Page 1 of My Bossy Mountain Man

1

Dallas

For years, I spent my free time scanning returned books and staring at the same four gray walls—the kind of walls that didn’t just look lifeless, but actively drained the soul out of anyone who lingered too long.

For what felt like an eternity, people avoided this place unless they had no other options to help pass the time. For the longest time, I couldn’t understandwhy. When the previous person who managed the joint refused to make any changes, I didn’t bother to look for ways the library could be improved.

This place was handed down to me like an obligation, not a gift, once he retired. The guy disappeared and never looked back. Funny enough, he lookedrelievedto never have to set foot inside again.

Once the role became mine, managing the local library became a joy of mine. And for just as long as I’ve been at the top, I’ve wanted to change it. Do something that matters. But a guylike me? I had no idea where to start. What to do to make people come through the doors instead of drifting around the building like something terrifying lurked in the shadows.

Then, four months ago, I took a shot in the dark.

I posted an ad for a library aide—someone who wouldn’t mind doing more than just reshelving dusty paperbacks. It was a big ask, especially given the minimum wage pay. But against all odds, I got a bite.

Enter Tulip Walters.

She was fresh air given human form. A rainbow crashing into my monochrome world. The moment she stepped inside, she didn’t just see those lifeless walls—she squinted at them, like she was already imagining the colors she’d splash across them the moment I gave her creative control.

Then, she turned to me, flashed a smile so bright it stole the breath right out of my lungs, and demanded the job before I could even ask her name.

One look at her, and it didn’t matter who else applied. She had the position faster than she had my heartbeat in her hands.

Now, when I walk in, the walls don’t just look different—they feel different. Murals from local artists wind between the shelves, and paper chain links, Tulip’s latest project, dangle from the ceiling low enough to touch.

Even my usual scowl doesn’t stand a chance when I take in all the changes. It’s not just the atmosphere that makes it this way. It’sher.

She’s gone out of her way to beckon people inside, spreading her cheerfulness. Now, thanks to her, we have a steady flow of people coming in and out through the hours.

Ranging from the recluses tucked away on the mountain to the families living in the suburban part of the town, all come over here to get a book or two from time to time.

When the front doors open this time around, I don’t have to lift my eyes to know she’s arrived. True to her name, she glides gracefully across the room, trailing a soft, delightful scent of wildflowers behind her. The fragrance weaves through the air, evoking images of sunlit fields and gentle breezes, as if nature itself is dancing in her presence.

While I may never uncover the truth, I like to imagine her spending her free time joyfully skipping through the fields on the mountain. This mental image always fills my chest with warmth whenever I breathe her in when she gets too close.

There’s this pull on me that whenever she’s near, I can’t help but look. The habit is one I haven’t tried to kick, caving with ease as my eyes lift toward her approaching form.

Today, she’s wearing a summer dress that fits her curves perfectly. It’s not the multi-colored polka dots scattered on her top half that has me swallowing thickly, but it’s the way her eyes light up the moment they meet mine.

She lookshappyto see me. Despite how much time she spends in this place, she continues to look at me like it’s still her first day. Eager with life, filled with energy that is unlimited.

That alone should’ve been what rang the warning bells in my head.

Most people tense up when I’m around—not that I can help it. My face wasn’t built for charm. Even my smile sends folks running faster than my scowl. Sometimes, I wondered ifIwas the one scaring people away, if it weren’t for the condition of the library. Sometimes, it still crosses my mind.

But Tulip? She’s not afraid in the slightest. Instead, she’s all but skipping toward the desk, her sundress fluttering like she’s bringing the outside in. When she throws herself against the curved desk, a wave of floral perfume hits me—and by now, I should be used to it.

My head swims as I inhale deeply. Deep enough to get drunk on such a sweet scent.

“Dallas,” she sing-songs, drumming her fingers on the wood. “Notice anything different?”

The handheld scanner beeps in my hand, filling the silence while I avoid her eyes and toss a book onto my cart. “You’ve dyed your hair.”

Yesterday, it was sun-bleached blonde. Today, it’s the exact shade of pink one would find on the inside of a seashell.

Her nails—painted a sunshine yellow that shouldn’t work but does—tap an impatient rhythm against the desk. I don’t even need to look to know she’s grinning.

“Sure did. What do you think?” She slides along the curve of the wood, maneuvering herself right back into my line of sight. “My sister says it’s ‘a bit much.’ Brook is boring. I think I need a second opinion.”

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