Page 7 of Owned In Misty Mountain

I duck behind a shelf and start reshelving a stack of returns, mostly just so I can stare through the gaps and get a better view.

Mike’s got the sleeves of his thermal rolled up, and his biceps are ridiculous—cut, tanned, and veined like he was hand-carved out of wood and testosterone.

One of the other guys cracks a joke.

Mike doesn’t laugh.

He just grunts.

And I almost moan.

That voice.

Low, rough, like he growled it straight into my ear.

The kind of voice that makes you say yes even when you don’t know the question.

“Can I get you anything?” I ask a little too brightly, reappearing like I wasn’t totally spying. “Water? Coffee?”

He arches a brow at me.

God, he’s hot.

“I’m fine,” he says. But his gaze drags down my body again. This time slower. Hungrier. Like maybe he’s not as fine as he pretends.

“I’m gonna go…” I point vaguely.

What the hell is going on?…

* * *

I stay late to finish some files.

The storm damage paperwork is due tomorrow, and the distraction that is Mike Costa didn’t exactly help my productivity.

By the time I lock up, it’s foggy and freezing. My boots slide a little on the damp sidewalk, and before I can brace myself—

My heel catches.

I slip.

But a solid arm wraps around my waist before I hit the ground.

Hard body. Warm hands.

Chest like a damn wall.

Mike.

“Jesus,” he mutters, one arm banded across my lower back, the other gripping my hip like I’m about to try and run.

“I—I slipped,” I stammer. I’m not even cold anymore. I’m melting.

Another grunt.

He doesn’t let go.

And I don’t ask him to.

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