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Mor

Bo is wearing glasses, and it is doing odd things to my body.

For example, it’s completely possible that I might burst into flames.

This should not be the reaction someone has to a set of metal frames and two glass lenses perched on a man’s nose, but here I am.

Suddenly combustible.

When Bo got back from the eye doctor a few days ago, he mentioned the man gave him a prescription.

But I hadn’t realized that little trip to the doctor would result in this .

“Glasses,” I croak. Turns out, I’ve lost the ability to form a sentence made up of more than one desperate word.

Bo raises his eyes from the book he was reading at the front desk, and now he’s looking at me over the rims of the spectacles.

He brings a large hand up and slides them off, and I shiver at the simple move.

Then he smiles, and I’m done.

I think I need the day off.

“You were right. I picked these up yesterday, and … gods, everything is clearer.” He raises the book he’s cradling in his palm.

“I’m not even interested in the history of forest nymphs. But I couldn’t stop from reading the first chapter. Just because I can.” He closes the book and sets it down on the counter.

“Thank you. For pushing me to go.”

I nod and clear my throat, trying to think of something I can say other than asking him to slip the glasses back on, but slowly this time.

“I’m glad,” I manage.

“That they work.”

He nods, his smile turning earnest. “Now I can really help you here. I swear I’ll be the best employee.”

Employee .

I repeat the word a few times in my head.

A reminder that Bo works for me and I should not be mentally undressing him.

Undressing every inch—except for the glasses, of course.

Well, this seems to be a terrible turn of events.

I suppose the silver lining is that I now have the reassurance I am able to be attracted to someone.

It just sucks that it took thirty years for me to find that out and that the first person I’m attracted to is so much younger than me, just getting out of a very traumatic situation, and is also my employee.

Bo checks the spine of the book he was reading and carefully arranges it on the rolling shelving cart we keep at the front desk.

He shoots me a grin.

“Well, I think I might be getting the hang of this.” These words come in the delicious Southern drawl that pairs with Bo’s gentle nature.

Now, me, as a northerner having moved to this Southern town, I have heard plenty of people in Folk Haven speak with a Southern accent.

A nice Georgia drawl.

But no one has perfected the tone like Bo.

I have the urge to listen to him speak for an endless stretch, like a tape stuck in a boom box that cannot be unplugged.

Because I don’t want him to stop talking.

I don’t want him to stop being proud of the fact that he is navigating this library with ever-growing ease.

That he’s no longer hiding the webbing between his fingers as he reaches for books and places them back on the shelves in the proper order.

He no longer frowns and squints at words, but smiles instead.

Bo is a beautiful torture to be around.

And then there are times when he says my name and I think that I might die.

I might actually die.

Just self-combust.

I am tempted to tell him to use my full name—Morgana—because how the hell am I supposed to listen to his sexy Southern drawl say Mor ?

More.

More.

Oh my Gods, I picked the worst nickname in the world.

He’s only saying my name, but I want him to be giving me direction.

I want him to tell me what he wants from me.

Because I’ll give it to him.

I’ll give him more. I’ll give him all of me if he just keeps talking and keeps being sweet and keeps being the kindest goddamn mythic that I have ever met in my life.

This was a mistake.

To know what longing and lust and attraction feels like was a mistake.

I’ve become jumpy. For such a big man, he’s pretty quiet when he moves.

And it seems like every time I walk around a bookshelf— boom —there he is.

Beautiful bomb right in my face.

And then he smiles at me.

And then he says my name.

And then I die again.

My only solution to this unplanned attraction is to work harder.

Is to work so hard that I forget the world around me.

It used to be an easy thing to do.

I would lose track of time until Ame set down a coffee beside my book; I would only come out of my focused mindset long enough to take a few sips, and then I’d get right back to it.

That’s what I need. I need to forget that the world exists.

I need to forget that Bo’s sexy Southern voice exists.

That’s why I hired him, isn’t it?

So I don’t have to focus on all the minutia of running a library.

That I only need to be called in when someone has a more in-depth research question.

And until that happens, I can focus on my own research.

Which is interesting.

Which should fully distract me.

I just came across a new chapter in a book, talking about a subject that I’m interested in—god objects.

This chapter could explain to me what exactly is up with that golden apple that I have tucked away in a deposit box at Wolf Trust Bank.

But am I poring over every single word in this new chapter?

No, I’m not. I’m staring at the doorway, waiting for Bo to walk through it and ask me a question.

Waiting for him to walk through that doorway and say Mor .

“Mor?”

A shiver travels down my spine and back up into my skull, melting my brain.

“Yes, Bo?”

The monster blinks slowly as he stares at me, as if he briefly forgot whatever question he planned to ask when he entered this room.

But then he clears his throat and makes words with his beautiful voice.

“I was just wondering , after we close the library, would you mind if I took a swim off the dock?”

“Of course not. Our dock is your dock.”

Oh no.

Oh Gods, no. He is going to be wet.

He is going to be in only a bathing suit.

I have found a way to die.

A new way to die.

“Thank you. But I was wondering if it would be an issue if I swam in my other form.” He shifts his feet and ducks his head, as if bracing for a blow.

“It’s supposed to be a cloudy night, so I’m hoping that it might be all right.”

I push my attraction to the back of my mind long enough to really study the man.

The monster.

He’s used to being judged for his other form.

He thinks I’ll deny him the right to be himself.

I step forward on instinct, scooping up one of Bo’s webbed hands.

Then I don’t know what to do with his hand other than give it a firm, reassuring squeeze.

“It is always all right, Bo. You are always all right. Better than all right. You are …” Oh gods, where am I going with this?

His sky-blue eyes are staring at me now, and he has those damn sexy glasses on again, and I’ve never felt so flustered in my life.

“Good,” I blurt.

“I’m good?” His question comes out soft, as if he’s testing the word.

I nod too erratically.

“So good.”

And because I’ve lost hold of myself, I’m almost blinded by the burst of yellow that fills his aura.

The sunshine shade of pure happiness.