Page 19 of Bossy Mountain Daddies (Reverse Harem Mountain Daddies #3)

Griff

I lean against the bar, watching Skye laugh with some customers. She's gotten good at this—anticipating what people want before they ask, making them feel welcome with just a smile. She’s only been here a short time yet she moves through the place like she's always been here. Like she belongs.

That thought catches in my chest, because she doesn't belong here—not permanently. Her car will get fixed, and she'll drive away. I know this. But it still doesn't stop me from wanting her to stay.

She glances over at me and our eyes lock. That small smile she gives me—the one that feels like it's just for me—hits me right in the gut. Then Buck calls her to pick up some plates, and she turns away.

I watch as she weaves between tables to the kitchen.

Through the pass-through window, I can see Buck offering Skye a taste of something.

Her eyes close as she savors it, and she makes a sound—halfway between a sigh and a moan—that I recognize from our afternoon at the waterfall.

Something hot and possessive flares in my chest.

"Looks like Buck's pulling out all the stops," Ford says beside me, following my gaze. “He's been cooking up something special all day for Skye.”

"Interesting," I mutter, trying to sound casual.

"Can't really blame him for putting in the effort." Ford glances at me, an eyebrow raised. "She's pretty special."

I grunt noncommittally and grab a rag to wipe down the already clean bar top.

Half an hour later, Buck emerges from the kitchen carrying a plate that definitely isn't on our menu. He weaves through the crowd straight to Skye, who's taking a break at an empty table.

"Made you lunch," he announces, setting the plate down at the table.

Skye looks surprised, her cheeks coloring slightly. "You didn't have to do that."

"Wanted to." Buck's entire face softens when he looks at her. "Figured you might be tired of burgers and fries."

I've known Buck for fifteen years. We've been through bar fights, business crises, and his messy divorce. I've never seen him look at anyone the way he looks at Skye right now—like she's something precious he can't quite believe is real.

Skye begins eating the fancy pasta dish complete with fresh herbs on top. She takes a bite and closes her eyes, that expression of pleasure crossing her face again.

"Good?" Buck asks.

"Amazing," she says, taking another bite. "Your talent is wasted on bar food."

Buck's cheeks redden slightly under his beard. "Just something I threw together."

They fall into conversation, heads bent close together. I try not to stare, but it's impossible not to notice how happy they seem together, how Buck's booming laugh fills the room when she says something that amuses him.

Ford returns from running an errand. He's carrying a small package wrapped in brown paper.

He straightens his shoulders and walks over to the table where Skye and Buck are now laughing hysterically at something. I watch as he says something to Skye, then places the package in front of her. She glances up at him with a question in her eyes.

"Go ahead," I hear Ford say. "Open it."

She carefully unwraps the paper, revealing a book. From here, I can't see the title, but I can tell it's old—the cover is faded and the binding is worn. Skye's hands fly to her mouth, and she looks up at Ford with an expression of pure delight.

"How did you—" she begins.

"You mentioned before that it’s your favorite Valentes book," Ford says, sliding into the chair opposite her. "I have a friend who owns a rare book shop in Denver. He made a few calls for me."

Skye runs her fingers reverently over the cover. "This is a first edition, Ford."

Ford shrugs like it's nothing, but I can see the pleasure in his eyes at her reaction. "It's inscribed, too. Look inside."

She opens the book and gasps softly. "Ford, this is... I can't accept this. It must have cost?—"

"It's a gift," he says firmly. “And the money’s not important.”

Buck leans over to look at the book, his shoulder brushing against Skye's.

Something twists in my gut. Not just jealousy—though there's plenty of that—but a memory.

Miranda, three years ago, sitting at that very table with the three of us around her.

The way she'd draw us in, made each of us feel like we were special.

Until the night she left without a word, leaving all three of us nursing broken hearts and fractured friendships.

We'd promised never again. Never share a woman, never risk our friendship that way. And yet here we are, all three circling Skye like moths around a flame.

But Skye isn't Miranda. She's not playing games or making promises. She's just a woman passing through, and soon enough, she'll be gone.

That thought should make it easier—knowing this is temporary. But as I watch her lean into Buck's space, her hand casually touching Ford's arm as she makes a point about the book, I know I'm in deeper than I want to be.

I want her happy. After everything she's been through—her parents’ sudden death, the cheating boyfriend, the car breaking down, being stranded in a strange town—she deserves some happiness.

If Buck's cooking or Ford's books or my.

.. whatever I give her... if any of that brings her joy, why would I want to take that away from her?

When the afternoon lull hits, the four of us find ourselves at the bar together.

Skye's talking about a customer who left her a twenty-dollar tip on a ten-dollar tab, her hands gesturing expressively as she tells the story.

Buck's watching her with that sappy look on his face, and Ford's leaning against the back counter, a small smile playing at his lips.

"So what are you up to tonight?" Buck asks her when she finishes her story. "Ford and I were thinking of grabbing an early dinner at Rose's if you want to join."

She looks momentarily flustered, glancing between the three of us. "Actually, I'm going to the movies with Vanna. There's some horror flick she's been dying to see."

"Another time, then," Ford says smoothly.

Skye nods, her eyes meeting mine briefly before she turns away to greet a customer who's just walked in.

I watch her go, wondering what she's thinking. Wondering if she feels the pull between the three of us, the tension that's been building since she arrived. Wondering if she's using her night out with Vanna to get some breathing room from our obvious interest.

Most of all, I wonder what happens next, and whether any of us are ready for it.

Later that evening, the usual Tuesday crowd starts trickling in—locals stopping in for dinner, a few tourists passing through, the dart league in the back corner.

I'm bartending while Ford works the floor, both of us picking up the slack with Skye gone for the night.

Buck's in the kitchen, occasionally appearing in the pass-through window to slide plates onto the counter.

It feels strange not having Skye here, and I realize I miss her. I catch myself looking for her blonde hair more than once, before remembering she’s at the movies.

"Order up," Buck calls, ringing the bell.

Ford slides behind the bar to switch with me. "Your turn on the floor," he says. "Table four needs another round, and seven just sat down."

We've got a good rhythm going, trading places every half hour or so. It's efficient and keeps us both from getting bored,

I'm delivering beers to the dart league when I hear the front door slam against the wall as it opens. Reynolds stumbles in, already half-drunk, his eyes bloodshot and his shirt wrinkled. Great. Just what we need tonight. I love the guy but he’s such a pain in the ass sometimes.

"Griff, my man!" he shouts across the bar. Several heads turn to look, then quickly turn away when they see who it is. "Pour me a cold one!"

I finish with the dart league and head to the bar. Ford's already sliding a beer across to Reynolds, his expression carefully neutral. "One beer, Reynolds. You look like you've had plenty already."

Reynolds scoffs, grabbing the glass. "It's Wednesday, Ford. Wednesdays are for drinking."

"Every day is for drinking in your world," Ford replies dryly, already moving away to serve another customer.

I keep an eye on Reynolds while I work the floor.

He sits quietly enough at first, drinking his beer and occasionally calling out to people he knows.

But after about twenty minutes, he slides off his stool and moves to the end of the bar where a couple is sitting.

The woman, pretty in a wholesome sort of way, is wearing a simple gold band on her left hand.

Her husband sits beside her, his back to Reynolds as they talk quietly together.

Reynolds approached the woman. "Don't think I've seen you in here before," he says, his voice too loud. "I'd remember a face like yours."

The woman glances at him, then back at her husband. "We're just passing through," she says politely but firmly.

Her husband takes in Reynolds' disheveled appearance. A flicker of annoyance crosses his face, but he turns back to his wife without engaging.

"Where you folks headed?" Reynolds asks, not taking the hint. He leans closer, his arm brushing against the woman's shoulder. "I know all the best spots around here if you're looking for recommendations."

I watch the husband's shoulders stiffen. Ford catches my eye from behind the bar, a warning in his look.

"We're fine, thanks," the woman says, shifting away from Reynolds slightly.

"Aw, don't be like that," Reynolds slurs, placing his hand on her arm.

The husband turns then, his face hardening. "She said we're fine. Move along."

Reynolds blinks, as if just noticing the man. "No offense, buddy. Just talking to the lady."

"She's not interested," the husband says, his voice low but tight with anger.

I start moving toward them, but Reynolds speaks again before I can get there.