Page 29 of Bossy Mountain Daddies (Reverse Harem Mountain Daddies #3)

Buck

T he Friday night crowd at Devil's Pass is three-deep at the bar, and I'm pouring drinks as fast as my hands will move. Fridays are always busy, but tonight we've got a biker group passing through on their way to some rally in Utah, plus all the regulars who show up like clockwork.

Through the chaos, I keep an eye on Skye. Something's off with her tonight. She’s not herself, and she didn’t even laugh at my joke about the hairy biker with the teddy bear keychain on his massive ring of keys.

I slide a row of tequila shots down the bar to a group of weekend warriors pretending they're rougher than they are, then grab a rag to wipe up a spill. Skye passes by with a tray of empties, and I catch her arm gently.

"Hey, you need anything?" I ask, keeping my voice low.

She shakes her head and gives me a weak smile. "I’m good. Just busy."

But she's not fine. I know what fine looks like on Skye. Fine is bright eyes and quick comebacks. Fine is the way she hums under her breath when she thinks no one's listening. This isn't fine.

"You sure? Because that face you're making looks like you're plotting murder." I wiggle my eyebrows, trying to coax a smile out of her. "If you need help hiding the body, I know all the best spots."

She tries to smile but it doesn't even come close to reaching her eyes. "Thanks, but no homicide plans tonight."

Before I can press further, she's gone, weaving through the crowd.

I keep watching her as the night goes on. She delivers drinks, takes orders, cleans tables—all the motions of the job—but there's no life in it. The spark that makes her Skye is dimmed, like someone's turned down her brightness.

When I have a moment between drink orders, I sidle up to Vanna, who's cooking tonight.

"What's up with Skye?" I ask, nodding toward where she's taking an order from a table of locals.

Vanna follows my gaze, then shrugs. "Can't imagine what."

"Come on, Vanna. Something's clearly wrong. She barely smiled all night."

She gives me a look, one eyebrow arched high. "And why exactly do you think I'd know? Contrary to popular belief, I don't actually read minds."

"But you two talk," I press. "You're friends."

"We're friendly," Vanna corrects, flipping burgers. "Doesn't mean she tells me everything."

There's something in her tone, a defensiveness that makes me think she knows more than she's letting on, but before I can push further, an incoming order pulls her away.

Griff's working the floor tonight, refilling drinks and checking IDs at the door. When he passes near the kitchen, I catch his eye and wave him over.

"What's up?" he asks, leaning against the door frame.

"It's Skye," I say, keeping my voice low. "Something's wrong. She's not herself."

Griff's expression shifts, concern clouding his features. "Yeah, I noticed."

"Do you know what's going on? She’s not giving me anything."

He glances around to make sure we're not being overheard, then steps fully into the kitchen. "It's Daniel. He's been posting shit about her on social media. Really nasty stuff."

My stomach tightens. "What kind of stuff?"

"The worst kind. Making her out to be some desperate slut who jumped from him straight to his dad." Griff's jaw clenches. "People she thought were friends are commenting, laughing about it."

"I know he’s your son, Griff but damn… that’s shitty."

"Yeah." Griff runs a hand through his hair. "I only found out because Ford told me. Apparently, she told him yesterday when they were together."

I try not to focus on the "when they were together" part. "So that's why she's walking around like a zombie tonight."

"Can you blame her? Imagine having your ex air your private business for everyone to see, twisting it to make you look bad." Griff's expression darkens. "If he wasn't my son, I'd?—"

"I know," I cut him off. I do know. I feel the same protective rage churning in my gut. "But right now, what Skye needs isn't us planning revenge. She needs support."

Griff nods, clapping me on the shoulder. "You're right. Talk to her if you get a chance. Let her know we've got her back."

For the next hour, I try to find the right moment to approach Skye, but the bar stays relentlessly busy. Finally, around midnight, there's a lull when half the crowd leaves at once, heading to some after-party at someone's cabin.

I find Skye in the back storage room, counting bottles of tequila. She doesn't hear me come in, and for a moment, I just watch her. Her shoulders are hunched, her movements slow and deliberate.

"Hey," I say softly.

She startles, nearly dropping the clipboard. "Buck. You scared me."

"Sorry." I take a step closer. "I wanted to check on you. For real this time."

Her eyes narrow slightly. "I'm fine, Buck. Really…"

"Yeah, and I'm Miss America." I lean against the shelves, crossing my arms. "Griff told me about Daniel's posts."

Her face falls, that carefully maintained mask cracking. "Great. So everyone knows."

"Not everyone," I say quickly. "Just us. And we care about you."

She looks away, but not before I catch the sheen of tears in her eyes. "It's humiliating."

"It's bullshit," I correct her. "And anyone who believes it isn't worth your time."

"Easy for you to say," she mutters. "It's not your life being picked apart online."

"No, but I've had my share of public humiliations." I step closer, until we're just a foot apart. "When Miranda left, everyone in town had an opinion. Everyone thought they knew what happened."

She looks up at me, surprise flashing across her face. "I didn't know that."

I shrug. "Point is, I get it. And it sucks, but it passes. The people who matter know the truth."

A single tear escapes, sliding down her cheek. Before I can think better of it, I reach out and brush it away with my thumb.

"You know what got me through it?" I ask.

She shakes her head.

"Knitting." I say it with a straight face, but my lips twitch slightly at the edges.

Her brow furrows. "Knitting?"

"Seriously. Can't spiral into dark thoughts when you're counting stitches." I smile. "I've got extra needles with me. After closing, we can knit together."

She laughs softly, shaking her head. "You're ridiculous."

"Ridiculously charming, you mean."

She rolls her eyes, but the tension in her shoulders has eased a bit. "I should get back out there."

"We've got it covered if you need a minute," I offer.

"No," she says, straightening her spine. "I'd rather keep busy. But... thanks. For checking on me."

"Anytime," I say, meaning it more than she probably realizes. "And Skye? The offer stands. I really do have extra needles."

That gets me another smile, a bit stronger than the first. It's not much, but it's a start. And as she walks past me back toward the bar, I catch a glimpse of the resilient woman I've come to care for so deeply, fighting her way back through the pain.

The last customer staggers out just after two, leaving the bar in that strange silence that follows hours of noise.

My ears are still ringing as I flip the sign to CLOSED and lock the door.

Griff's already behind the bar, pulling out a bottle of good tequila—not the stuff we serve to most folks, but the smooth, amber liquid we keep for ourselves.

Skye slumps into a chair, exhaustion written across her face after the long shift.

But at least she's not looking quite as haunted as she did earlier.

"Hell of a night," I say, sliding into the chair beside her. "Think half the town came through here tonight."

Griff sets three shot glasses on the table and pours generous measures into each. "Good for business, bad for my feet." He pushes glasses toward us. "Here's to surviving another Friday."

Skye picks up her glass, studying the amber liquid. "Thanks for tonight," she says quietly. "Both of you. For checking on me."

"That's what we do," I say, lifting my glass. "We look out for each other."

We clink glasses and down the shots. The tequila burns pleasantly on the way down, warming my chest. Griff immediately refills our glasses.

"What we need," I announce, "is a good old-fashioned distraction."

Skye raises an eyebrow. "What kind of distraction?"

"A game," I say, leaning back in my chair. "Would You Rather. Ever played?"

She shakes her head, but I catch the slight upturn at the corner of her mouth. "I've heard of it. You ask impossible choices, right?"

"Exactly." I grin at her. "So, would you rather... fight one horse-sized duck or a hundred duck-sized horses?"

Griff groans, but Skye actually laughs—a sound I've been missing all night.

"The duck-sized horses, obviously," she says. "I could just kick them away."

"Wrong," I counter. "The giant duck would be slow and clumsy. Easy target."

"Have you ever been chased by a regular-sized duck?" Griff asks. "They're vicious. Now imagine that, but horse-sized."

This sets off a surprisingly heated debate about duck biology and fighting tactics that has Skye cracking up. When we finally settle the duck question (I'm still right, no matter what they say), we move on to more rounds.

"Would you rather never eat chocolate again or never have coffee again?" Skye asks.

"Give up coffee," Griff and I say in unison, then look at each other and laugh.

"Would you rather be able to fly or be invisible?" I ask.

"Fly," Skye says immediately. "Invisibility seems like it would get depressing after a while. Like you don't matter."

There's something in her voice that makes me think she's feeling a bit invisible right now, with all that's happening online. I catch Griff's eye, and I can tell he's thinking the same thing.

"Your turn, Griff," I say, nudging him with my foot under the table.

He thinks for a moment, swirling the tequila in his glass. "Would you rather... know how you're going to die or when you're going to die?"

"Damn, that got dark fast," I mutter.

Skye considers the question seriously. "How, I think. At least then I could try to avoid it."

"But what if it's something unavoidable, like 'heart failure'?" Griff challenges. "Most people die of something ordinary."

"Still," she insists. "I'd rather know the how than the when."

We continue like this, the questions ranging from silly to philosophical, each round punctuated by another shot of tequila.

I watch as the tension gradually melts from Skye's shoulders, as her laughter comes more freely.

The worry that clouded her eyes earlier has been replaced by a warm, tequila-fueled glow.

After a particularly ridiculous round about whether you'd rather have fingers as long as your legs or legs as short as your fingers, I decide to take a risk.

"Would you rather," I say, looking directly at Skye, "kiss Griff or kiss me?"

The question hangs in the air. Griff's eyes flick to me, then back to Skye. For a moment, I worry I've crossed a line, but the tequila has loosened all of us up enough that the question doesn't feel as loaded as it might have earlier.

Skye looks between us, a slow smile spreading across her face. "Both of you," she says finally, her voice lower than before. "I'd rather kiss both of you."

Heat floods through me. Beside me, I hear Griff's sharp intake of breath.

"Is that allowed?" Skye asks, a touch of uncertainty creeping into her voice. "To say both?"

"It's your game now," I say, my voice rougher than I intended. "You make the rules."

Something electric passes between the three of us. Griff stands, extending his hand to Skye. "We should take this upstairs," he says quietly. "If that's what you want."

She takes his hand, rising from her chair. "It is," she says, then turns to me. "Buck?"

"Right behind you," I say, standing too. My heart hammers against my ribs as we climb the stairs to her room, the air thick with anticipation.