Page 3 of Owned In Misty Mountain

Now it’s not even close.

I press my back to the wall and stare at the space where he was just standing. That towering frame. Those rough hands. The way he said“It’s Mike”like he was daring me to call him that.

And those eyes.

God, those eyes.

As soon as the door shuts behind him, I sag against the nearest bookshelf like it might hold me up.

It doesn’t.

Nothing could.

I force myself to move, my shoes making soft taps against the floor as I walk back toward the circulation desk. My skin stillfeels too warm. My throat too tight.

This is fine. I’m fine.

He’s just my uncle’s best friend. A family friend. Practically an uncle.

A grumpy, broad-shouldered, completely unfairly hot uncle.

Stop it.

I drop the clipboard onto the desk and sink into my chair, tugging my cardigan tight around me like that’s going to help with the heat pooling between my thighs.

Mike Costa just walked into my library like he wasn’t a walking, talking reminder of every dirty thought I’ve ever had in my life.

He’s… bigger.

That’s the first thing that hits me.

Tall enough that I had to tilt my head back to meet his eyes.

Broad enough that he filled the entire doorway, like the building had to stretch around him to let him in.

And his shoulders? Jesus.

Wide. Solid.

That black thermal shirt he wore clung to him in all the worst—or best—ways. It stretched across his thick chest and hugged arms that looked like they could bench-press a tree.

His biceps flexed with the smallest movement.

His forearms were roped with muscle, tanned and dusted with just the right amount of hair.

And his hands…

Big. Calloused. Veined.

The kind of hands that could break things—or hold you down and ruin you slowly.

I press my thighs together and pretend I’m not doing it.

His beard is fuller now. A little darker, flecked with silver that only makes him hotter.

There’s a scar above his right brow I don’t remember from years ago, and when he looks at you—really looks—it’s like he’s reading every thought you’ve ever had.

He used to ruffle my hair and call me trouble.

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