Page 18 of Bossy Mountain Daddies (Reverse Harem Mountain Daddies #3)

"Tomorrow," I echo stupidly, watching as he nods to Vanna and heads out the door.

When I turn back, Vanna is watching me with a softer expression. "He's a good one," she says simply. "Rough on the outside, but solid gold underneath."

I nod, not trusting myself to speak.

"I'm going up to change," I say, already moving toward the stairs. "Be back down for dinner in a bit."

In my small room, I peel off my clothes, which smell faintly of lake water. My body aches pleasantly, little reminders of the afternoon. In the shower, I watch as pine needles and bits of grass wash down the drain, evidence of our makeshift bed by the waterfall.

What am I doing? This wasn't part of the plan. Get my car fixed, get to Wyoming, figure out my life—that was the agenda. Nowhere on that list was "have mind-blowing sex with the incredibly hot bar owner." And yet, here I am, unable to stop replaying every moment of our afternoon together.

I pull on clean jeans and a white t-shirt, run a brush through my hair, and dab on some tinted lip balm.

When I head back downstairs, the dinner crowd is starting to trickle in.

Vanna is now taking orders from a family with two young children, and Buck's voice booms from the kitchen, letting her know there’s a pickup ready.

Behind the bar stands Ford, arranging bottles with the precision of an art curator.

He looks up as I approach. "Evening, Skye," he says, setting down the bottle of bourbon he was examining. "Can I get you something to drink? Or are you working tonight?"

"Just a customer tonight," I say, sliding onto a barstool.

He nods, reaching for a glass. "What's your pleasure?"

The question feels loaded somehow, his eyes holding mine a beat too long. "Wine, I think. Red if you have something decent."

His mouth quirks up at the corner. "We may be a mountain dive bar, but we do have standards." He selects a bottle from behind the bar. "This is a nice pinot noir. Not too heavy for a warm evening."

As he uncorks the bottle, I notice a small book tucked beside the register. It's worn at the edges, clearly well-loved. "What are you reading?" I ask.

He glances at the book, a flash of something—embarrassment, maybe?—crossing his features. "Just some poetry. Keeps me company during slow periods."

"May I?" I reach for the book, and he hesitates briefly before sliding it toward me.

It's a collection of Mary Oliver poems, pages dog-eared and margins filled with neat handwriting. I open to a marked page and read the underlined passage aloud: "'Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?'"

I look up to find Ford watching me intently. "Do you have an answer?" I ask.

He pours my wine. "I used to think I did. Then I realized I was living someone else's answer."

I appreciate the simple honesty of his response. "And now?"

"Now I'm figuring it out day by day." He leans against the back counter, arms folded across his chest. "What about you? What do you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?"

I take a sip of wine, buying time. It's good—rich and smooth and a little spicy. "I thought I knew," I admit. "Find the right job, marry the right guy, have some babies. But now..."

"Now you're not so sure?" he asks.

"Yes," I say. "Everything has changed so much recently."

He picks up the book, flipping through until he finds another page. "Here—'The world offers itself to your imagination, calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting.'"

The words resonate with me. "That's beautiful."

"Oliver understood something essential about life," Ford says, his voice taking on a passionate edge that I find incredibly attractive. "That paying attention—really paying attention—is a form of prayer."

"I've never thought of it that way," I say, leaning forward, drawn into the conversation. "But I think you're right. It's about being present in the moment, isn't it? Not just rushing through to get to some imagined future."

His eyes light up. "Exactly. So much of modern life is about distraction—phones, social media, constant noise. We've forgotten how to just be still and notice."

We fall into a deep discussion about poetry, about the way certain writers capture universal truths in such simple language.

Ford is articulate and passionate, his hands gesturing expressively as he talks about his favorite poets.

I find myself watching the movement of his fingers, the animation in his face, and feeling a pull toward him that's different from what I feel with Griff, but no less powerful.

Where Griff's attraction is immediate and physical—a lightning strike of chemistry—Ford's is like a slow-burning fire, building gradually as our minds connect. I'm captivated by the way he thinks, the depth of his reading, the thoughtfulness with which he approaches literature.

"You two look like you're solving all the world's problems over there," Vanna comments as she passes behind the bar to grab a bottle of tequila. "So intense."

Ford rolls his eyes good-naturedly. "Just talking books, Vanna. You know how I like that."

"Mmm-hmm," she hums skeptically. She nods toward my menu. "Skye hasn't even ordered food yet, and you're so wrapped up in your literary love fest that you probably haven’t given her a chance to look at the specials."

I feel myself blush again. "I got distracted," I admit.

"Ford has that effect on women," Vanna says with a wink. "Gets them all hot and bothered talking about poetry and philosophy." She leans in conspiratorially. "It's his superpower. Brains instead of brawn."

"Don't you have tables to wait on?" Ford asks pointedly, though I catch the slight color in his cheeks.

She laughs, grabbing her beers and heading back to her customers. "Fine, fine. Carry on with your intellectual seduction."

When she's gone, Ford clears his throat. "Sorry about that. Vanna has no filter."

"It's okay," I say, finding his embarrassment endearing. "I like her honesty."

He studies me for a moment, then smiles—a genuine smile that transforms his face. "You're not what I expected, Skye."

"What did you expect?"

"I'm not sure," he admits. "But not someone who quotes Mary Oliver and discusses the finer points of narrative perspective in contemporary fiction."

The compliment warms me. "There's probably a lot we don't know about each other," I say, the words coming out more flirtatious than I intended.

He holds my gaze, something shifting in his expression. "I'd like to change that."

The quiet intensity in his voice sends a shiver through me.

What is happening to me? This afternoon I was with Griff, feeling things I've never felt before, and now I'm sitting here having what feels distinctly like a moment with Ford.

And then there's Buck, who I also find incredibly attractive in a completely different way.

Three men, each appealing in completely different ways. The thought of being with them all is both exhilarating and terrifying.

"Definitely get the burger," Vanna says in a whisper, suddenly appearing beside me again. Her eyes dart between Ford and me, a knowing look on her face. "You're going to need your strength, honey. Especially if you're planning to work your way through all three of them."

She sashays away with Loverboy at her feet before I can respond, leaving me staring after her in shocked silence. I glance at Ford and he’s taking a drink order, oblivious to her comment.

Ford returns and takes my order for a burger, his fingers brushing mine when I hand him back the menu. I can't help but wonder what I've gotten myself into. And, more surprisingly, whether I want to get myself out of it at all.