Page 37 of Bossy Mountain Daddies (Reverse Harem Mountain Daddies #3)

Griff

I pull into the parking lot of Devil's Pass a little before eleven, killing the engine but sitting there for a moment, hands still gripping the wheel. Daniel's visit yesterday left me with a knot in my gut that hasn't loosened.

Anger at his disrespect toward Skye tangles with gratitude that he reached out about his mom.

It's the first time in years he's asked me for anything, and despite everything, I can't help but feel like it's a tiny crack in the wall between us.

I shake my head, pushing those thoughts aside.

Right now, I need to check on Skye, make sure she's okay after Daniel's bullshit in the parking lot.

The bar is quiet this time of day. The chairs are still flipped onto tables from last night's closing, the floor freshly mopped. It smells of pine cleaner and stale beer, a combination I've come to find oddly comforting over the years.

I head for the stairs, my boots heavy on the wooden steps. My mind rehearses what I'll say to her—how I'll explain that Daniel's always been a tumultuous kid, how he lashes out when he feels threatened. I’m sure she already knows that though.

I also want to tell her that what happened with his mom might actually be good for him, might help him grow up a little. Mostly, I want to make sure she knows that what he thinks doesn't matter. Not to me, not to Buck or Ford, and it shouldn't matter to her either.

The door to her room is slightly ajar, which is unusual. I knock gently, pushing it open when there's no answer.

"Skye?"

The room is empty.

Not just empty of her presence, but empty of her. The little touches that made it her space over these past weeks—the books stacked on the nightstand, the scarf draped over the chair, the vanilla-scented candle on the dresser—they're all gone. The bed is made, corners tucked in neatly.

"Skye?" I call again, though I already know she's not here.

My eyes land on a folded piece of paper propped against the lamp on the dresser. I see my name written on it, along with Buck's and Ford's in Skye's slightly slanted handwriting. My feet feel leaden as I cross the room to pick it up.

I unfold the paper and my eyes scan the words, each one hitting me like a physical blow.

I sink onto the edge of the bed, continuing to read. Her explanation about Poppy being fixed, about Daniel knowing, about not being strong enough to face the scrutiny. About Vanna telling her about Miranda.

Fuck.

I reach the end of the letter, where she signs off with "XOXO, Skye," and the simplicity of it, the casual goodbye after everything we've shared, leaves me hollow.

I read it again, slower this time, trying to hear her voice in the words. Trying to understand. But all I can think is that she's gone. Just like that. No goodbye, no chance to tell her?—

Tell her what? That I want her to stay? That in the short time she's been here, she's become a big part of my life? What right do I have to ask that of her? This was always temporary. A beautiful detour in her life, nothing more.

I fold the letter carefully, sliding it into my pocket. I stand, taking another look around the room that was hers. The sunlight coming through the window highlights the emptiness, makes it stark and undeniable.

She's gone.

I make my way back downstairs, feeling every one of my forty-six years in the stiffness of my knees, the heaviness in my chest. As I reach the bottom of the stairs, the front door swings open, and Buck and Ford walk in, deep in conversation.

They stop short when they see me, something in my expression making Buck's smile fade.

"What's wrong?" he asks, his voice sharp with concern.

I pull the letter from my pocket, holding it out without a word.

Ford takes it, his brow furrowing as he unfolds it.

Buck reads over his shoulder, his massive frame going completely still.

The only sound in the bar is their breathing and the soft rustle of paper as Ford turns it over, as if expecting more on the back.

"She's gone?" Buck finally says, his voice hollow. "Just like that?"

I nod, unable to find words that feel adequate.

"So Jed finished up with her car," Ford says quietly. "She mentioned yesterday he thought the part would be in."

"She could have said goodbye," Buck says, a rare edge of anger in his voice. "She could have at least done that."

"She explains why," Ford replies, tapping the letter. "She was afraid she wouldn't be able to leave if she tried to say it in person."

"So instead she just... vanishes? Leaves a fucking note?" Buck's voice rises slightly. "After everything we shared? After the other night?"

I understand his anger. Part of me feels it too—a sharp, hot flare of betrayal that she would leave this way. But another part of me understands. It would have been hard, maybe impossible, to look us in the eyes and say she was going.

“At least she left a note,” Ford says softly, folding the letter again.

"A note isn't a goodbye," Buck insists, but the fight is leaving his voice, replaced by sadness.

"No," I agree, finding my voice at last. "It's not. But, apparently, it's what she could give us."

We stand in silence for a moment, the weight of her absence settling around us. I think of her laugh, the infectious smile she flashed when she was genuinely amused. The feel of her skin under my hands. The trust in her eyes when she looked at me. All of it gone now, existing only in memory.

"I always knew she'd leave eventually," I say, not sure if I'm trying to convince them or myself. "We all did."

"Knowing it and living it are different things," Ford replies, his voice measured but tight.

Buck runs a hand through his hair, a gesture I've seen a thousand times when he's frustrated. "I just wish..."

He doesn't finish the thought. He doesn't need to. We all wish the same thing—that she had stayed. That we had more time. That things could have been different.

"What do we do now?" Buck asks, looking between Ford and me.

It's such a simple question, but I don't have an answer. What do we do? We go on, I suppose. We open the bar, we serve drinks, we live our lives. Just like we did before she came. Just like we did after Miranda left.

But it won't be the same. It can't be. Skye carved out a space in our lives, in our hearts, and now that space is empty, echoing with her absence.

"We respect her choice," Ford says finally. "And we remember the good times."

It sounds reasonable, adult, mature. Everything Ford always is. But I can see in his eyes the same hollowness I feel in my chest.

I nod, clapping a hand on Buck's shoulder. "Come on. Let's get this place ready to open."

We move through the familiar routine—flipping chairs off tables, stocking the bar, checking inventory. The motions are automatic, requiring no thought, which is good because my mind is miles away, thinking about Skye as she drives further and further from Flounder Ridge. From us.

From me.

The afternoon crawls by. Buck's unusually quiet, methodically prepping food in the kitchen without his typical running commentary. Ford buries himself in paperwork at a corner table. None of us are really here though.

The door swings open around two, and Vanna strides in with Loverboy at her heels. Her eyes scan the room, taking in Buck's rigid back, Ford's distant gaze, my own forced neutrality. Her steps slow, wariness replacing her usual confidence.

"Who died?" she asks, only half-joking as she sets her bag on the bar.

I exchange a glance with Ford, who nods slightly. There's no point hiding it—she'll find out soon enough.

"Skye's gone," I say, the words still feeling strange on my tongue. "Left this morning. Jed fixed her car."

Vanna's expression shifts, something unreadable flashing across her face. "She just... left? Without saying anything?"

Ford pulls the letter from his pocket where he's been keeping it. "She left this."

Vanna takes it, her lips moving slightly as she reads. When she finishes, she exhales sharply through her nose.

"Well, shit," she says, handing it back to Ford. "I didn't think she'd just bolt."

"Seems like your little chat about Miranda might have helped push her out the door," Buck says from the kitchen doorway, his voice carrying an edge I rarely hear.

Vanna's shoulders stiffen. "I told her the truth. She deserved to know what she was getting into with you three."

"She wasn't 'getting into' anything," Buck counters. "She was already in it. All you did was scare her off."

"Buck," I say, a warning in my voice. This isn't Vanna's fault, and lashing out won't change anything.

"What did you say to her?" Ford asks, his tone carefully neutral.

Vanna crosses her arms. "I just told her about Miranda. The pregnancy. How devastated you all were when she left." She meets each of our gazes in turn. "I was looking out for you. Didn't want to see you go through that again."

"So instead we get to go through this," Buck mutters, gesturing at the letter.

"That's not fair," Vanna says, her voice softening. "Look, I'm sorry she left like this. But she was always going to leave eventually. Her car was getting fixed. She has a life somewhere else."

She's right, of course. And yet I can't help wondering if things might have played out differently if Vanna hadn't told Skye about Miranda. If Daniel hadn't shown up and seen us all together. If I'd somehow made it clearer that she had a place here if she wanted it.

"Did she say anything to you yesterday?" Ford asks Vanna. "Give any indication she was planning to leave today?"

Vanna shakes her head. "Not directly. She was upset about Daniel seeing you all together, worried about him posting about it online." She pauses. "But I didn't think she'd just... vanish."

I shake my head. "You're right though—she was always going to leave. This just... accelerated the timeline."

Buck makes a sound somewhere between a scoff and a sigh, turning back toward the kitchen. I can't blame him for being angry. It's easier than being hurt.

"I'm sorry," Vanna says, and I believe her. For all her tough exterior, she cares about us. About this place. She was trying to protect us, in her way.

"It's not your fault," I tell her. "You told her the truth. What she did with it was her choice."

But as the day wears on, as customers start trickling in for the dinner, I can't help wondering what might have been if circumstances had been different. If we'd had more time. If Skye had felt safe enough to stay.

The Friday night crowd is in full swing by eight. The jukebox blares, conversations overlap into a wall of sound, and the smell of burgers and fries permeates the whole place. I'm pouring drinks, my smile fixed in place, small talk running on its own track separate from my thoughts.

The door opens, letting in a gust of cool evening air. I glance up, and my heart nearly stops.

Blonde hair, falling in loose waves. Slim build, confident posture. For one wild, irrational moment, I think it's Skye—that she's changed her mind, turned around and come back to us.

Then she turns, and reality crashes back. It's not Skye. The resemblance is there, but this woman's face is narrower, her eyes darker, her smile completely different than Skye’s. The surge of hope collapses in me.

"You okay?" Ford asks, appearing at my elbow with empty glasses to refill.

"Fine," I lie, tearing my eyes away from the blonde woman now making her way to a table with friends. "Just thought I saw someone I knew."

Ford follows my gaze, understanding immediately. "I know," he says quietly. "I did the same thing earlier. Blonde woman at the grocery store. Nearly called out to her."

The admission makes me feel less alone, less foolish for that moment of desperate hope.

"You think we'll ever see her again?" I ask, the question slipping out before I can stop it.

Ford considers this, his eyes thoughtful. "I don't know. I hope so."

"Me too." The simple truth of it aches in my chest.

Later, after we've closed up and the last customer has staggered out into the night, the three of us sit down at the bar. Buck sets down a bottle of whiskey and three glasses, pouring generous measures for each of us.

"To moving on," he says, raising his glass.

Ford and I echo the toast, but the words ring hollow. None of us are moving on, not yet. The wound is too fresh, the absence too acute.

We sit in silence for a while.

"It'll get easier," Ford says eventually. "Day by day."

He's right. It will. The sharp edges of this loss will dull with time, the constant awareness of her absence will fade into occasional remembrances. We've been through this before, in different ways. We know the pattern of grief, its slow dissolution into memory.

But right now, in this moment, I miss her with an intensity that takes my breath away. I miss her laugh, her conversation, the way she looked at me like I was something worth seeing. I miss the future I'd started to imagine—one with her in it.

"Another round?" Buck asks, reaching for the bottle.

I push my glass forward, nodding. Tomorrow we'll start the business of forgetting, of moving on. But tonight, we'll sit together and remember. And maybe she's remembering us too.