Page 26 of Bossy Mountain Daddies (Reverse Harem Mountain Daddies #3)

"Thanks, honey." Vanna shakes her head as she watches Loverboy lick his chops. "I swear, I'm either going to have to leave him at home or put a muzzle on him when I bring him in. He's getting worse about the beer, not better."

I reach down and scoop up the small dog, who immediately tries to lick my face. "Come on, troublemaker. Party's over for you."

As I carry Loverboy up the stairs, his warm little body wriggles against my chest. He whines softly, probably disappointed that he won’t be getting any more beer tonight.

I push open the door to my room and set him down on the floor. He immediately begins exploring, sniffing every corner. I sink onto the edge of my bed, overwhelmed by exhaustion that feels bone-deep.

"What am I doing, Loverboy?" I whisper.

He pauses his investigation to look at me, head tilted curiously.

My bed calls to me, promising escape. I could just lie down, pull the covers over my head, and pretend none of this is happening. I could hide from Daniel's accusations, from Griff's complicated family situation, from my feelings for all three men. Just for a little while.

I lie back, letting my eyes close. The mattress cradles me, and for a moment, I allow myself to imagine just staying here.

Loverboy jumps up beside me, turning in a circle before settling against my side. His warmth is comforting and uncomplicated.

"At least you don't judge me," I murmur, scratching behind his ears.

But as tempting as it is to hide, I know I can't. I have responsibilities downstairs.

I glance at my watch. My shift isn't over for another three hours. Three more hours of avoiding Buck's concerned looks, of pretending everything's fine when it feels like my world has been turned inside out.

I drag myself off the bed and back downstairs, trying to focus on the tasks at hand. Pour. Serve. Smile. Clean. But Daniel's words keep replaying in my head, mingling with doubts about my current situation.

What am I doing here, involved with three men at once? Is this who I really am, or am I just lost, rebounding in the most complicated way possible? Maybe Charlotte was right.

"Order up!" Buck calls from the kitchen window, and I move to grab the plates. Our fingers brush as I take them, and he holds on a second longer than necessary.

"Whatever's on your mind," he says quietly, "it'll keep till later. We're here when you need us."

The simple kindness in his voice nearly makes me cry. I nod and pull away, plates in hand. As I set them down in front of hungry customers, I glance back to see Ford watching me with that intense gaze of his, while Buck returns to the kitchen.

Finally, the last customer stumbles out the door just after midnight, leaving behind the lingering smells of beer and fried bar food.

Buck and Vanna have left already—Buck saying he has to be back here early for a food delivery, Vanna saying something about Loverboy needing his beauty sleep after his beer incident.

It's just me and Ford now, moving around each other in the low light, the tension of the day still hanging over me like a fog.

"You've been distracted tonight," Ford observes as he wipes down the bar. His voice is gentle, not accusatory.

I stack glasses into the plastic bin. "Is it that obvious?"

"Only to someone who's been watching you." His admission hangs in the air between us. I look up to find his eyes on me, steady and unabashed.

"Griff told you," I say. Not a question.

Ford nods, setting aside his rag. "He called earlier. Said you might need some space to process."

I offer him a small smile. "Process. Yeah, that's one way to put it.

" I carry the bin of glasses to the bar.

"How do you process finding out that your ex-boyfriend is the son of the man you've been…" I trail off, not finishing the horrendous question but, by the look on Ford’s face, I know he knows what I’m talking about.

"I imagine you don't," Ford says thoughtfully. "At least not quickly."

His candor surprises me. I expected reassurances that everything would be fine. But Ford isn’t one for empty words.

We work together to finish up closing duties—wiping tables, sweeping floors, restocking the bar. The familiar routine comforts me, gives my hands something to do while my mind churns through the day's revelations.

When we finish, Ford reaches beneath the bar and pulls out a bottle of expensive whiskey.

"Nightcap?" he offers, already setting out two glasses.

I nod, sliding onto a barstool. "Why not?"

He pours two fingers for each of us, then comes around to sit beside me rather than staying behind the bar. The gesture feels significant somehow.

"To complicated lives," he says, raising his glass.

"And unexpected revelations," I add, clinking my glass against his.

The whiskey burns pleasantly going down, warming me from the inside. Ford watches me over the rim of his glass, those intense eyes missing nothing.

"Speaking of revelations," he says after a moment, "there's something I want to tell you."

My heart stutters. "Please tell me you're not related to Daniel too."

He chuckles, the sound rich and warm. "No, nothing like that." He takes another sip, seeming to gather his thoughts. "It's about my past. Before Flounder Ridge."

I wait, allowing him to continue.

"I told you I left the corporate world because I felt empty, despite having everything a man could want on paper. What I didn't mention is that when I left, I didn't leave empty-handed."

"Meaning?"

"Meaning I'm worth...well, more than I'll ever need." He says it matter-of-factly, no pride or boasting in his tone. "A little family money to start with, some smart investments, and a sizeable corporate exit package."

I blink, trying to reconcile this information with the man sitting beside me—the one who wears the same three button-down shirts on rotation, who drives a ten-year-old Jeep, who lives in a modest cabin at the edge of town.

"You're rich," I say with a smile.

"If you want to be reductive about it, yes." He smiles slightly. "But money was never what mattered to me. It was freedom. The freedom to choose the life I wanted, not the one expected of me."

"And this is the life you chose? Tending bar in a small mountain town?"

"Co-owning a bar," he corrects gently. "With two of my closest friends. In a place where I can see the stars at night and know my neighbors' names." He leans forward. "There are many things more important in life than money, Skye."

Something in his words resonates with me, touching a part of myself I've been trying to ignore. Before my parents died, before Daniel's betrayal, I had plans for the future. Plans that included all the things I thought I was supposed to want. But now...

"I don't know what I want anymore," I admit, the whiskey loosening my tongue. "I have no money, no job, no place to live. My car's still broken, and even when it's fixed, I don't have a permanent place to go to."

Ford nods, not rushing to offer solutions. "That uncertainty—it's terrifying, but it's also freedom. A blank page."

"A blank page I can't afford to fill," I counter. "Being broke limits your options pretty significantly."

"I could help," he says quietly. "I could pay for your car, make you a loan to get you started again. But I won't do it unless you want me to. I don't want money to change what we have."

The offer stuns me. It's so casual, so matter-of-fact—as if he's offering to buy me lunch, not potentially transform my financial situation.

"Why would you do that?" I ask, genuinely confused.

"Because I care about you," he says simply. "Because I have the means to help, and watching you struggle is hard."

I shake my head, overwhelmed. "I couldn't accept that. It's too much."

"It's not, for me." He touches my hand lightly. "But I understand. Just know the offer stands."

We sit in silence for a moment, his fingers still resting against mine on the bar top.

"What was the downside of that life?" I ask finally. "Before you left it behind?"

His eyes meet mine, and I see something vulnerable there. "It cost me a lot. Relationships. Time. Peace of mind." He takes another sip of whiskey. "I was always chasing the next deal, the next promotion, the next rung on a ladder."

"And now?"

"Now I read poetry at sunset. I mix drinks for people I know by name. I have time to think, to feel, to actually live." His voice drops. "And I've met someone who makes me feel more alive than all those years of chasing ever did."

The air between us shifts, charged with something new. His gaze holds mine, and I find myself leaning toward him.

"I don't know what I'm doing," I whisper. "With any of this. With you, with Griff, with Buck. I've never been this person."

"What person is that?"

"Someone who wants multiple men at once. Someone who can't choose."

Ford's lips curve into a gentle smile. "Maybe the problem isn't that you can't choose. Maybe it's that you don't have to."

His words settle over me like a revelation. The permission in them, the acceptance, makes something unclench in my chest.

When he leans forward, I meet him halfway. His kiss is different from Griff's urgency or Buck's tenderness. It's thoughtful, exploring, like he's reading me—finding the spaces between my words and filling them with understanding.

His hand reaches up and strokes my face. When we part, his eyes search mine, asking a silent question.

"I need time," I say softly. "To figure all of this out."

He nods, accepting this without disappointment. "Time is something I can give. I’ve got plenty of it." He stands, dropping a final kiss on my forehead. "Get some rest, Skye. Tomorrow’s another day."

I watch him gather his things, moving with that quiet grace that seems to define him. At the door, he turns back.

"For what it's worth," he says, "I think you're exactly where you're supposed to be right now."

After he leaves, I sit alone in the empty bar, and I wonder if he might be right.