Page 4 of The Mafia King's Reign
"Come on," I mutter under my breath, reaching a little higher.
The book wobbles again.
Then suddenly the weight disappears from my hands.
A large hand reaches past me and lifts the book easily, sliding it into place as if it weighs nothing after I struggled for three minutes straight.
I freeze.
His arm lowers slowly after setting the book down, and the faint brush of his sleeve grazes my shoulder.
I turn around quickly.
"Thank you." The words stall in my throat because now I'm looking at all of him.
I look back down at the shelf.
Then immediately look back up, because I'm only human.
He's so handsome I could barely compose myself. Strong jaw. Dark eyes. The kind of face you see on the cover of a magazine and assume has been heavily edited, except apparently not, because he's standing in my library looking like that in real life with no warning whatsoever.
His charcoal suit fits him like it was tailored for him alone, the fabric hugging his broad shoulders in a way that feels almost unfair. He’s wearing a sleek Rolex watch catching the light as he moves his wrist. But what really draws my attention are the dark lines of ink peeking out beneath it, tattoos slipping beneath the cuff of his sleeve and disappearing into the sleeve of his suit jacket, hinting at something far more dangerous beneath all that polish.
His eyes settle on me with quiet amusement, like he caught the entire struggle from start to finish and enjoyed every second of it.
A slow smile curls at the corner of his mouth, and to my complete embarrassment, warmth creeps across my cheeks as I catch myself smiling back.
"Looked like you could use a little backup."
The deep warmth of his voice sends an unexpected shiver down my spine.
I tuck a loose strand of hair behind my ear, suddenly very aware of how close we're still standing. He hasn't stepped back.
"Well." I clear my throat. "The shelves weren't designed with my height in mind."
His gaze flicks briefly to the top shelf, then back to me. Unhurried. Like he has nowhere else to be and has decided this aisle is exactly where he wants to spend his afternoon.
"Good thing I showed up then."
The way he says it makes it sound like more than a joke. And for some reason, standing this close to him, my heart decides to start beating a little faster.
I take a small step back. Professional. Composed.
"Can I help you find something?" I ask.
"Already found what I was looking for."
His gaze lingers on mine a second too long before he glances toward the shelves.
"This is the history section, right?"
"Yes." I turn back toward the shelves before his gaze pulls me in any further.
Who is this guy? Men like him don't wander into public libraries in New Jersey on a random afternoon.
And yet.
"I wanted something specific," he says, "or should I trust the librarian?"
