Chapter 2
Mystic Hollow Public Library
Daphne hated him on sight.
From behind the counter of the one and only Mystic Hollow library, she watched as he strolled inside. Swaggered, more like. Two steps from tripping over his own ego.
It was December, and the man had the audacity to wear nothing but a white long-sleeve t-shirt with the sleeves pushed up to the elbows, like his corded forearms had immunity from frostbite.
The cotton clung to his chest in a way that made her want to tear it off with her teeth, and the jeans–faded, well-worn, molded to strong legs–looked like they’d survived a brawl or six.
Scarred boots added to the general vibe of hot biker or high-level god, TBD.
Then her eyes had hit his face.
Of course. Of course, he was beautiful. Blond, windblown hair brushing past his shoulders like he’d just stepped off a cliff and couldn’t be bothered to comb it.
Eyes the color of midnight ocean, deep and not altogether friendly, like they’d seen things and probably done worse.
And his mouth, designed by something that understood both sin and beauty, was made for doing wicked things between her legs.
So yeah. The looks checked out. Big time.
The problem was, he wasn’t there for the books.
She’d worked at this library her entire adult life. She knew how people moved through it.
First-timers entered with tentative awe, trying to orient themselves, eyes scanning the carved beams, the unassuming staircase, the comfortable plush chairs in the reading alcoves.
Regulars, on the other hand, walked with a sweet, arrogant familiarity, fingers brushing spines, heading straight for their usual sections, already shedding scarves and coats like it was a second home.
The man moved like neither of them.
He didn’t glance at the shelves. Didn’t look for titles. He didn’t seem to care what the library contained. He moved through her library like a man with a mission and no manners. And when his gaze finally settled on her, she felt it. A pull. Not physical. Something worse.
Recognition.
The kind that says, You’re not a stranger to me. You’re just someone I haven’t ruined for everyone else. Yet.
He walked to her, rested his arms on the counter, and smiled. Damn it if her stupid heart didn’t flutter. She crossed her arms. “You’re not here for the books, so what do you want?”
The smile widened. “Is that how you greet all your patrons, or am I special?”
“You’re something, all right, and that’s loud.” She arched a brow. “Keep your voice down. You want to scream, go to the farmer’s market.”
“Tempting,” he murmured, leaning just a little closer. For a second, she didn’t think he meant the farmer’s market. “But I’m actually here for a very specific piece of information.”
“Try the internet.”
“Doesn’t flirt back nearly as well.”
“No, but it’s full of dudes who think calling a woman babe is foreplay. You’d be just peachy.”
“You’re no babe. More like a shrew.” He grinned, completely unbothered. “I like analog better. Real conversations. Real reactions.”
“Real restraining orders and handcuffs.”
“Only the sexy kind,” he said smoothly. Then added, “Name’s Hunter.”
“Of course it is.”
He tilted his head, amused. “And you are?”
“The woman wondering why a man named after a violent hobby is leaning across her reference desk like it’s a bar.”
He laughed, low and deep, and she hated the way it danced on her skin. “Fair enough. I’m looking for books on dreams.”
She flinched. Just a hitch. A single skipped heartbeat that no normal person would’ve noticed.
Apparently, she wasn’t dealing with a normal person because his eyes narrowed slightly.
He’d seen it, that split-second break in the armor.
But she straightened almost instantly, expression flat.
Her dreams, her nightmares, didn’t get to interfere with her job.
They didn’t get to win. “Any particular kind?” she asked, tone clipped.
“Scientific? Symbolic? Psychological? Or just the what the hell did that teeth-falling-out-thing mean variety?”
“All of the above,” he said, too casually.
She nodded. “Third aisle on the left, back wall. Dream analysis is shelved between sleep disorders and mythological symbols. Jung’s where you’d expect. Freud will probably judge you.”
The flicker of a grin tugged at his mouth. “He seems like the type.”
“Keep your voice down, or he’ll manifest.” She turned before he could respond, already grabbing the clipboard she hadn’t needed in an hour. Busy hands and a focused mind. That was the rule.
Behind her, she felt his attention linger for too long, like he could still see the crack she’d already patched. Let him look. Let him guess. He could chase down all the dream books he wanted. It didn’t mean he’d understand what it felt like to wake up gasping with the taste of ash on your tongue.
She left the desk and walked toward the aisle. Any aisle.
Fuck the nightmares.
This was her library, and nothing followed her into the stacks.
Except him.
Hunter stayed the entire day. He claimed one of the deep alcove chairs by the far window, the one with the warmest afternoon light and the best view of the front desk, and sat there with a short stack of books like he had nowhere better to be.
And he read. And read. And read.
Daphne felt it, though.
Not his gaze, exactly, as much as his awareness, as if he were monitoring her without watching her. It made her skin itch. Or burn. Depending on the hour.
He left three minutes before closing. Not in a rush, but with the purpose of someone who had to be somewhere, all of a sudden. He turned to the counter and her as he passed, flashed her that same infuriatingly confident smile, and said, “I’ll be back tomorrow.”
It wasn’t a promise, nor a threat. It was a fact.
And he came through.
The next day, and the one after that. For a week, every morning like clockwork, he walked in like he belonged, never wearing a jacket or even a sweater.
He’d take the same chair and read from the same rotation of books.
Psychology. Mythology. Neurology. The occasional volume of poetry. Because, of course, he read poetry.
She hated that she noticed.
Hated that she’d started to expect the sound of the door opening at exactly 9:05, the subtle creak of the chair when he sat down, the way her skin buzzed when he was close, even if he said nothing at all.
She hated most that on the day he didn’t come in until noon, she’d caught herself checking the clock more times than she’d ever admit.
Stuck between a rock and a hard place, that’s what she was.
Her instinct told her he wanted something from her, which made no sense at all. For her to address that, she should go up to him and talk–which she would, under different circumstances. But the awareness she seemed to have about him was enough to make her pull up every defense mechanism she had.
So, she didn’t want to go and engage with him and couldn’t kick him out. The library was a public place. No matter how much her heart believed she owned the place, she didn’t, meaning she couldn’t boot him.
The situation was frying her nerves.
She needed to know what he wanted, not just for peace of mind, though that would’ve been nice, but because her gut said he was watching her, studying her.
She knew, even though she’d never once caught him looking in her direction.
No matter. Because when you grew up like she did, you sense trouble like a dog smells a treat.
She spent most of that morning avoiding his corner like it was radioactive.
By eleven, she’d nearly snapped at a kid who dropped a copy of Goosebumps and apologized to a plant for bumping into it. Things were going well.
Damn this man, she had to get clever. Alright. So she would find a way to get him talking without tipping her hand.
She sat at the computer, typed some fake survey questions that would sound like protocol.
She printed a copy and stuck it on a clipboard.
Then she made the walk across the library, casually, as if she were checking lightbulbs, or air quality, or literally anything else.
Her stomach was tight. Her palms were damp. And she strolled on.
She stopped a few feet from his alcove. “You’ve been here a week,” she stated nonchalantly, not like she’d spent six days trying not to think about him.
He looked up from his book, something dense and metaphysical today, and offered her the slow smile of a predator who’d been waiting for the prey to simply present herself to him. “Checking in?” he asked.
She tapped the clipboard. “Library usage survey. It’s for patrons who’ve been around a while.” Not the best line, but plausible. Right?
He tilted his head. “How long does it usually take to qualify?”
She didn’t even blink. “It’s not about the time you spend here. It’s about the usage of the resources.”
He chuckled. “Fair enough. What do you want to know?”
She glanced at the clipboard. “Basic age and profession. Reasons for using the library. Preferred subjects.”
He arched a brow. “Okay.” He didn’t miss a beat and started rattling answers. “Thirty-two. Cognitive sleep therapist. I’m here for anything on sleep patterns, dreaming, lucid states, and memory sequencing. That sort of thing.”
She stared at him. “Cognitive sleep therapist.”
“Mmhmm,” he nodded, calm as ever.
“That’s not a real job.”
“Sure is.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Okay, then. Where do you work?”
“Freelance.” He crossed one long leg, still lounging, not a care in the world. “Mostly from home. Sometimes I consult.”
“You consult.”
“Correct.”
She tapped her pen against the clipboard so fast it might catch fire. “For whom? Pillow manufacturers?”
“No,” he said, as if considering it seriously. “But thank you for the suggestions.”
She scowled. “So let me get this straight. You, a freelance sleep consultant, thirty-two, lover of poetry and anything sleep related, come to the local library every day to research dreams because...?”