Page 9 of My Bossy Mountain Man

I have to maintain my usual optimistic demeanor. Ever since I showed up with discolored eyes, he’s been worrying himself over nothing.

Not like an employer freaking out about worker’s comp, but like, a man would for a woman he cares about.

As much as I love him checking up on me, peering close at my face, I’m happy that my black eyes are basically yellow now. No more swelling, thank goodness.

“Before you ask,” I say, propping my elbows right next to a box of new books that need labeling, “this is strategic. I’m not sacrificing another dress to this place’s dust bunnies. Those things are basically feral.”

His mouth twitches, almost giving away a smile. Ever since five days ago, I’ve been dying to see another one of those. Too bad they don’t come very often.

“What do you think?” I pat my front pockets, slipping my fingers into them with deliberate casualness before turning slightly, as if modeling. The fabric hugs just right—comfortable but flattering.

Dallas’s expression shifts, his gaze lingering a beat too long. Not just amused, but studying me, like my question is a puzzle he’s turning over in his head. His eyes drag down, then up again, slow enough that my pulse kicks harder.

“You look…” He pauses, and I swear his throat bobs before his eyes lock onto mine. “You wear them well. They look nice on you. Very fitting for your character.”

Woah.

Did I just hallucinate his words? I expected anotherfineat most. Instead, he’s going all out here with his words.

Heat floods my cheeks, and I bite the inside of my lip to keep from grinning like an idiot. That compliment? That’s going to replay in my mind for weeks.

Needing stability, I step toward the desk and lean against it, the edge digging into my hips. It barely holds me upright—not that it matters, because nothing could steady the giddy buzz under my skin or the dazed smile I can’t suppress.

“Why, thank you, Dallas.” My voice is too light, too airy. Moving to join him on the other side, each step feels like I’m walking on air.

Grabbing a container of cleaning wipes just to give my hands something to do, I can’t help but graze against him.

“I appreciate the compliment.” Leaning in close enough to catch the faint scent of his cologne—something woodsy and warm—I send him a wink. “I’ll hurry so we can get to the real fun.”

A grunt. Classic Dallas. Right as I’m about to dart off, his voice stops me.

“Have you eaten dinner?” There’s an edge of concern there, his eyes flicking to the clock on the desktop.

He’d insisted on coming in late today, his compromise for not letting me pull the same marathon hours he does.

I purse my lips, shrugging. “I’ll be fine. Don’t worry about me.”

Another grunt. It’s practically his default response when words fail him, which, with this man, is often.

Smiling, I drift toward the stacks, the quiet of the empty library wrapping around me. Closing up isn’t hard—just pretty boring. Wiping down keyboards, dusting shelves, killing germs. But there’s something almost meditative about it. While it’s easy, it’s a lot of repetitive tasks to do every single day.

One of these days, I’ll convince him to hire more help. Maybe even talk him into a hobby that doesn’t involve scowling at our online catalogue, which isn’t up-to-date half of the time. For now, I’ll take these quiet moments, the rare hum of something unspoken between us.

The library feels different at night—hushed, hollow. Like a ghost town. No wonder Dallas considered cutting hours. Once autumn rolls in, this place will be even emptier.

But right now? With just the two of us here? It feels… charged.

I’m in the middle of sanitizing headphones when the library doors open, and a delicious smell comes with it. When a younger guy strolls in here with bags containing a logo I recognizerather well with my many Chinese take-out binges, I’m already drooling when Dallas signals him over.

This man is going to be the death of me.

My hunger must be written all over my face, because as soon as he’s paid the driver, he’s coasting across the building to lock the door and flip the open sign to closed. It’s a little early, but I’m not going to be the one to tell him to wait.

“Hold on—tell me you didn’t pay extra to get it delivered here.” My attempt at scolding him crumbles as the rich, savory aroma of garlic and orange sauce hits my nose. My stomach betrays me with a quiet growl.

He absolutely did this on purpose.

I’ve mentioned this place to him before—offhand, months ago—raving about the homemade fried rice and wonton soup that is to die for. And now here it is, laid out between us like some kind of edible ambush.

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