Page 12 of Bossy Mountain Daddies (Reverse Harem Mountain Daddies #3)

Ford

W hile I wipe down the bar counter, my eyes drift toward the end of the bar where Reynolds is leaning too far into Skye's personal space. It's my night to close and Griff headed out a few minutes ago.

I cut up some more limes and lemons for tomorrow while keeping an ear tuned to their conversation. Reynolds has had one too many, as usual, but Skye doesn't seem concerned. She's handling him with a grace that suggests this isn't her first encounter with an overeager drunk.

"So why Flounder Ridge? Nobody just ends up here," Reynolds slurs, his elbow slipping on the bar as he tries to prop his chin on his hand. His bloodshot eyes never leave Skye's face.

"Car trouble," she answers, wiping down a nearby table. Her voice carries across the nearly empty bar. "I was heading to Wyoming."

"Wyoming?" Reynolds scoffs. "Nothing in Wyoming but wind and antelope."

She laughs—a genuine sound, not the forced politeness most people offer Reynolds. "And my friend Charlotte," she adds. "She's been trying to get me to visit for months."

I move glasses from the sink to the shelf, arranging them in perfect rows.

Years of bartending have made the motions automatic, freeing my attention to focus on Skye.

Her blonde hair is pulled back in a messy ponytail, wisps escaping to frame her face.

She's got on jeans and a tight tee that hugs her curves.

"What kind of car you got?" Reynolds continues, his fingers tapping against his beer bottle.

"'67 Mustang," she answers, and even from here, I can see the pride in her eyes. "She was my grandfather's."

"No shit?" Reynolds perks up. "Those are beauties. What color?"

"Red. Faded in spots, but still gorgeous."

"What's wrong with her?"

"Head gasket and a cracked cylinder head. Jed's looking for parts."

Reynolds nods like he understands, though I doubt he knows a head gasket from a hole in the ground. "Jed's good people. Best mechanic around." He takes another swig of beer. "So how long you stayin’?"

I tune out momentarily to serve one of our regulars his final whiskey of the night. The old-timer nods his thanks, shoots back the whiskey, and shuffles toward the door. After I watch him go, making sure he's steady on his feet, I find myself listening to Skye and Reynolds conversation again.

"Depends on the parts," she's saying. "Could be another week. Maybe longer."

"Lucky for us," Reynolds says, his voice taking on that tone I've heard a hundred times before—the one he uses when he thinks he's being charming. "Not often we get pretty new faces around here."

I feel my shoulders tense slightly. Reynolds is harmless, mostly—a lonely guy who drinks too much and flirts with anything female. But sometimes he pushes too far, forgetting boundaries in his alcohol-fueled confidence.

Skye doesn't miss a beat. "I'm sure that's not true. Lots of hikers and tourists come through, don't they?"

"Yeah, but they don't stick around." Reynolds leans forward again. "You should stick around. I could show you the sights."

"What sights are those?" she asks, and I detect amusement in her tone rather than discomfort.

"There's the lake—good fishing. And the old mining trails." Reynolds scratches his stubbly chin. "And my trailer's got a great view of the valley."

I set down the glass I've been drying with more force than necessary, drawing Reynolds' bloodshot gaze my way. He has the decency to look slightly embarrassed.

"Just being friendly, Ford," he mutters.

"I'm sure you are," I reply, my tone measured. I glance at Skye, ready to intervene if needed.

But she doesn't need rescuing. "I appreciate the offer, Reynolds, but I don't think I'll have much free time. My schedule's pretty full."

"Maybe next time, then," he says, undeterred.

"Maybe," she agrees noncommittally. "Another beer?"

He shakes his head. "Nah, better not. Got work tomorrow." He stands, swaying slightly. "You're all right, Skye. Not stuck up like some of those city girls."

"Thanks... I think," she replies with a small smile.

Reynolds fumbles for his wallet, pulling out a crumpled twenty. "Keep the change," he says, though his beer cost five dollars.

"That's very generous," Skye says. "Get home safe, okay?"

I watch as she navigates Reynolds toward the door with subtle guidance—a light touch on his elbow, a step in the right direction. It's masterful, really. She's steering him without making it obvious, preserving his dignity while making sure he actually leaves.

Once the door closes behind him, she turns and catches me watching. "What?" she asks, a hint of challenge in her voice.

"Nothing," I say, impressed despite myself. "Just thought you might need backup with Reynolds."

She walks toward the bar, the twenty-dollar bill in her hand. "He's not so bad. Vanna warned me about him my first day. Said he hits on everyone but he’s harmless."

"She's right," I admit, accepting the twenty and making change. "But he can be persistent as hell sometimes."

"I've dealt with worse," Skye says, and I know she’s talking about the asshole bikers who were in earlier. Griff told me the whole story before he left and made me promise to watch over her the rest of the night.

I slide her tip across the bar. "You handled him well."

"Years of practice deflecting unwanted attention," she says with a shrug.

I can't help but smile at that. "I bet." With the way she looks, I’m sure it happens all the time.

She pockets her tip and glances around the nearly empty bar. Two customers remain, nursing their beers in silence while they watch the end of a baseball game on the TV in the corner. "Anything else you need me to do before we close?"

I shake my head. "Just make sure you wipe down all the tables."

She nods and goes to work on the tables we've already cleared. I watch her from the corner of my eye as I count the register. There's something compelling about her—not just her obvious beauty, but the way she carries herself. The quiet confidence. Her obvious emotional intelligence.

I've known her less than a day, but I can already see why Griff seems to be drawn to her. She's like a puzzle with a few missing pieces—intriguing, mysterious. It’s kind of crazy she ended up in our tiny mountain town.

I feel a pull toward her that I haven't felt in a long time, and it's both exhilarating and concerning. Getting involved with someone like her—someone passing through, someone who appears to be already entangled with Griff—would be complicated at best, disastrous at worst.

The last two customers finally drain their beers and head out with a casual wave. I lock the door behind them, flipping the sign to "Closed".

When I turn back, I notice Skye has settled onto a barstool, her cleaning duties apparently complete.

She's reading a paperback, completely absorbed, one finger twirling a strand of hair that's escaped her ponytail.

I'm about to ask if she wants a drink when I catch sight of the book cover.

It's "The Substance of Silence" by Hugo Valentes.

I'd recognize that minimalist blue cover anywhere—I've read my own copy so many times the spine is held together with tape.

"You're reading Valentes?" The question slips out before I can hide my surprise.

Skye looks up, momentarily startled. "Yeah. Have you read this book?"

"Only about twenty times," I admit, moving behind the bar. "Didn't expect you to be reading that."

She marks her place with a receipt and closes the book. "Why not?"

I shrug, trying to appear casual as I wipe down the bar top. "Not exactly bestseller material. Most people have never even heard of him."

"That’s a shame," she says. "Valentes really nailed the complexity of grief in this one. The way he describes that moment when the main character realizes his father's death didn't just take away a person, but a whole future of conversations they'll never have..."

"That passage destroyed me," I say, remembering the exact lines she's referencing. "The part about how grief isn't just for what was, but for what will never be."

Her eyes light up. "Yes! Exactly. My parents died about a year ago, and that part just..." She trails off, vulnerability flickering across her face before she composes herself. "It was like he'd been inside my head."

"I'm sorry about your parents," I offer quietly.

"Thanks." She runs her finger along the edge of the book. "Reading helps. Finding the right words when you don't have your own."

I pour two fingers of bourbon into two glasses without asking if she wants one. She accepts hers with a small nod of thanks.

"What else do you read?" I ask, genuinely curious. I'd assumed someone her age would be glued to their phone, doomscrolling through social media. The thought immediately makes me feel old and judgmental.

"Everything. Classics, contemporary fiction, poetry. Some philosophy when I'm feeling particularly masochistic." Her smile is wry. "I have a master's in literature, so reading is kind of my thing."

I lean against the counter, studying her. The soft bar lighting casts shadows that accentuate the angles of her face. "So who are your favorite authors?"

She takes a sip of bourbon, considering. "Toni Morrison. Márquez. Murakami. Annie Dillard for essays. You?"

"Valentes, obviously. Cormac McCarthy. Kent Haruf for his simple, beautiful sentences. And I have a weakness for Steinbeck that I've never outgrown."

"East of Eden is perfection," she says immediately.

"Timshel," I respond, and she smiles at the reference.

"Thou mayest. The most important words in literature."

I feel something shift in the air between us. Something very possibly dangerous. This woman is not just beautiful—she's brilliant. The combination is intoxicating.

"Why don’t more people talk about books and authors they enjoy?" I ask, refilling our glasses without thinking.

She accepts the second drink without comment. "Yeah, 'what are you reading?' is not your typical opening line."

"Maybe it should be."