Page 1 of My Bossy Mountain Man (Summer in the Pines #9)

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 understand why .

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 looked relieved to 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 guy like 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’s her.

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 looks happy to 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 if I was 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.”

Against every instinct, I glance back up.

‘ Beautiful’ lodges itself in my throat like a confession. I choke it down before it escapes. Can’t have her bolting when she realizes her boss is already six feet under and she hasn’t even started digging.

“It’s your hair. If you like it, that’s what matters.” The scanner beeps again, a mechanical distraction. “You wear the color well.”

The truth is, she could dye herself in every shade of the rainbow, and it wouldn’t matter. Tulip Walters could make a potato sack look like a masterpiece. Can’t lie to myself. She’d look best without anything at all, and thoughts like that are precisely why I can’t tell her how I feel.

Her cheeks flush—just a hint of pink, like the dusk creeping over her hairline—before she moves around the desk. The way she drifts toward me, it’s like she’s floating across the carpet.

Then, once she settles next to my side to clock herself in, her elbow grazes my arm.

It’s not an accident. Tulip doesn’t do accidents. It’s a glancing touch, her skin against mine, warm and fleeting, but it sends a jolt straight to my ribs.

Once upon a time, I thought she might know exactly how I felt about her. That’s why she’d casually touch me, hoping I’d touch back. Most of the time, I’ve ignored the urge. Not even the strongest man can deny every opportunity for a brisk brush.

It turns out that the woman is just comfortable around everyone. I’ve watched her pat shoulders and squeeze hands in reassurance. Hell, she’s even hugged a few of the mountain rescuers who have made their way in.

I tell myself it’s because her sister is married to one of them, but jealousy always flares up at the worst of times.

Green isn’t my color. While telling her that I fell hard for her at first glance isn’t an option, scaring her away because I can’t control my feelings is at the top of my list of things not to do.

She clocks herself in like nothing happened, then kneels down to slide open one of the cupboards. I hear the rustle of her digging around, the soft thud of the sanitation wipes tumbling to the floor as she loses her grip. Quickly recovering, her nails tap against the plastic container.

My throat goes dry just as my eyes follow her movement.

It’s not her coral colored hair that’s making my chest stir. It’s the realization of how she looks right at this moment.

She’s kneeling at the perfect height.

The thought hits me like a sucker punch. Because from where I’m standing, if she just looked up with those innocent brown eyes of hers—

And then, of course, she does. Like she’s a mind reader, or she’s feeling my gaze, or…

Tulip tilts her head back, loose strands of pink hair catching the fluorescent lights, and shows me the tube of disinfectant wipes. “We’re gonna need more of these. Looks like we’re on the last one.”

I should say something. Something professional, something sane. But all I can think is how her knees are digging into the thin library carpet, how her neck is bared just slightly when she tips her chin up, how easy it would be to—

“I’ll pick some up later,” I mutter, and my voice comes out rough like I’ve swallowed broken shards of glass. “Thank you.”

Despite the filthy thoughts spiraling in my head, I don’t entertain them. Hell, I don’t linger on them long enough to get a response from my cock. Instead, I’ll bank them for later when I’m alone, tucked away in my big empty bed instead of here.

I offer my hand to help her up. She takes it without hesitation, her fingers curling around mine with a warmth that lingers long after she’s back on her feet.

“I’m going to clean up and tackle the dust collecting at the computer station,” she says, dragging her thumb across my palm slowly before pulling away and hugging the plastic tube of wipes to her chest.

Better to be jealous of a tube than another man. If a man takes Tulip in like I do, then I will scare away those with library cards.

“Sure,” I rasp, clearing my throat as the library doors swing open. A family shuffles in, their chatter filling the silence I struggle to do myself. I nod at them, then scan another book with the handheld. “Might take a fifteen after this. If you don’t mind.”

Fifteen minutes alone. Fifteen minutes to choke down this relentless want, to will my body back under control. Because right now? Every brush of her fingers, every hum under her breath, every time she breathes —it’s all a live wire under my skin.

My cock’s already made it clear it doesn’t give a shit about professionalism plenty of times in the past. The longer she’s near me, the more it stirs to life, thickening against the layer of denim.

“Anything for you, Dallas,” she says, bright as sunlight, and fuck me, the way she says my name so melodically—

I grit my teeth. Twenty minutes. I’ll need twenty now. I’m not sure a few tugs will be enough. Once I get behind a locked bathroom door, I’ll have to rely on the grip of my fist to put me out of my misery.

Might have to think about that fantasy early, too.

It’s a miracle I’ve lasted this long without snapping. Four months of her laughter, her leaning into my space, her looking at me like I’m something worth seeing. Four more months of this?

Yeah. Sure.

I’ll keep lying to myself. Keep pretending I can survive on stolen glances and the ache of almost. Keep playing the careful boss, the unshakable wall between what I want and what I can’t have. But the truth?

The truth is a ticking clock, and every second I’m near her, the wall I’ve built between us has one terrible foundation. Enough that I’m already seeing the cracks. Cracks that are growing thicker by the day.