Page 27 of Bossy Mountain Daddies (Reverse Harem Mountain Daddies #3)

Skye

I 'm sprawled across the bed, scrolling mindlessly through my phone when my thumb freezes mid-swipe.

Daniel's face stares back at me from my feed, his profile picture next to a post that makes my stomach drop.

I blink hard, hoping I've misread it, but the words remain unchanged when I open my eyes again.

When your ex jumps straight into bed with your old man after you break up. #classy #keepitinthefamily #desperation

My face burns hot as I read the comments beneath it. Laughing emojis, shocked faces, and worse—questions. "Wait, what?" "Dude, for real?" "That's messed up." Daniel's responses are vague enough to keep people hooked but specific enough that anyone who knows us would connect the dots.

Just found out yesterday. Walked in on them.

Always knew she was trash.

Each word cuts deeper than the last. He doesn't use my name, but he doesn't have to. Our mutual friends will know exactly who he's talking about. And now they'll all think I'm some desperate, pathetic woman who jumped from son to father.

I toss my phone aside and press my hands against my closed eyes. How did my life spiral into this mess? Now I’m the subject of Daniel's public humiliation campaign.

My phone buzzes with a notification. I peek through my fingers, half expecting to see more comments on Daniel's post. Instead, it's a direct message from Alicia.

"Classy, Skye. Really classy."

I throw my phone across the room, immediately regretting it when I hear the thud against the wall. I can't afford a new one if I've cracked the screen. That thought makes me laugh—a sharp, bitter sound.

What if Daniel finds out about Buck and Ford too? What if he posts about that next? I can see the post now: My ex is banging my dad AND his two best friends. #slutty #desperate #psycho

I groan and roll onto my stomach, burying my face in the pillow. It's not like that. It's not some weird revenge thing or a desperate rebound. What I have with these men is genuine. Different with each of them, but real. How could anyone understand that, though? I barely understand it myself.

I need to get my stuff from Daniel's apartment before he makes good on his threat to trash it. But I can't face him, not after this. And I can't ask Griff, Buck, or Ford to do it—that would only escalate things further. There's only one person I can trust with this.

I retrieve my phone (mercifully uncracked) and dial my cousin Gabe's number. He picks up on the third ring.

"Well, well, if it isn't my favorite cousin," he says, his voice warm and familiar.

Despite everything, I smile. "Hey, Gabe. How’s it going?"

"I’m good but you sound off, girl. What's up?"

I take a deep breath. "I need a favor. A big one."

"Uh oh. Should I be sitting down for this?"

"Daniel and I broke up." The words come out in a rush. "He cheated on me, I left town, and now he's threatening to throw all my stuff out of our apartment by Friday if I don't come get it."

"That asshole!" Gabe's voice rises. "Want me to beat him up? I've been taking taekwondo."

I hold back laughter. Gabe's a foot shorter than Daniel and about as threatening as a golden retriever puppy.

"No, I need someone to go get my stuff. Mainly books, clothes, some photos, a few kitchen things.

Nothing big. Can you do it? And maybe store it in your garage for a while until I figure out where I'm going next? "

There's a pause. "Of course I can. Where are you though?"

“Stuck in a little mountain town that’s on the way to Wyoming. I was on my way to see Charlotte and my car died. I’m here waiting on the parts.”

"There's more to this story, isn't there?" he asks.

"So much more," I admit. "But I can't get into it all right now. Can you help a girl out? Please?"

"You know I will. Text me the address and I'll go this afternoon. I'm off work today."

Relief washes over me. "Thank you. The key is under the potted plant to the right of the door. But... be careful. Daniel might be there with his new girlfriend."

"Seriously? What a piece of shit." Gabe's disgust is clear. "Don't worry, I'll be in and out. Just send me a text of everything you need me to get."

"You're the best, Gabe. I owe you big time."

"Just tell me the whole story someday. And come visit when you get back. Mom talks about you all the time."

After we hang up, I feel momentarily lighter. At least my belongings will be safe from Daniel's vindictive threats. I send Gabe the address and a list of the most important things to grab, then lie back on the bed, staring at the ceiling.

My relief is short-lived when, against my better judgment, I check Daniel’s post again. More comments. More people connecting the dots.

My cheeks burn with humiliation. This is a nightmare.

I can't help but scroll through more comments, each one worse than the last. People I thought were my friends are laughing, adding their own jokes at my expense.

No one is defending me. No one is questioning Daniel's version of events or the way he's putting me on blast publicly.

I force myself to close the app, but the damage is done. The words are seared into my brain. The questions start spinning again—what will people think if they find out about Buck and Ford? Would Daniel really go that far if he found out?

Of course he would. He's already proved there's no low he won't sink to.

I curl onto my side, phone clutched in my hand, torn between the urge to check for more comments and the knowledge that doing so will only make me feel worse. I need to distract myself, to get out of this room and stop spiraling.

Tomorrow, I remind myself. I have plans with Ford tomorrow. The thought of seeing him—his calm presence, his thoughtful conversation—soothes me slightly.

I close my eyes and try to push the horrible thoughts aside. Right now, I just need to breathe.

Ford's house sits at the edge of a clearing, the forest pressing close behind it like a protective wall. It's a modern cabin with clean lines and huge windows that showcase the mountains. I stand on the porch for a moment, taking a deep breath before knocking.

The door swings open, and Ford stands there in a dark blue button-down with the sleeves rolled up, a light dusting of flour on his forearms. His smile immediately eases something tight in my chest.

"You made it," he says, stepping back to let me in. "Perfect timing."

I follow him inside, trying not to gawk at the space. The interior is open and airy, with bookshelves lining every available wall. A stone fireplace anchors one end of the living room, while the other opens to a kitchen that gleams with professional-grade appliances.

"This is beautiful, Ford, " I say.

"Thanks." His eyes crinkle at the corners. "Can I get you something to drink? Wine? Beer? Something stronger?"

"Wine would be nice." I follow him to the kitchen, where I notice an array of ingredients spread across the marble countertop—flour, eggs, olive oil, tomatoes, herbs.

"What are you cooking?" I ask.

He hands me a glass of red wine. "Making pasta. From scratch." There's a hint of pride in his voice.

"I didn't know you cook," I say, taking a sip. The wine is rich and complex, nothing like the cheap bottles I usually buy.

"There's a lot you don't know about me yet." He winks at me and gestures to a mound of flour on the counter. "Want to learn how to make pasta?"

I set my wine down after taking another delicious sip and roll up my sleeves. "Yes, please."

He moves behind me, close enough that I can feel his warmth but not quite touching. "First, you create a well in the flour, like this." His hands guide mine, pressing our fingers into the soft white powder to form a crater. "Then the eggs go in the middle."

I watch as he cracks three eggs into the little hole we've created.

"Now comes the tricky part," he murmurs, his breath warm against my ear. "We need to gradually incorporate the flour without breaking the wall."

His hands guide mine in a gentle circular motion, slowly pulling flour into the eggs until a sticky dough begins to form. It's messy and precise all at once, and I find myself leaning back into him as we work. He smells masculine and delicious and I find myself wanting to turn around and kiss him.

"Where did you learn to do this?" I ask as the dough starts to come together.

"Italy," he says simply. "I spent a summer in Florence during college. Took some cooking classes as an excuse to eat more Italian food."

I turn my head slightly to look at him. "I've been there. During a trip after college."

His eyes light up with genuine interest. "Really? What was your favorite part?"

"The Boboli Gardens," I say without hesitation. "Everyone goes for the Duomo and the Uffizi, but there was something about those gardens... the way they're perfectly manicured but still somehow wild."

Ford's hands pause in their kneading. "The view from the top, looking out over the city at sunset."

"Yes!" I exclaim. "The light turns everything golden."

"I used to go there with a book and sit for hours," he says, resuming our work on the dough. "Found a little spot away from the tourists where I could read and watch people."

I smile, imagining a younger Ford, perhaps less gray in his hair but with the same gorgeous eyes, observing the world from a quiet corner. "What did you read there?"

"Mostly poetry. Italian when I could manage it." He chuckles. "The locals were kind enough not to laugh too much when I’d attempt to use my bad Italian."

The dough has come together now, and Ford shows me how to knead it properly, pushing with the heel of my hand. It's therapeutic, this rhythmic motion, and I feel the tension from yesterday's discovery about Daniel's post beginning to fade.

"I stayed in this tiny pensione run by an elderly couple," I tell him. "The woman, Sophia, would leave fresh pastries outside my door every morning."

"Let me guess—sfogliatelle?" Ford asks.

I nod, surprised. "How did you know?"