Page 15 of Bossy Mountain Daddies (Reverse Harem Mountain Daddies #3)

Griff

I wipe down the bar as the lunch crowd thins out, my eyes drifting to Skye across the room. She's refilling salt shakers, head bent in concentration, a strand of blonde hair falling across her face. Something twists in my chest when she tucks it behind her ear without looking up.

Last night replays in my mind—her skin under my hands, the sounds she made, the way she curled against me after. Christ, I'm in trouble here.

We’d worked together and then, after our shift was through, she took my hand and led me upstairs to her room. Who was I to say no? Her pull is too strong.

The morning shift had been steady but manageable.

Buck emerged from the kitchen around eight, exchanging some private joke with Skye that made her laugh—a genuine, head-thrown-back laugh that drew every eye in the place.

I caught Buck watching her after she’s moved on to take a customer’s order.

Can't blame him. There's just something about her. ..

"We're almost done here," I say, tossing the rag over my shoulder. Mondays are typically slow, which is why I'd planned to take the afternoon for myself.

Skye glances up, catching me watching her. Instead of looking away, I hold her gaze. A small smile plays at the corners of her mouth, and heat crawls up my neck like I'm some teenage boy caught staring at his crush.

"Need help with anything else?" she asks.

"Think we're good." I motion toward the register. "You mind closing out while I finish the inventory list?"

She nods, sliding behind the bar with easy familiarity, like she's been working here for years instead of days. I try not to stare at her ass in those jeans as she walks past me, but I'm only human.

In the storeroom, I count bottles of liquor, marking numbers on a clipboard.

My mind wanders to the waterfall, tucked away in the mountains about thirty minutes from here.

It's my thinking spot—where I go when I need to clear my head or make a tough decision.

The ride up there, the pine-scented air rushing past, the road snaking through mountains—it's the best kind of meditation I know.

Today I need it more than usual. Because of her. Because of whatever this is between us. Because in a few days or weeks, her car will be fixed, and she'll be gone. I've had my share of brief encounters, but this one feels different. It’s got me feeling off-kilter.

When I return to the bar, Skye's leaning against the counter, scrolling through her phone. She looks up when I approach, tucking it into her back pocket.

"All done with the register," she says. "Shift report is under the till."

"Thanks." I say, setting the clipboard on the bar. The place is empty now except for us and Buck. I can hear him in the kitchen, prepping for dinner, the clang of pots like distant thunder.

Skye tilts her head and looks up at me. "What are you up to this afternoon?"

The question catches me off guard, though it shouldn't. It's casual, the kind of thing you ask someone you work with at the end of your shift.

"Heading up to this waterfall I know," I say, rolling down my sleeves. "It's about thirty minutes from here, up in the mountains. I like to ride up there when I have time off. Clear my head."

"Ride? Like, a motorcycle?"

I nod. "Harley Softail. Nothing fancy, but she runs smooth."

Skye's eyebrows lift slightly. "I pictured you as more of a truck guy."

"Got one of those too," I admit. "But nothing beats the bike on a day like today."

She glances toward the windows. "It is gorgeous out."

"Ever been on a motorcycle?" I ask, an idea forming as the words leave my mouth.

She shakes her head, a small crease appearing between her eyebrows. "No. They've always seemed kind of... dangerous."

"They can be," I concede. "In the wrong hands."

Her eyes meet mine, curious. "Are your hands the right ones?"

The question hangs in the air between us, loaded with more meaning than she probably intended. I think of my hands on her body last night, how they seemed to know exactly where to touch, how she responded to every stroke.

"Been riding twenty years without an accident," I say, keeping my voice steady. "Know the roads around here better than I know just about anything."

"You want to come with me?" I ask before I can talk myself out of it. "It's a nice ride. Beautiful views."

Surprise crosses her features, followed by interest. Then hesitation shadows her eyes. "I don't know..."

"No pressure," I add quickly. "Just thought you might enjoy getting out, seeing more of the area than just the bar and Jed's garage."

She bites her lower lip, considering. "Is it scary? Riding on the back?"

"Some people think so, at first," I say honestly. "But most end up loving it. The freedom of it. Nothing between you and the world but open air."

She's quiet for a moment, and I prepare myself for her polite refusal. Instead, she surprises me.

"Okay," she says, a small smile forming. "Why not?"

Something light and warm expands in my chest. "Yeah?"

"Yeah." Her smile widens. "But if I hate it, you owe me dinner."

"Deal." I return her smile, trying to ignore how goddamn happy I feel about spending the afternoon with her. "I'll grab some things for a picnic. Pack a sweater—it gets cooler up there, even on hot days."

"A picnic?" She looks pleased. "That sounds nice."

"Nothing fancy," I warn her. "Just something to eat by the water."

"I'm not exactly used to fancy these days," she says with a laugh. "When do we leave?"

"Give me half an hour to get everything ready?" I'm already making mental notes—food, drinks, the blanket I keep in the office closet.

"I'll go change," she says, already moving toward the stairs.

I watch her go, thinking about how she'll feel pressed against my back, arms around my waist, the wind whipping through her hair. I'm definitely in trouble here. But as I head to the kitchen to raid the fridge, I can't bring myself to care.

Twenty minutes later, Skye emerges wearing jeans, boots, and a light sweater tied around her waist, just like I suggested.

Her hair's pulled back in a ponytail, practical for the ride.

She looks nervous but determined, her chin lifted in that way I'm starting to recognize—it’s the look she gets when she's pushing herself out of her comfort zone.

"Ready?" I ask, shouldering the backpack I've packed with the blanket, sandwiches, fruit, and a couple beers.

"I think so," she says, eyeing the Harley parked in front of the bar. "That's bigger than I expected."

I run my hand over the leather seat, feeling a familiar pride. Then, I toss the backpack into the top box. "This old girl's carried me across half the country. She's solid." I pause, watching Skye's expression. "Listen, before we go, I thought we could walk over to Jed's and check on your car."

Skye’s face lights up. "That’d be great. I've been meaning to stop by to see how it’s going."

We walk the short distance to Jed's garage, Skye keeping pace beside me. Main Street's quiet, just a few locals nodding as we pass. I'm acutely aware of Skye beside me, and how easily she's slipped into the rhythm of this town.

Jed's bent over the open hood of a Honda when we walk in, cigarette dangling from his lips. He straightens when he sees us, wiping his hands on a rag.

"Well, if it ain't the bar crew," he says, eyes crinkling at the corners. "Come to check on your baby?"

Skye nods, moving toward the far corner of the garage where her Mustang sits.

"Any luck with the parts?" she asks, running her hand along the hood like she's soothing a sick child.

Jed takes a drag of his cigarette. "Got a lead on that cylinder head. Guy in Utah thinks he might have one that'll fit. Been going back and forth on measurements."

"That's good news, right?" Skye looks between us, hopeful.

"Could be," Jed says carefully. "If it's the right one, and if it's in decent shape. Still need to track down a few other bits and pieces, but it's progress."

I watch Skye's expression, the mix of relief and something else.

I feel a twist in my gut at the thought of her car getting fixed, of her driving away.

It's selfish as hell. She doesn't belong here.

She has a life waiting for her, plans that existed long before her car broke down in our little town.

"How long do you think?" I ask, the question coming out rougher than I intended.

Jed shrugs. "Week, maybe two at the outside. Depends on shipping, condition of the parts when they arrive."

Skye nods, accepting this. "Thanks for working so hard on it, Jed."

"She's a beauty," Jed says, nodding at the Mustang. "Worth the effort."

We say our goodbyes, and as we walk back toward my bike, I notice Skye's gone quiet.

"You okay?" I ask.

"Yeah," she says, then laughs softly. "Just trying to wrap my head around the idea of getting on that thing."

I stop beside the Harley, turning to face her. "Listen, I need you to know something. Your safety is the most important thing. If at any point you want me to slow down, or stop, or turn around—you just tap my shoulder, okay? I'll feel it."

Her eyes meet mine, searching. "Okay."

"And hold on tight. Don't be shy about it. The closer you are to me, the more stable you'll feel."

She nods, a slight blush coloring her cheeks. "Got it."

I hand her the extra helmet I grabbed from the storage room, watching as she fits it over her head. I adjust the strap for her, my fingers brushing against her skin.

"How does it feel?" I ask.

"Weird," she admits. "But secure."

I put on my own helmet, then swing my leg over the bike. "Hop on behind me, and put your feet on those pegs there."

She hesitates, then awkwardly climbs on, her hands settling lightly on my waist.

I twist to look at her. "You're gonna want to hold on tighter than that when we get moving."

"I don't want to crush you with my death grip," she says.

I laugh. "Trust me, you won't."