2. Shanay
Two
Shanay
The second the door closes behind him, I exhale like I’ve been holding my breath for ten years.
Which is about how long I’ve had a thing for Mike Costa.
Except back then, it was innocent.
Now?
Now it’s not even close.
I press my back to the wall and stare at the space where he was just standing. That towering frame. Those rough hands. The way he said “It’s Mike” like he was daring me to call him that.
And those eyes.
God, those eyes.
As soon as the door shuts behind him, I sag against the nearest bookshelf like it might hold me up.
It doesn’t.
Nothing could.
I force myself to move, my shoes making soft taps against the floor as I walk back toward the circulation desk. My skin still feels too warm. My throat too tight.
This is fine. I’m fine.
He’s just my uncle’s best friend. A family friend. Practically an uncle.
A grumpy, broad-shouldered, completely unfairly hot uncle.
Stop it.
I drop the clipboard onto the desk and sink into my chair, tugging my cardigan tight around me like that’s going to help with the heat pooling between my thighs.
Mike Costa just walked into my library like he wasn’t a walking, talking reminder of every dirty thought I’ve ever had in my life.
He’s… bigger.
That’s the first thing that hits me.
Tall enough that I had to tilt my head back to meet his eyes.
Broad enough that he filled the entire doorway, like the building had to stretch around him to let him in.
And his shoulders? Jesus.
Wide. Solid.
That black thermal shirt he wore clung to him in all the worst—or best—ways. It stretched across his thick chest and hugged arms that looked like they could bench-press a tree.
His biceps flexed with the smallest movement.
His forearms were roped with muscle, tanned and dusted with just the right amount of hair.
And his hands…
Big. Calloused. Veined.
The kind of hands that could break things—or hold you down and ruin you slowly.
I press my thighs together and pretend I’m not doing it.
His beard is fuller now. A little darker, flecked with silver that only makes him hotter.
There’s a scar above his right brow I don’t remember from years ago, and when he looks at you—really looks—it’s like he’s reading every thought you’ve ever had.
He used to ruffle my hair and call me trouble.
God help me.
He stood in front of me like a mountain.
Still. Silent. Intimidating.
I don’t know if he realizes it, but the entire energy in the room bent around him.
He didn’t even try.
Didn’t need to.
He just stared—those deep, unreadable eyes sweeping over me.
My hands shake as I close the back room door and make my way to the front of the library.
I need air. A drink. A time machine. Something.
Instead, I sink behind my desk and pretend I can focus on emails.
I click the same one open three times.
His voice is still ringing in my ears.
Low. Rough. That slight rasp at the edge. Like he’s used to barking orders and doesn’t know how to talk soft.
He said it’s Mike.
Not Mr. Costa. Just… Mike.
My fingers curl against the armrest.
I should’ve called him that.
I said, I’m glad it’s you, and meant it with my whole chest.
Because I am.
Even if every part of him is a reminder that I’m still a virgin, still way out of my depth, and still completely wrecked by a man I shouldn’t want.
He’s my uncle’s best friend.
He’s way too old.
Too big.
Too intense.
Too much.
And I want him anyway.
I click through emails like my hands aren’t shaking. Like I’m not already counting the hours until he comes back.
He said he’d be here tomorrow.
Which means I have one night to get myself together before he walks through that door again.
And I have no damn idea how I’m supposed to act normal around a man who makes me forget how to breathe.