't mean you were safe from its wrathful scourge." She arches a brow at the underestimation. "Personal safety is my religion." The last bit is utterly serious. What has this girl been through to talk like that?

"As for running, I believe I was doing that right before we met. And really, any time is a good time for more running." A beat. A challenge. "Think you could catch me?" Those words are a bit more playful, but still edge on serious. He thinks it would be silly to go back into the woods. Hazel briefly looks at him as if he'd said something insane. But the look is as fleeting as the rest. She looks to the Jeep. "That's a good car for a ranger to have," she observes.

Dance card? Yes. The Brit just asked about her dance card. There's that sparkle in her brown eyes again. "I have a gavotte, three waltzes and a minuet so far. But then it's all krumping from there." Her words are warm with laughter she doesn't let escape. "Seriously? You're serious. Ah ...my day..." She thinks for a moment. "I have to pick up some groceries. I was thinking about grabbing a movie, but my dvd player is being stubborn. So that'd be a gamble. Then there's laundry..." She arches a brow again. "My life is about as exciting as the Harbor is, I'm sad to say." She doesn't sound sad.

"You didn't reach for it yet, though, so my assessment of friendliness stands," Garrett counters lightly. The bag gets a brief glance, presumably where the pepper spray resides, but he doesn't appear overly threatened. Surely he'd have been sprayed by now if he was going to be. "And what, might I ask, does my coffee say about me?" he asks, curious, head tilted to the side.

"...I don't know. I'm very curious to find out, but I'm not sure the dogs would be a help or a hindrance in this case," he adds, clearly considering the possibility of a woodlands pursuit. "You also did more running than I before we crossed paths. We can both start fresh another time if you want, though? A little friendly competition never hurt anyone, yeah?" he offers. The dance card response gets a small, understanding nod. "Such is life in a small town, I hear. You ever find yourself over on Elm and in need of a more reliable means of watching something, I /think/ I have enough of a bead on you to be fairly sure inviting you over to hang out won't end in my own grisly demise."

She didn't reach for it yet? "I find that it's better to start with nails and knees and then add the pepper spray when the assailant is distracted. If you're not afraid of a little collateral spray, close up is pretty effective." Hazel may have softened up a bit, but she's dead serious about offensive self-defense. As for his coffee fortune? "Well, some bits hinge upon the way you actually drink it. And I don't give away my insights to just anyone I meet on the trail. And walk with. And name their dogs. And see their license plate."

Phone and keys in one hand, she places both hands on her hips once more like she did when he first rounded the bend. "I think with the dogs it would depend on whether you let them run free or not. I don't think I could outrun them. At least not Zeus here. Meriwether? I think maybe he'd give me a ride." Hazel is in danger of sounding positively playful with that comment. Is she interested in a friendly competition? "Sure. Let's run sometime. We just have to come to an understanding about how we treat offensive, gropey men along the way."

"Sure. Next time I'm on Elm I'll systematically go knocking on doors looking for someone to help me with my compass." Yes, Hazel does like her sarcasm. "Ah, Garrett. I see I have much to teach you about leaning too heavily on your first impressions. And I think I might be insulted by your lack of concern about my potential abilities and desire to mess you up." She lifts the hand not holding the phone and keys from her hip to wave her palm in the air in a six-of-one/half-dozen-of-the-other sort of motion. "On the other hand, being underestimated could be a good thing, I suppose."

"Proactive self defense is the best kind," Garrett agrees with a nod, still not seeming overly concerned for his own personal safety. A soft chuckle at not giving away coffee secrets and a small nod of acquiescence before he glances at the dogs. "I don't know, Wishbone will trip on his own paws if he gets distracted, I'd wait for him to grow into his legs a bit before riding him into battle. Maybe I'll just leave the dogs whenever we decide it's race time," he suggests.

"I don't know, my first impressions usually turn out pretty well. To be fir, in absolutely leaning into the lack of a desire to murder me, not a lack of capability. It's the soft-spoken pretty ones that get you," he says. "I've watched enough Criminal Minds to know this is a fact," he adds with a grin. "As for door-to-door... maybe not the most efficient, but whatever works for you," he responds. with a grin.

He agrees, at least, with the serious bits. We'll add that to the scoreboard in his favor. "Riding him into battle. Why does that sound so good?" Hazel breathes in a slow sigh. "Sure. Leave them if you like. How far do you run on an average day?" It may be that the key to Hazel (aside from not setting off one of her many triggers) is to challenge her.

"You have a knack, do you? Then tell me what you read from me, Garrett Windsor, or whatever your name is." She arches brows and lifts her arms to fold across her chest. Bring it.

Oh-ho. He goes for the tell-her-she's-pretty angle. "Really, Garrett? I'm soft-spoken. And pretty?" She shakes her head. "You could have at least thrown in some Briticisms to give it some magic to go with that pretty accent of yours." She tsks softly, her brown-eyed gaze fairly vibrant now. "Yeah, no. Probably not going to go door to door. I suppose we'll have to wait on fate and the odds of randomly ending up at the same trailhead at the same time on the same day for that little competition." The edge to Hazel isn't one that gains her many friends.

"Depends on the day, really. Two miles on a short day, five or six of I'm feeling particularly motivated. Close to four is probably average, if my schedule were regular enough for average to mean much," Garrett answers. His smile fades, not completely, but enough, as he considers the challenging posture, arms folded, and his own brow furrows.
"
"Haven't decided on the details besides 'probably one of the good ones'," he eventually settles on with a small shrug. "And I don't at all blame you for skipping making rounds on Elm hoping for the best, though I might suggest maybe we just add maybe scheduling a run to our coffee itinerary instead of trusting to the fates?" he counters. "So I know when to leave these two behind," he adds. "But yes, you are. Well, were, anyways. Slightly less soft-spoken than, say, when we crossed paths back there, but that's understandable. Strange men in the woods and all that." He gives a small shrug .

The talk turns back to running and Hazel relaxes on the heels of several steadying breaths. "We'll be a good match then. I tend toward a bit farther, but a fast four miles isn't out of the question." She runs hot and cold. It certainly could be off-putting. Calling her 'one of the good ones' has an entirely different impact than the direct compliments. "I think you have it backward, Garrett. You're probably the good one. I'm the angry one who doesn't do relaxed very well." She unfolds her arms and reaches out to not quite pat the man's upper arm. She at least stirs the air beside it.

As for scheduling something when he visits the coffee shop she nods. "I'll see you some morning, then. Or afternoon." She looks down at Meriwether-Wishbone. "You keep on doing this whole dog thing, Meriwether. It's totally working for you." Strange men in the woods. He's so right. Strange men, period. For a long moment Hazel looks back up at the friendly, pleasant, charming man who walked her out of the forest. It looks as though she's about to say something. But the seconds just stretch out. "Cheerio, Garrett." And she heads for her car. Not even Hazel knows if it will start, but she walks to it with all the bravado necessary to make him think she does.