Owned In Misty Mountain (Misty Mountain #11)

1. Mike

One

Mike

I’m at The Rusty Elk Tavern, hands wrapped around a cup of coffee, when Clara Montgomery slides into the seat across from me. She owns this place with her husband, Hank.

“Back for good this time?” she asks.

I grunt. “For now.”

I came back to Misty Mountain for peace. To fix things with my hands. I came back because I was tired. Not in the way that sleep fixes—the kind that lives in your bones after two decades of sand, steel, and orders barked through radios.

The army gave me a career, a purpose.

But eventually, I needed air.

Needed space. My mountains. Time to be still.

I bought a cabin outside town. Started a construction business.

Clara studies me like she sees more than I’m saying. Finally, she finishes her tea, stands, and pats my shoulder. “Welcome home, Mike.”

She walks off.

I stare down into my coffee and think about the jobs waiting for me.

Roofs. Siding. Gutters. The library’s storm damage repair. I stand, toss a few bills on the table, and head out.

* * *

The second she opens that damn library door, peace dies a fast, brutal death.

“Hi, Mr. Costa.”

I freeze.

Shanay Williams.

Little Shanay who used to follow me and her uncle around, asking questions about hammers and engine grease, is standing in front of me with a stack of books in her arms and a body that makes my jaw clench.

She’s not little anymore.

She’s soft and curvy and fucking glowing in the soft light of the library entryway. Her curls are pinned up, her glasses sliding down her nose, and her sweater hugs every sweet, full curve like it was made just to tempt me.

I shouldn’t be looking.

I look anyway.

All that smooth brown skin. The dip of her waist. Hips that should be held in big hands. Thighs I want spread wide.

Goddamn.

“Storm took out a chunk of the roof.” She’s talking, casual, like she doesn’t notice the way I’m staring. “Back room’s got a little water damage. Ceiling in the teen section too.”

She turns, walking ahead.

I follow—because I’m incapable of anything else.

Her hips are swaying slightly as she leads me through the building. Not trying to. She doesn’t have to.

“I’m just glad it didn’t hit the storytime corner.” She looks back at me with a small smile. “The little ones would’ve revolted.”

I grunt. That’s about all I’ve got.

Because she’s talking about children and structure integrity and I’m too busy wondering what kind of sounds she makes when she falls apart.

Jesus, Mike. Get your shit together.

She stops in the back room.

Points up.

I should be looking at the roof. I look at her instead.

“This can all be fixed.” My voice comes out lower than I intend. Rougher.

She turns to me fully, arms crossed under those soft tits.

“You sure? I’d hate to have the library collapse on a bunch of first graders.”

“I’ll take care of it.”

Her smile deepens. “You always did fix things.”

I swallow hard.

I used to ruffle her hair and call her kid. Now all I want is to yank her into my arms and put my mouth on her neck until she’s gasping my name.

Her phone buzzes. She checks it, sighs, and murmurs something about the mayor’s assistant needing an update.

“Thanks for coming by, Mr. Costa.”

I nod, stepping back. “It’s Mike.”

She tilts her head. “You sure?”

No.

Not sure of anything anymore.

“I’ll be back tomorrow,” I say. “Bring my crew. Get started on repairs.”

“Good. I’m glad it’s you.”

Then she flashes me a smile—sweet, real, soft as sin.

And I know I’m fucked.