Page 1 of Obsessed and Naughty Mountain Man

CHAPTER 1

LUNA

It's quiet, just how I like it.

Libraries are always quiet, I suppose, but I still appreciate it. In the tall stacks, I return books to their resting places. Cataloging calms me. This early in the morning, the building is empty except for me, the books, and the morning light spilling in through the towering windows.

Not today.

A little girl turns the corner, rushes down my aisle, and asks frantically, "Miss Luna, where are the books on witches?"

"Hush, Ellie." This kid has been in here all summer. I admire her literary intrigue, but I wish she could find her library volume. She’s my only patron so far today, however, so I guess there’s no reason to enforce the silence rule. "There's some young adult novels you might enjoy. Check in ‘Fantasy’."

"Nooo!" She squirms and dances, black hair falling over her face. "Not fake witches.Realwitches. I heard they got burnt up a long time ago."

I put my finger to my lips until she calms down, then I smile. "You want to read about witch trials?"

Ellie looks like she wants to scream. I'm proud that she manages to nod emphatically instead.

"All right. History, right next to the outdoorsy stuff. I'll show you, but you have to be quiet, deal?"

"Deal!" she says far too loudly.

Little Ellie becomes my shadow as I lead her across Pine Whistle's public library. I've been working here for four years now. It's my slice of paradise. Every day, I come in an hour before opening, enjoy my coffee before I turn on the lights, and usually lose myself in a book when the work is done and there's no one to help.

My few friends back home thought it was a bizarre life choice to take a job in this little mountain town. But I wasn’t leaving much behind in Denver. It’s peaceful here, and I can forget about the ghosts of my past.

Ellie follows me into the historical section, bouncing on her heels as I pull out a few books on Salem, witchcraft, and the colonies’ witch-panic. At her age, I was readingHarry Potter. I guess kids are evolving.

She snatches the books from me like candy and runs off to dive in. "Thank you!" I sigh and shake my head. Maybe I should permanently assign her one of the study rooms to contain her energy.

In her wake, I scan the titles on the shelves to ensure everything is cataloged appropriately. It's like a treasure hunt, and I always find Science Fiction shoved into history or a romance novel nestled in with the cookbooks (maybe the two are more connected than I give them credit for).

I let my fingertips trail along the spines, reading the hardcovers’ indented titles like braille. The smell of old and new pages is as relaxing as chamomile.

This is all I need: quiet, coffee, and books. Helping a few kids find stories they'll love is nice, too. Other than that, nothing needs to change. My routine is perfect; my life is perfect.

Lo and behold, I find a bursting romance novel jammed awkwardly between a text on Pearl Harbor and another on theBattle of the Bulge. The book is titledThe Love Hidden Within. Huh, maybe I'll give it a read.

I slide it out, peeking into the narrow space left behind. The opening peers all the way out the other side of the bookshelf. Through this little crack between worlds, I spy a man who looks like he jumped from the pages of an adventure novel.

He's staring down at a book, mystic-blue eyes scanning the pages as if they're searching for something hidden between the words. Dark slightly curly hair falls in messy tufts each time he tries to brush it back. His lips curl into a soft smile as he idly runs his fingers through his beard.

I'm reminded of a character from a book I once read: a worldly man who walked from place to place, rugged and tough against the elements, gaining bits of wisdom from the people he met along the way. If I'm being honest, he was the first fictional character I developed a crush on.

It would be an understatement to say that I'm downright infatuated with the stranger in my library.

I duck away from the hole in the shelf before he spots me creeping on him. With my back to the stack, I hug that misplaced romance novel and catch my breath.

Who even is he? Pine Whistle isn’t some big city. It's rare to see a new face in here.

I dare to peek again, but he's moved on. I can hear him on the other side plucking out more books.

Talking to handsome men isn't exactly my strong suit. Most people tell me that I need to speak up. I tell them that I'm a librarian: we're reserved by nature.

I sneak along the shelf, suddenly feeling like every step I take in my low-heeled clogs is an announcement of my presence on the hardwood. Even the subtle swoosh of my skirt grates on my ears. When I get to the end of the lane, I slowly turn the corner so that just my head is poking into the aisle.

The man is sitting cross-legged on the floor, relaxed in a pair of jean shorts clearly cut from pants, dirty white sneakers, and a loose brown flannel. He's lean but densely muscled, so sun-kissed that his interest in the wilderness section makes perfect sense. That dark beard looks as natural on his face as moss on a tree.

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