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

The library is quiet today—just the hum of the AC and the occasional shuffle of pages turning. I lean against the front desk, watching as an older man squints at the library card application in front of him.

“Just need your address there, sir,” I say, pointing to the blank line.

He nods, scratching it in with slow, deliberate strokes. I don’t rush him. These little moments—helping someone get their first library card, recommending a book, seeing a kid light up when they find the next installment in their favorite series—this is why I love this job.

The door chimes, and I glance up as Jamie walks in, shrugging off his jacket. Their hair is windswept, cheeks pink from the cold. Snow must be falling hard with the way it’s clinging to his hair.

“Hey, boss.” Dropping his bag behind the desk, he slides in next to me to clock in. “Careful getting home. The mountain is getting rough.”

While he’s happy to take over my task, I’m not wasting time getting out of here.

Ever since Tulip took over managing the employment, I no longer have to give all of my time to this place. It’s been six months now, and even after all that time, I wish I had done it sooner.

Before her, I didn’t have a reason to worry about what to do with myself to pass the time. Now, I’ve got someone waiting for me.

I grab my coat from the back room, waving at Jamie as I head out. “Call me if you need anything. If it dies down and gets dangerous out there, close early.”

“Go on,” he says, shooing me toward the door as I repeat the same thing every time the weather gets rough. “Your wife’s waiting.”

The cold air hits me as I step outside, but it doesn’t bother me much. Not when I know exactly where I’m headed.

Home. To her. If I have to guess, she’s probably freezing up in our cabin. I need to get up there so I can warm her up.

The tires crunch over fresh snow as I turn onto the mountain road, the library shrinking in my rearview mirror.

Flakes drift lazily in the glow of my headlights, swirling like feathers caught in a breeze.

It’s coming down steadily but not heavily—not yet, anyway.

The wipers keep time, a slow metronome brushing away the gathering white.

I roll the window down just an inch, letting in the sharp, clean scent of winter. The cold nips at my cheek, but the heater hums against my legs, keeping the chill at bay. The road is familiar—every curve, every dip—but the snow softens the edges, turning the world into something quiet and new.

The higher I climb, the thicker the snow clings to the pines, weighing down their branches.

The road curves one final time, and our cabin comes into view—warm light spilling from the windows, smoke curling from the chimney.

I ease to a stop, killing the engine. For a second, I just sit there, listening to the snow fall before I step out into the cold, my boots sinking into the fresh powder.

Once I’m inside and dusting the snow from my shoulders, I hear the soft sound of music flowing from somewhere inside our home. Something soft and old, a record spinning lazy notes that curl through the air like the steam from Tulip’s mug on the coffee table.

And there she is.

Draped across my recliner like she owns it, legs tucked under her, a book propped open in one hand. The firelight licks gold over her skin, catching the curve of her shoulder where her sweater’s slipped down, the sharp line of her jaw, the dark fan of her lashes as she glances up at me.

I cross the room in three strides, bending to press my cold lips to her forehead. She hisses, swatting at me, but she’s laughing, and I catch her wrist, kissing her palm just to feel her shiver.

“You’re freezing,” she grumbles, but there’s no heat in it.

“Warm me up, then.”

I don’t give her a chance to protest. The book hits the floor as I scoop her into my arms, her indignant yelp melting into a sigh when I settle into the recliner and cradle her against my chest. She fits here, always has—her back to my heartbeat, my chin tucked over her head.

Her fingers lace through mine, pulling my arm tighter around her waist.

“You’re gonna make me lose my page,” she mutters, but she’s already nestling in, her cold toes finding the space between my calves.

The fire pops. The snow falls. The record spins its last few notes into silence.

“We can find it—later. Right now, let’s just enjoy this, hm?”

Her quiet laugh vibrates against my chest, warm and familiar as the hearthlight dancing across our skin. The blanket settles around us like a second embrace. Outside, the winter world keeps turning.

But here, in this chair, with her weight solid against mine—everything feels right.

Not even the weather is going to ruin this for me.