Page 5 of My Bossy Mountain Man

Orsomeone.

At his escape, I watch him coast across the library to attend to the desk. It’s his favorite location, after all. The best place for him to hide behind when he’s not in the mood to deal with people.

Once I’m all alone, I let out a soft sigh. I fight the urge to thump my foot against the wooden shelf. Poor thing is older than me, and I’m willing to bet it can’t take much of a hit.

Maybe I’ve got this all wrong. Maybe I’m not Dallas’ type, and no matter what kind of changes I make to my appearance, he won’t be interested.

What would Brook do?

I don’t want to have to ask my sister for any advice in the love department, but I feel like I’m going in blind here. Ireallylike Dallas.

When I’m not here, I don’t just think about climbing shelves.

With an imagination like mine, it’s a miracle I get any real work done. Virgins who’ve never even seen a cock in personshouldn’t be able to conjure one up so easily—let alone his—but here I am, biting my lip hard enough to sting as my mind supplies far too many vivid details.

I’ve imagined doing the deedhere,of all places, more times than I can count on both hands. Heck, earlier, I fantasized about him plucking off both pieces of this dress. No, not plucking.Tearingit off.

A shiver runs through me, and I catch myself standing there like an idiot, my skin too warm under this dress.

Get it together. I’m supposed to be his aide, not some daydreaming nuisance who spends too much time flipping through steamy romances during her breaks.

Forcing myself to move, I drift away from the science fiction section like a coward, toward the promised cart of returns. Weekends always leave us with a mountain of finished reads, and today’s pile is no exception.

One by one, I slot the books back into place, my fingers tracing familiar spines without really seeing them. The quiet of the library presses in, and with it comes the nagging doubt—should I have said something else? Done something different?

My gaze drops to the dress clinging to my curves, the way it dips and hugs in all the right places. And yet…

He thinks it looks…fine.

A humorless laugh escapes me. I am so out of his league. Maybe this dress, this boldness, is just wishful thinking.

But then I remember the way his grip tightened on that book. The way his throat worked when he looked at me…

My poor heart flutters, struggling to get with the program.

The next book left on the reshelving cart catches my eye—a book on the autonomy of the human body. Belonging to the non-fiction section, I coast over there next. Thick and heavy, it belongs on the top shelf where the rest of the dusty books belong.

I glance around for the step stool, but it’s nowhere in sight. Of course.

That’s fine. I can reach it. I’m sure of it.

I stretch onto my toes, my fingers barely grazing the book’s edge. The fabric of my dress rides up just a fraction, the cool air brushing against the exposed skin of my waist. The book teeters between my fingertips—almost there—when suddenly, it slips.

My reaction time is too slow.

A sharp crack—not the book hitting the shelf, but the hard corner of it striking the bridge of my nose. Pain flares white-hot, radiating outward, and for a second, all I see are stars. Then warmth spills over my lips, dripping onto my chin.

Oh no.No, no, no—

A sharp inhale. The sudden thunder of footsteps behind me. Then—heat.

Dallas is there in an instant, his hands gripping my shoulders as he spins me toward him. He rarely curses out loud, but the moment he sees the blood streaking my face, the heavy book at my feet, he lets out a low, vicious string of colorful words.

“Jesus, Tulip—” His voice is rough, strained. One hand cups the back of my head, tilting me forward slightly, while the other grabs my hand to guide it toward my face. “Pinch it. Hard. And tilt your head forward, not back—you don’t want to choke on it.”

Staring at him, it takes a moment for my brain to catch up with his instructions. I mean, he never touches me. Yet, look at him now.

I’d giggle if my face weren’t currently throbbing.

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