Page 14 of Bossy Mountain Daddies (Reverse Harem Mountain Daddies #3)

Skye

I jolt awake with my heart hammering. The remnants of a dream I was having still clings to me like dog shit on the bottom of my shoe.

Daniel stood at an altar, Alicia beside him in a wedding gown that looked exactly like one I'd once shown him in a magazine. The details are already fading, but the helplessness—the way my legs refused to move when I tried to run—that feeling is still disturbingly vivid.

And my legs. God, my legs. No matter how much I willed them to move, to carry me away from that shit show, they remained rooted to the spot, heavy as concrete pillars.

Everyone was watching me, smiling too much, eyes glittering with twisted delight.

She got what was yours, those eyes seemed to say. Better luck next time.

I push the covers off and sit up, running my fingers through my tangled hair. I stand up and push back the curtains. The mountains outside my window are still shrouded in pre-dawn darkness, just hulking shadows against a dark sky.

I pull on sweatpants and a sweatshirt, deciding that coffee with extra cream and sugar might wash away the bitter taste the dream has left behind.

The wooden stairs creak beneath my bare feet as I descend to the bar.

When I push through the swinging kitchen door, I'm not expecting the light that greets me, spilling across the stainless steel countertops.

And I'm definitely not expecting Buck, perched on a stool at the center island, his massive hands carefully creating something small and blue.

He looks up, those startlingly blue eyes finding mine. "Morning, sunshine," he says, his voice a low rumble that fills the kitchen. "You're up early."

"I could say the same to you," I manage, suddenly conscious of my messy hair. "Sorry, I didn't think anyone would be here. I was just going to make some coffee."

"Help yourself." He gestures toward the industrial coffee machine in the corner. "I just put muffins in the oven. Blueberry. Should be done in about fifteen minutes if you want one."

I nod, grateful for the task of making coffee to hide my discomfort.

"Couldn't sleep?" he asks as I measure coffee grounds into the filter.

"Bad dream," I admit, not turning around. "You?"

"I'm always up this early," he says. "Best time of day. Quiet. No one needing anything from you. Just peace and coffee and time to think."

When I turn back, coffee brewing behind me, I take a better look at what he's doing. The needles click softly in his hands—huge hands that somehow manage to manipulate the thin metal with precision and grace. It looks like he’s knitting a hat and it’s small enough to fit in his palm.

"That's really small," I say, nodding toward the hat.

A smile creases his face, softening the hard angles. "It's for the babies at Mountain View Hospital. Preemies mostly. Their heads are tiny." He holds it up against his palm for scale. "Sometimes no bigger than this."

I pull up a stool across from him, fascinated by the fact that this giant of a man is creating something so delicate.

"I’m surprised you know how to knit," I say.

His shoulders lift in a slight shrug. "Not something I advertise. The guys love to give me shit about it." There's no real concern in his voice, just amusement. "But yet, they love the hats I’ve made for them and wear them all winter long."

The coffee finishes brewing, its rich aroma filling the kitchen and mingling with the sweet smell of the muffins. I pour two mugs, sliding one across to Buck. He nods his thanks, his fingers never pausing in their rhythmic movement.

“Cream and sugar?” I ask, grabbing the cream from the refrigerator.

“No,” he responds. “I’m a black coffee kind of guy.”

"How many of those do you make?" I ask, wrapping my hands around the warm mug.

"About ten a month. More in winter." His eyes remain on his work, but a small smile plays at the corners of his mouth.

I watch his hands move, the needles clicking in a soothing pattern. There's something hypnotic about it, something that makes the lingering unease from my dream recede like mist in sunlight.

"Did your mom teach you?" I ask.

He chuckles, the sound warm and genuine. "No. My grandmother. Mom was working three jobs when I was little. Grandma Sadie practically raised us."

The timer on the oven beeps, and Buck sets down his knitting, sliding off the stool with surprising grace for someone his size. He grabs oven mitts—comically small against his massive hands—and pulls out a tray of golden-brown muffins that look like they belong in a bakery window.

"Those smell amazing," I say, inhaling deeply.

"Secret recipe." He winks, setting the tray on a cooling rack. "Grandma Sadie’s actually. Though I've tweaked it over the years."

As he returns to his stool and picks up the knitting again, I find myself studying him.

The tattoo sleeve on his right arm tells stories—images of mountains, what might be a family crest, words in a script too elaborate to decipher from this distance.

His salt-and-pepper hair is cropped close to his head, emphasizing the strong line of his jaw and the slight crow's feet around his eyes that deepen when he smiles.

"So, bad dream, huh?" he asks, those blue eyes flicking up to meet mine briefly before returning to the hat. "Wanna talk about it?"

I take a sip of coffee, considering. "My ex was in it. And my ex-boss. They were getting married." The words sound ridiculous now. "I was in the wedding party, for some reason. You know how dreams are sometimes…"

"Your subconscious has a twisted sense of humor," Buck says.

"Yeah, well, it's not that far off from reality. They're probably together right now as we speak." I stare into my coffee. "The worst part in the dream was I couldn't leave. My legs wouldn't work."

"Classic anxiety dream," Buck says. "Feeling trapped. Powerless."

I look up, surprised by his insight. "Yeah, exactly."

"I used to have dreams like that after my dad left." He ties off a section of the hat with practiced movements. "Except in mine, I was trying to follow him down the street, and I kept trying to call out to him, but no sound would come out of my mouth."

There's something about the casual way he offers this piece of himself—this vulnerability—that makes me feel less alone. Less like the girl who fled her life last week and more like someone who's simply sharing a quiet moment with a friend.

"The muffins should be cool enough to eat now," Buck says, nodding toward the tray. "Grab a couple? There’s butter in the fridge."

I stand to get the plates, butter and muffins and bring them back to the counter.

"So how did your grandmother convince you to take up knitting?" I ask, slathering a muffin with butter. "I can't imagine many kids would be up for that." I'm genuinely curious—both about the story and about this surprising side of Buck that seems so at odds with his intimidating appearance.

Buck laughs, the sound deep and rich. "She didn't give me much choice. I was eight, bouncing off the walls with too much energy and no father around to beat it out of me. She said I needed something to keep my hands busy and out of trouble."

He turns the tiny blue hat in his hands, examining his work. "She sat me down at her kitchen table one afternoon when I'd broken a window playing baseball in the house. Put needles in my hands and said, 'Either you learn this, or I'll tell your mother about the window.' Blackmail, basically."

I smile, picturing a miniature version of Buck, all gangly limbs and restless energy, forced to sit still and learn something so intricate.

"Did you hate it?" I ask, taking a bite of muffin and practically groaning with pleasure. “Oh my god, this is good…”

He smiles proudly and continues with his story.

"At first, yeah. But once I got past the frustration of learning, it was.

.. calming. And Grandma Sadie was smart—she made me feel like it was this secret manly skill.

Told me sailors used to knit their own socks on long voyages.

And that old Scottish fishermen knit their own sweaters. "

"Clever woman."

"She was a firecracker," Buck says, affection evident in his voice. "Played pool with the best of them, taking their money left and right. She was also the queen of darts. Used to play at all the local bars."

He looks up and his eyes meet mine briefly, and something warm unfurls in my chest.

I look away quickly, feeling my face flush. "What about your brothers? Did they learn too?"

He snorts. "Not a chance. They were older, already out in the world causing real trouble. I was the baby of the family—the one she thought she might still be able to save."

"How many siblings do you have?"

"Four brothers plus Vanna," he says. "All of us guys tall and hungry as wolves. Dinnertime was like a battle zone."

I try to imagine it—a table full of Buck-sized men, all grabbing for food and poor Vanna grabbing whatever she could. "That must have been chaotic."

"That's putting it mildly." He sets his knitting aside and picks up his muffin to butter it.

"Grandma Sadie would make these huge pots of soup or stew, and it was every man for himself.

You either ate fast or you didn't eat at all.

" He shakes his head, smiling at the memory.

"My oldest brother, Jake, once stabbed Greg's hand with a fork for trying to take the last pork chop. "

"Seriously?"

"Oh yeah. Drew blood and everything. Mom made them wash dishes together for a month as punishment. They're still arguing about whose pork chop it was, twenty-five years later."

I laugh, trying to picture it. "I can't even imagine. I was an only child. Dinners at my house were so quiet—just me and my parents."

Buck takes a bite of his muffin, watching me. "That has its own challenges, I bet. All their attention focused on just you."

"Yeah. It was... intense sometimes. They had big dreams for me. College, career. A big wedding. Kids."

"You said had. Are they not around anymore?" he says quietly.

I shake my head. "Car accident. A year ago. Drunk driver crossed the median on the highway." The words come out flat. I've said them so many times they've almost lost their ability to wound me.

"I'm sorry, Skye." His voice is gentle. "That's a hell of a thing to go through."

"Thanks." I take a sip of coffee. "It's strange, not having them around anymore. Like I'm untethered somehow."

He doesn't offer platitudes or try to tell me it gets better with time. He just nods, his eyes never leaving my face. "I lost my grandmother five years ago. That’s different because she was old and lived a long life, but I know that untethered feeling. Like your anchor's gone."

"Exactly." I feel a rush of gratitude for him. "Everyone expected me to 'move on' after a few months. Like grief has some kind of expiration date."

"People are uncomfortable with grief," Buck says. "They want you to hurry up and get back to normal so they don't have to think about their own mortality."

His words hit me hard. That's exactly it—the pressure to heal so people aren’t uncomfortable around you.

Buck picks up his knitting again, his hands working with such gentle precision.

"Want to learn?" he asks, gesturing with the needles. "It's good for processing grief. Keeps your hands busy while your mind works through things."

I hesitate. "I'm not very crafty."

"Neither was I at eight years old," he says with a shrug. "But if I could learn, anyone can."

"Okay." I slide off my stool and move around the counter to stand beside him. "Show me."

He pushes the blue hat aside and grabs a ball of soft yellow yarn from a bag near his feet. "We'll start with something easy. Just the basic stitch."

Buck slides off his stool, standing close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his body. He hands me the needles, then reaches for my hands.

"Hold them like this," he says, his fingers wrapping around mine to position the needles. His hands are warm and calloused in places. "Not too tight. You want to be able to move."

I try to focus on what he's showing me, but I'm distracted by our proximity, by the smell of him—coffee and cinnamon and something spicy. His fingers brush against my wrists as he adjusts my grip, and my pulse jumps beneath his touch.

"Now watch," he says, his voice low near my ear. He guides my right hand through a motion, the yarn looping around the needle. "Under, around, through, and off. That's all there is to it."

His chest presses lightly against my back as he reaches around to show me again. I can feel the steady rhythm of his breathing, the solid warmth of him. Something flutters in my stomach and I try to push it aside.

"You try," he murmurs, loosening his grip but keeping his hands hovering near mine.

I fumble through the motions, dropping the yarn. "Sorry."

"Don’t apologize." His chuckle vibrates through me. "Nobody gets it right the first time."

He helps me try again. On my third attempt, I manage to create something that resembles a stitch.

"There you go," he says, and I can hear the smile in his voice. "You're a natural."

I snort. "Liar."

"Okay, not a natural. But persistent. That's more important anyway."

We continue like this for several minutes, his hands occasionally guiding mine when I get stuck. Each time he touches me, awareness prickles across my skin.

“I’m going to deliver the hats I’ve made to the hospital soon. Let me know if you want to join me.”

“I’d love to if I’m still here.” The thought of leaving surprisingly makes me feel sad. But, staying here isn’t an option, right? That’s a crazy idea…

I finally set the needles down. "I’m going to have another muffin before they get cold."

"Good idea." Buck returns to his stool, picking up his own muffin.

I take a bite of the second muffin and immediately close my eyes in appreciation. It’s bursting with blueberries, with a crunchy sugared top that dissolves on my tongue. "Oh my god," I mumble around the mouthful. "They really are incredible."

Buck looks pleased. "Told you. Have more if you’d like."

"If this bar thing doesn't work out, you could make a fortune selling these." I take another bite, savoring the amazing-ness.

"I'll keep that in mind." He laughs and finishes his own muffin in two large bites, then wipes his hands on a kitchen towel. "I should start prep for breakfast. We open in a couple hours."

I nod, suddenly reluctant to end this quiet moment between us. "Can I help?"

He studies me for a second, then smiles. "Sure. You can chop vegetables for the omelets if you want."

As I wash my hands at the sink, I realize the dream that woke me—Daniel and Alicia and that paralyzing helplessness—feels distant now, replaced by the simple pleasure of warm muffins, gentle conversation, and the surprising intimacy of learning to knit from a man with the biggest hands and even bigger heart.