Page 5 of The Hitman's Forbidden Obsession

Then I push forward, and the world narrows to a single point.

Avery.

She’s across the room, bent at one of the lower shelves, slipping a children’s book into place. The light filters down through the windows and hits her hair like a spotlight. Soft. Glowing.

The kids are buzzing with energy around her, teachers calling out names, trying to wrangle them all towards the exit. A few laugh. One cries. But she’s calm in the chaos. Graceful. Steady.

And then she looks up, her eyes finding mine, and everything else drops away.

She freezes. Her lips part on a sharp inhale, like the breath has been stolen straight from her lungs. And then a sweet blush rises. Slow, pink, innocent.

My chest tightens, my own breath stolen.

There it is. That spark. That flash of something wild and wanting on her face,

She feels it too. She’s already mine.

I take a step forward, slow and sure, the ghost of a smile tugging at my mouth. And the moment stretches, full of all the firsts waiting to happen between us, and no chance in hell of turning back.

Chapter Three

Avery

Who the hell is that?

I freeze with a worn copy of The Giving Tree in my hands, my breath catching somewhere between my lungs and my throat. Because the man who just walked through the doors looks like he’d be more at home on a movie set than in a library.

Tall. Broad. Confident in that dangerous, movie-villain kind of way. He’s wearing tailored slacks and a dark blue shirt, sleeves rolled to the elbow like he wants everyone around him to notice his strong, veiny forearms. And God, do I notice them. His hair’s dark and a little tousled, like he ran his fingers through it instead of bothering with a comb. And his jaw... wow. It looks sharp enough to cut glass, shadowed with the kind of stubble that makes me want to reach out and touch it.

His eyes lock onto mine like he was looking for me. Like he knew I’d be standing here, halfway through re-shelving a stack of children’s books, sweating mildly and wishing I’d chosen to wear something a little nicer to work this morning.

And then he smiles.

It’s not a passing smile. Not the kind you give to a stranger out of politeness. No. It’s slow. Personal. Laced with something I can’t name but definitely feel low in my stomach, and in other places that I definitely shouldn’t be thinking about at work.

I look away fast.

Which is dumb, because that only makes it worse. My cheeks go up in flames, my pulse thudding loud enough in my ears to drown out the sound of the teachers calling the kids back to the bus.

I really need to pull myself together.

So he’s hot. So what? That doesn’t mean he’s interested in me. Guys like that don’t look twice at girls like me. Not when they could have their pick of influencer models and Pilates instructors who don’t spend their mornings wiping jam off the covers of library books.

I hug the book against my body like it might protect me from whatever the hell that look was. Which is when I realize my arms are awkwardly crossed in front of my stomach, like some subconscious part of me is trying to shield my softest parts from someone who probably wouldn’t want to see them, anyway.

That’s when he starts walking towards me.

Oh no.

Oh, no no no.

Each step is smooth, unhurried, like he knows exactly what kind of effect he’s having and enjoys it. The air around me thickens. I seriously consider ducking behind the biography section and fake-shelving some Churchill until he leaves.

But I don’t. I just stand there, frozen like some wide-eyed idiot, hoping I don’t spontaneously combust.

He stops in front of me, just close enough that I have to tilt my head to meet his gaze. And sweet hell, those eyes up close? Dark, unreadable, with flecks of something lighter. Maybe grayor green or blue. I can’t even tell because I’m too busy drowning in them.

“Hi,” he says, and I swear my brain forgets how language works. His voice is low. Smooth. Like velvet dipped in sin.

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