It was December, and the man had the audacity to wear nothing but a white long-sleeve t-shirt with the sleeves pushed up to the elbows, like his corded forearms had immunity from frostbite. The cotton clung to his chest in a way that made her want to tear it off with her teeth, and the jeans–faded, well-worn, molded to strong legs–looked like they’d survived a brawl or six. Scarred boots added to the general vibe ofhot biker or high-level god, TBD.
Then her eyes had hit his face.
Of course. Ofcourse,he was beautiful. Blond, windblown hair brushing past his shoulders like he’d just stepped off a cliff and couldn’t be bothered to comb it. Eyes the color of midnight ocean, deep and not altogether friendly, like they’d seen things and probablydone worse. And his mouth, designed by something that understood both sin and beauty, was made for doing wicked things between her legs.
So yeah. The looks checked out. Big time.
The problem was, he wasn’t there for the books.
She’d worked at this library her entire adult life. She knew how people moved through it.
First-timers entered with tentative awe, trying to orient themselves, eyes scanning the carved beams, the unassuming staircase, the comfortable plush chairs in the reading alcoves. Regulars, on the other hand, walked with a sweet, arrogant familiarity, fingers brushing spines, heading straight for their usual sections, already shedding scarves and coats like it was a second home.
The man moved like neither of them.
He didn’t glance at the shelves. Didn’t look for titles. He didn’t seem to care what the librarycontained. He moved through her library like a man with a mission and no manners. And when his gaze finally settled on her, she felt it. A pull. Not physical. Something worse.
Recognition.
The kind that says,You’re not a stranger to me. You’re just someone I haven’t ruined for everyone else. Yet.
He walked to her, rested his arms on the counter, and smiled. Damn it if her stupid heart didn’t flutter. She crossed her arms. “You’re not here for the books, so what do you want?”
The smile widened. “Is that how you greet all your patrons, or am I special?”
“You’re something, all right, and that’sloud.” She arched a brow. “Keep your voice down. You want to scream, go to the farmer’s market.”
“Tempting,” he murmured, leaning just a little closer. For a second, she didn’t think he meant the farmer’s market. “But I’m actually here for a very specific piece of information.”
“Try the internet.”
“Doesn’t flirt back nearly as well.”
“No, but it’s full of dudes who think calling a woman babe is foreplay. You’d be just peachy.”
“You’re nobabe. More like a shrew.” He grinned, completely unbothered. “I like analog better. Real conversations. Real reactions.”
“Real restraining orders and handcuffs.”
“Only the sexy kind,” he said smoothly. Then added, “Name’s Hunter.”
“Of course it is.”
He tilted his head, amused. “And you are?”
“The woman wondering why a man named after a violent hobby is leaning across her reference desk like it’s a bar.”
He laughed, low and deep, and she hated the way it danced on her skin. “Fair enough. I’m looking for books on dreams.”
She flinched. Just a hitch. A single skipped heartbeat that no normal person would’ve noticed. Apparently, she wasn’t dealing with a normal person because his eyes narrowed slightly. He’d seen it, that split-second break in the armor. But she straightened almost instantly, expression flat. Her dreams, her nightmares, didn’t get to interfere with her job. They didn’t get to win. “Any particular kind?” she asked, tone clipped. “Scientific? Symbolic? Psychological? Or just thewhat the hell did that teeth-falling-out-thing meanvariety?”
“All of the above,” he said, too casually.
She nodded. “Third aisle on the left, back wall. Dream analysis is shelved between sleep disorders and mythological symbols. Jung’s where you’d expect. Freud will probably judge you.”
The flicker of a grin tugged at his mouth. “He seems like the type.”
“Keep your voice down, or he’ll manifest.” She turned before he could respond, already grabbing the clipboard she hadn’t needed in an hour. Busy hands and a focused mind. That was the rule.
