Page 2 of Obsessed and Naughty Mountain Man

I can smell campfire smoke from here.

He's got a few books open on the floor and a dozen more stacked up chaotically around him. My brain twitches at the thought of returning them to their proper places.

Another thought supersedes my instinct to organize: I must know everything about this man.

I want to crack him open, turn every page, and never stop reading. I want to fill the lines of his soul with pastel Post-it notes. I want to highlight and fill the margins and spend every night diving deeper and deeper. They say don't judge a book by its cover. But I'm looking, I'm judging, and I've never wanted something more.

Unfortunately, a combination of awkwardness and social anxiety defies my desire. I duck back to the other side of the shelf just as the hunk on the floor looks up. My glasses nearly fly off as I whip my head out of sight.

This is ridiculous. I'm the freaking librarian. I could literally just ask him if he needs help with anything. Honestly, I could scold him for making such a mess of the wilderness section…

Instead, I slip off my clogs, tiptoe to the spot where found I the romance novel, and squat down. As carefully as someone diffusing a bomb, I pull books in the hopes that I’ll create another peeping hole.

Look, I’ve never claimed bravery as one of my key traits. The warrior princess I play in my weekly Dungeons & Dragons session is brave. She's fearless and powerful and awesome. Me? I'm a big coward.

I pull enough books to create a space large enough to stick my head through, finding only the pile of books that the man left behind. Did he seriously just leave that mess there? Maybe I shouldn't judge a book by its handsome, gorgeous, intoxicating cover...

"Can I help you?"

I yelp so loudly that Ellie shushes me from her table near the children’s section.Good girl.

The man is standing on my side of the stacks, leaning against the shelf and staring down at me. I'm still propped up on my toes with my hands on the shelf like I'm about to crawl behind the books and entomb myself. That’s probably not a bad idea…

"I'm the librarian." I try desperately to swallow the lump in my throat. "I'm supposed to ask you that..."

"Ah, I see. No one was at the front desk when I came in."

I don't answer. His eyes dart between my bare feet and my discarded clogs.

"Sorry, Miss Librarian. I didn't realize you had a no-shoes policy." He takes off his sneakers, flexes his bare toes on the hardwood, and smiles.

Even his feet are tan. I find myself oddly attracted to the little dark hairs on his big toes.

Before I can muster enough intellect to form words, he squats beside me and looks through the hole I created.

"What are you looking at?" he asks.

I seem to have forgotten how to lie. "You."

His laugh is bold and warm like a perfect cup of coffee.

I blush so hard that I'm worried I’ll set the books on fire.

"Why?"

"Because you're making a mess." Half true. “Were you going to pick those up?”

“Of course.”

“And put them all back alphabetically by author last name?”

His smile gives him away. “Probably not to the letter.”

My toes are starting to hurt from squatting in this weird position, but I can’t move. I’m petrified, totally frozen by his piercing blue eyes that seem to dig into me with every lingering glance.

And when his eyes wander down to the rise of my skirt, I find myself so breathless that I think I might pass out.

“Are you all right?” he asks, gently taking my arm. “Here, why don’t we sit?”

---