4. Shanay
Four
Shanay
I make it exactly five minutes before I stop pretending to shelve books and just… watch him.
Six-foot-plus, broad as a barn, grumpy as hell—and somehow, all of that only makes him hotter.
He’s up on a ladder in the teen section, arms lifted overhead, shirt riding up just enough to show a sliver of hard stomach and golden skin that’s going to star in my fantasies for a long time.
I have no business looking at this man the way I am.
But how am I supposed to not ?
His forearms flex every time he drills.
His thighs are thick. Powerful. Spread wide for balance, and now all I can think about is how they’d feel caging me.
The calluses on his hands make me wonder how they’d feel dragging down my stomach, gripping my hips, pushing my legs apart—
“Hi, Shanay.”
I jump so hard I drop a paperback on my foot.
It’s one of his crew, smiling at me.
I clear my throat and smile back. “Sorry. Zoned out.”
Mike glances over his shoulder.
Just one look.
One long, slow sweep of his eyes down my body and back up again…
I go up in flames.
“Watch it,” he mutters to the guy who startled me.
My knees go weak.
I need to get it together.
I duck behind a shelf and start reshelving a stack of returns, mostly just so I can stare through the gaps and get a better view.
Mike’s got the sleeves of his thermal rolled up, and his biceps are ridiculous—cut, tanned, and veined like he was hand-carved out of wood and testosterone.
One of the other guys cracks a joke.
Mike doesn’t laugh.
He just grunts.
And I almost moan.
That voice.
Low, rough, like he growled it straight into my ear.
The kind of voice that makes you say yes even when you don’t know the question.
“Can I get you anything?” I ask a little too brightly, reappearing like I wasn’t totally spying. “Water? Coffee?”
He arches a brow at me.
God, he’s hot.
“I’m fine,” he says. But his gaze drags down my body again. This time slower. Hungrier. Like maybe he’s not as fine as he pretends.
“I’m gonna go…” I point vaguely.
What the hell is going on?…
* * *
I stay late to finish some files.
The storm damage paperwork is due tomorrow, and the distraction that is Mike Costa didn’t exactly help my productivity.
By the time I lock up, it’s foggy and freezing. My boots slide a little on the damp sidewalk, and before I can brace myself—
My heel catches.
I slip.
But a solid arm wraps around my waist before I hit the ground.
Hard body. Warm hands.
Chest like a damn wall.
Mike.
“Jesus,” he mutters, one arm banded across my lower back, the other gripping my hip like I’m about to try and run.
“I—I slipped,” I stammer. I’m not even cold anymore. I’m melting.
Another grunt.
He doesn’t let go.
And I don’t ask him to.
His chest is against mine.
His thigh brushes between mine.
And he smells like sawdust, man, and the exact kind of mistake I want to make.
“You okay?” he asks, voice rougher now.
I can only nod, breathless and speechless.
That gets a twitch of his mouth—something close to a smile.
Then I don’t know who leans in first.
But suddenly we’re closer.
Breathing the same air.
And his gaze drops to my mouth like he’s thinking about tasting it.
He blinks hard. Takes a step back.
“Be careful.”
Then he turns and stalks off like he didn’t just cradle me like I was something precious.
Like I’m not already soaked and throbbing in every spot that counts.
I stare after him, heart racing, legs shaking, absolutely ruined.