Page 232 of On A Manhunt: Complete Series

MELLY

Daniel Pearson, this Daniel Pearson, was allllllll man. He may have stormed into the exam room like a wild beast, but I imagined he’d be a beast in other ways, too. Ways that made my nipples hard and almost impossible for me not to rub my thighs together.

Yes, my mind went there.

No wonder guys my age–like his son, the one I’d left messages for–didn’t do anything for me. Because wow.

My reaction had been instant. Visceral. Chemical. Cellular. Biological.

It was so unlike me to feel this way–hot and bothered–because I never, ever thought of anything but hesitation and sometimes a hint of fear around older men. Especially ones who looked at me like he did. As if he was a very hungry tiger and I was a piece of meat.

He was tall. I only came up to his chin.

He was wide. Those shoulders barely fit through the exam room door.

He was rugged. Tanned, muscled and windblown in worn jeans that fit molded to sturdy thighs and a blue and gray plaid shirt. Sturdy leather work boots were on his big feet.

He even had a beard that accentuated his square jaw. His dark hair was a little long, a little unruly which he seemed to be. He stormed into the exam room, growled first, glared second. Threads of gray were at his temples, a blatant reminder he was much older than me.

This man’s photo had to be next to the word lumberjack in the dictionary. Romance novels with that trope had him grace the cover.

Over the clinic disinfectant smell, I could swear he smelled like the outdoors, all wild and untamed.

His dark eyes pierced into me the second he pushed into the room, then wouldn’t look away. Beneath his glare–yes, he glared–I felt… bared even though I was covered from neck to ankle. As if my conservative work outfit was racy lingerie. I felt small. Feminine. Delicate.

I had a feeling if his hard-working hands, which were like baseball mitts, got on me, would be my undoing. I’d love the raspy feel of them on my soft skin. I’d need that touch.

To hear that deep growl murmuring in my ear that I was a bad girl.

I swallowed at the possibility. Him. Me. His hands on me. His body pressing mine into a bed. His–

No. No! I had to be cautious, like always. Wary. Just because there’d been a mix-up–one I couldn’t blame him for being upset over–didn’t mean he wasn’t always growly and intense.

Although my body seemed to like both of those things. It had been six years since the Creepy Carl incident and in all that time I steered clear of men, trying not to draw attention to myself.

I stayed in the background happy to remain quiet and overlooked which was easy to do wearing prim clothes and being a librarian. No guy my age wanted to fuck a shy, do-gooder virgin.

Except in the small exam room, I couldn’t avoid Daniel Pearson’s hot and bold scrutiny. He saw me and only me. Said when we have sex we won’t forget.

As if it was a foregone conclusion. Him. Me.

A thrill shot through me because I liked the idea.

Then a sense of dread followed, because I remembered what happened the last time an older man took too much interest in me. The guy thought I’d been a foregone conclusion then, too.

That was six years ago, and Daniel Pearson wasn’t Creepy Carl.

My body was telling me–via wet panties, hard nipples, and an intense need to go home and wear out the batteries on my favorite vibrator–to jump the big guy.

The guy who’d thought I accused him of putting a baby in me.

Which only made me imagine him actually doing that and enjoying myself while he did.

If he focused on other tasks like he focused on me in the vet office, he’d do it and do it thoroughly. And I’d love every minute of it.

My body might be staging a sexual coup, but my mind?

Freaking. Out.

With a few gruff words and potent glares, he got past the walls I’d put up. High ones, like the ones surrounding a supermax prison. Razor wire at the top. Cameras. Armed guards.

Why was I, hours after the vet visit, still fixated?

Why was I attracted to him specifically?

I admitted–only to myself–that my vanity, the one I dressed in conservative clothing, was a little boosted.

He actually thought there was a possibility we might get together.

It had been an ego boost, for sure. Especially when I knew what people said about me.

That I was shy. Innocent. Meek. Tame. Fragile. Dependable. Reliable. Helpful. Sweet.

I had my routines. Like on TV, if there was a woman to be stalked and murdered because she was predictable, that would be me.

I woke up at the same time every morning.

Got in bed to read at the same time. Turned the light out at…

the same time. I worked. I did meal prep night.

Volunteered at the… yeah, all on an efficient, comfortable schedule.

I was boring little Melly Harwood to everyone in town for a reason.

I didn’t mind being called that because I was the one who’d created the persona.

It was better than what they said in whispers across town about my mother whenever she flitted back into town for a few days.

None were favorable and all were true. That was why I tried so hard to be the complete opposite.

To avoid and redirect the attention of men. I wouldn’t be like her. I couldn’t.

Yet these… stirrings… I felt for Daniel Pearson meant my carefully built facade had a crack in it.

Because I shouldn’t get all turned on for a big, rugged lumberjack.

A man at least fifteen years older. Who had a grown son I’d dated twice.

Who was definitely more experienced… in bed and out. Big, gorgeous, and so out of my league.

Everyone in Hunter Valley would hear of us getting together and think, like mother, like daughter. No. I couldn’t have that.

No way. He paid for the vet visit, promised he’d make his son get in touch with me when he got back from fighting a fire in California, then left.

Unless we had a random encounter in town, I’d never see him again.

Except puppies weren’t part of my routine.

And neither were my thoughts about a certain lumberjack, although he could definitely star in my vibrator fantas–

“What’s going on with you?”

I blinked, then turned my head to find Mallory Mornay eyeing me.

Crap. I’d been daydreaming about a handsome, older man during tutor time.

I dropped my hand from where I was writing on the white board. “Nothing.” I glanced away, stared at anything but my friend. “Um… why?”

She pointed at the math problem I was putting up.

We were in the multi-purpose room in the children’s section, usually used for storytime, crafts, or puppet shows.

The library was naturally quiet, except for the sound of a fussy toddler being led out the front doors.

“Because ten times ten is not one million.”

I glanced at what I’d just finished writing, clearly without my hand and brain working in sync. There were many extra zeroes and they curved down the board as if I was drunk writing.

I flushed, grabbed the eraser and fixed the answer with a quick swipe over four zeroes. “There.”

I gave a silly smile and an eye roll to Cara, the nine-year-old who I was helping with multiplication. “Whoops.” She dipped her head back toward her homework paper on the table in front of her.

Thankfully the other after-school students who came to the library for a little extra study help were busy with their homework and had missed my mental slip. During this hour, their parents were either running errands or reading a book in a quiet corner.

Mallory took my arm and tugged me into the first row of shelves.

Because they were short so kids could reach all the books, we could see over to the small group.

Mallory was a first grade teacher and came to the library after school once a week so we could work together on this volunteer program.

It was for kids in elementary and middle school.

The high school tutor time was on a different day and Bridget Beckett, with her amazing math and science brain, helped me run that.

“What’s up?” she pushed. “It’s not Fred, is it?”

I shook my head. “No, she’s fine. She’s in the back room sleeping.”

Fred always came to work with me. It was a perk behind being the sole full-time librarian in a small town library and the fact that everyone loved my dog. Mallory knew she was having puppies. So did the kids in the group. So did many other people, except Daniel Pearson. Until now.

“Well, I’ve never seen you like this before.” Her dark eyes looked me over as if she could figure it out by my clothes. “You’re… flustered.”

Flustered. Me.

Was I? Yes. Definitely yes.

Who had an attractive man storm into their vet visit and make their panties wet? Yes, my panties got wet.

That was the problem!

I was always stable. Always calm. Placid.

My grandmother always told me when I was little that when I was bothered by something–usually because of my mother or any situation associated with her–I needed to make my face as placid as possible, like the surface of a lake at dawn. Smooth. Calm. Perfect.

I looked to a row of books, noticed the spines weren’t aligned and shifted them into an even line. “I… I met a guy I… find attractive.”

When she said nothing, I glanced her way. It seemed my confession had her eyes light up as if I told her Santa was coming tonight instead of in December. “Who? Where? Do I know him? Why him?” She looked me over again. “Oh… you’ve got zings in the things.”

“Zings in the things?” I repeated on a whisper. “Who says that?”

“Me. Now spill.”

“We have to get back.”

She waved her hand through the air like a real teacher, knowing the kids could survive for thirty seconds without attention or being read a story. “The kids are fine. Spill.”

“Daniel Pearson.” I bit my lip after saying it, a little afraid of how she would respond.