This is one massive cowboy, solid as a tree trunk, with sturdy, broad shoulders—the kind that seem to barely fit between the shelves. Are those biceps of his larger than my head?
I hastily wet my lips, lifting my gaze further, only to find myself staring into warm amber eyes.
This man might appear to be eight feet tall and five hundred pounds from my spot on the floor, yet there’s also something at odds with that imposing stature concealed in his expression. Asif he’s overly conscious of his size and build, as if he’s possibly spent years practicing how to make himself smaller.
He seems to hover, as if trying really hard not to break anything simply by breathing.
I haven’t dared peek in the direction of his hands, but I already know that in proportion to the rest of him, I’ll likely be struggling not to make some sort of ungodly noise when I take in their… size.
Cowboy here looks like he’s trying not to go full-on bull in a china shop. There’s an energy rolling off him that feels comforting that I can’t put my finger on, like he’s truly concerned at the sight of me sitting slumped on the floor.
Although that’s nuts.
Why would he care in the slightest? He’s a complete stranger, after all. Surely he doesn’t give a shit. I’m probably in the way of a shelf he wants to get to.
Cradled in—or should I say dwarfed by—the crook of his arm is a stack of hardcover oversized coffee table books. However, in his hold, they look flimsy and petite. His huge biceps look ready to split the seam on his jacket without warning.
Why does that make my stomach do a big ol’ swoop?
Swapping his toffee color cowboy hat into the other hand, he rubs over the back of his neck. Still studying me with a little crease between his brows, he crouches down, bringing us close to eye level with one another. Sweet Jesus, that only makes the whole thigh-jeans-don’t-stare-at-his-groin situation even more impossible to navigate.
“Is everything okay, ma’am? Are you feeling alright?”
Oh. Yeah. The wholeI’m on the floorsituation. Meanwhile, I’m staring at him with my mouth hanging open and probably have a puddle of drool collecting in my lap.
“I just… I just needed a minute,” I croak. “The floor seemed like as good a place as any to get my bearings.”
Creases deepen around the corner of his eyes. Lines that speak a little to his age, the kind of distinguished tells, that pair oh so very nicely with the silver lining his temples. Those hints of gray are incredibly sexy among strands of dirty blond. His hair is cropped short on the sides with the length left a little longer on the top, enough slight tousle to it that it would be easy to sift your fingers absently through those strands.
All that heady masculine energy rolling off him catches me in a trance, so much so that I’m outright staring, not just at his head of hair, but the stubble lining his strong jaw, too. One that hasn’t seen a razor for a few days. The longer I look, the more I notice there’s also salt-and-pepper gray there. God, he’s something straight off the silver screen, quite literally. Older and most certainlywiserfrom the looks of him.
“Here for the holidays?” His voice is rich and deep, a gentleness in his question that somehow makes it seem completely normal to find ourselves both on the floor in a quaint bookstore, surrounded by book covers featuring half-naked man chests.
I hastily swallow and drag my eyes up to meet his. Now would be an excellent time to stop imagining how good his stubble would feel dragging over my skin. “Uhh… staying here for a couple of days?”
“You’re not sure?” He shifts his immense bulk, still crouched down on his haunches, and starts to pick up the dropped books scattered beside my hip. Heat surges up my cheeks when I realize he’s probably had a front row seat to a view of my stockings and right up my skirt.
Quickly tucking the plaid fabric down, I let out an awkward laugh. “No… I am staying… I’m just not sure I want to, if that makes sense?—”
Oh god. I damn near swallow my tongue.
As I’ve been stammering, this dreamboat cowboy has started looking at the covers of each of my books.
One by one, he picks them up in his—yep, checks notes, confirmed to beenormous—hands and then graces me with an arched eyebrow.
“Milking the two Minotaurs.”
Hit me with a shovel.
“Entangled with the tentacle Kings.”
Hand me the arsenic.
And as he glances over the third book, the corner of his stubble-coated mouth twitches. “Double Pucking in her Penalty Box.”
Let me wither and die.
His big paw reaches out, carefully sliding the books back into my hands.
