Page 11 of Owned In Misty Mountain

Not just glances. Not casual.

Sees.

Eyes locked on mine.

And the corner of his mouth twitches—just enough to wreck me.

I blink and look away, pretending to laugh at something my sister says, pretending I didn’t just get soaked from a single look.

He nods at my uncle, does a manly shoulder slap thing with or guys around, grabs a drink—and plants himself across the yard.

Where hecontinues to watch me.

Not full-on staring. Just… glancing.

Lingering.

Like I’m the only thing he wants to look at, and by his perpetual frown, he’s mad about it.

I try to focus on my girls. Try to keep the conversation light. But every few minutes I glance up and—yep. Still watching.

His jaw is tight. His grip on the Solo cup, tighter.

And when I lick a bit of sauce from my finger and find his gaze, his expression goes dark.

I shift on my feet.

I shouldn’t want that.

Shouldn’t crave the way his eyes drop down my body and stall on my thighs.

But I do.

And when I catch him scowling at one of my guy friends who’s standing close while we’re laughing?

Yeah.

I’m done.

I duck inside for a breath, cheeks hot, trying to shake it off.

That’s when my cousin catches up with me in the kitchen—and decides now’s the perfect time to start running her mouth.

And of course, so do the others.

One drink in and they’re giddy. Loud.

“Tell me you didn’t just run when he looked at you,” Tammy teases.

“I didn’t,” I lie.

“You absolutely did.”

“She’s still waiting on Mr. Right,” my bestie, Lena, adds.

I hiss, smacking her with a dishtowel.

They laugh. I groan. It’s lighthearted and dumb.

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