Page 38 of Bossy Mountain Daddies (Reverse Harem Mountain Daddies #3)

Skye

C harlotte's yellow craftsman house looks exactly like her Instagram photos—cheerful, welcoming, the kind of place that belongs on a postcard labeled "Home Sweet Home."

I park Poppy on the street, her engine ticking as it cools down after our long drive. My body aches slightly from the drive, but it's nothing compared to the hollow ache in my chest. My mind has been cycling between numbness and sharp pangs of regret since I left this morning.

Before I can even grab my bag from the passenger seat, Charlotte bursts through the front door, her curls bouncing as she rushes down the steps toward me. I force a smile as she throws her arms around me.

"You made it!" she squeals, squeezing me tight.

"Sorry I’m later than I said I’d be," I mumble against her shoulder. "Had to stop more often than I expected." I don’t tell her that a couple of times I had to stop because I was crying so hard I couldn’t see the road properly.

She pulls back, her hands still on my shoulders as she studies my face. Something in her expression shifts, concern replacing excitement. "Come on, babe, let's get you inside."

I grab my bag and follow her up the steps, my legs heavy.

Charlotte's house is warm and smells like cinnamon. It's cluttered in a cozy way—books stacked on end tables, colorful throw pillows on the couch, plants on a long table by the window. It's so distinctly her.

"I made up the guest room for you," she says, leading me down a hallway.

"Thanks," I say, trying to infuse gratitude into my voice. But I just feel so damn low.

The guest room is small but pretty, with a patchwork quilt on the bed and framed botanical prints on the pale blue walls. I set my bag down and sink onto the edge of the mattress.

"So," Charlotte says, sitting beside me. "How did they take it when you told them you were leaving?"

The question hits me hard. I stare at my hands, unable to meet her eyes. "I didn't exactly tell them."

"What do you mean?"

"I left a note." My voice sounds small. "I couldn't... I couldn't say it to their faces. I knew I wouldn't be able to go through with leaving if I did."

Charlotte's silent for a moment. "A note?"

I nod, shame heating my cheeks. "I'm a fucking coward, I know."

"I didn't say that," she says, softer now. "What did the note say?"

"That I was sorry. That Poppy was fixed and I needed to continue to Wyoming. That what we had was incredible, but we all knew it wasn't forever." My voice cracks on the last word. "That I wasn't strong enough to face the scrutiny when everyone found out about us."

"Because of Daniel?"

The name sends a fresh wave of nausea through me, and I give her a little nod.

"Fuck him," Charlotte says with surprising vehemence. "Seriously, who cares what that cheating asshole thinks?"

"It's not just him though. He’s definitely going to post about it online, if he hasn’t already.

I can't even deal with social media because of what he posted before.

" I cover my eyes with my hands, trying to stop the tears I feel building.

"You should have seen his face. We'd just gotten back from this incredible night together, all four of us. .."

Charlotte's eyebrows shoot up. "Wait, all four of you? Together? Like... at the same time?"

Despite everything, I can’t help but smile.

"Yeah. Ford rented this amazing cabin in the mountains.

It had a hot tub overlooking the valley, this massive shower, incredibly comfy beds.

" The memory washes over me—their hands on my skin, the way they moved together, taking care of me, worshipping me.

"It was the most incredible night of my life. "

"Holy shit, Skye," Charlotte whispers, eyes wide. "That's... wow."

"And then we got back to the bar the next day, and Daniel was there, waiting. The look of disgust on his face when he saw all of us get out of the truck together..." I shake my head, the shame and humiliation rushing back. "He knew. He could just tell. I saw it in his eyes..."

A sob escapes me, and then another, until I'm crying so hard I can barely breathe. Charlotte wraps her arms around me, holding me as I fall apart.

"I miss them so much," I gasp between sobs. "I miss them and I hate myself for leaving like that and I'm terrified they hate me now and I'll never see them again and I just... I just..."

"It's okay. Let it all out," Charlotte soothes, rubbing my back.

"I keep thinking about how they must have felt finding that note.” Fresh tears come at the thought of their faces reading my pathetic attempt at an explanation. I then tell her what Vanna shared with me about Miranda, the miscarriage and how she left with no explanation

"You left a note though,” Charlotte says firmly. “You explained why. And you were only there for a few weeks, not in a serious relationship that resulted in a pregnancy."

"But it felt serious," I whisper.

"Maybe it was," she says, her voice gentle. "But you did what you felt you had to do.”

I pull away, wiping my face with the back of my hand. "I'm sorry. I'm a mess."

"You're allowed to be a mess," Charlotte says, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. "You've been through a lot. Not just with these guys, but everything else too... it's a lot for anyone to handle."

I nod, too exhausted to speak. The weight of everything—the grief, the guilt, the longing—presses down on me until I feel like I might collapse under it.

"Hey," Charlotte says, squeezing my hand. "I'm so glad you're here. And I promise, we're going to take your mind off all of this. We'll do fun things, distract you, give you time to process everything." She smiles encouragingly. "You made it here finally. That's something to celebrate, right?"

"Right," I agree, though my heart isn't in it. Wyoming was supposed to be my fresh start, my escape from everything that went wrong in Colorado. Instead, it feels like I've left the best parts of myself back in Flounder Ridge.

"Come on," Charlotte says, standing and pulling me to my feet. "Let's get some food in you, and then you can shower and rest. Things will look better tomorrow after you've had some sleep."

I follow her to the kitchen, going through the motions of eating even though I don’t feel hungry.

She fills the silence with chatter about her job at the local library, her weekend hiking trips, the cute barista at her favorite coffee shop who may or may not be flirting with her.

I nod and smile in all the right places, grateful for her effort to distract me.

Later that night, I curl up in my super comfy bed. The sheets are soft and smell like lavender, but I find myself missing my room above the bar. Missing the distant sounds of the bar below, the occasional burst of laughter, the mountains outside my window.

Yes, I’ve finally made it to Wyoming. But as I lie in the dark, listening to the unfamiliar sounds of the house settling, I can't shake the feeling that I've made a terrible mistake.

"We need to get out of the house, babe," Charlotte declares the next evening, as she stands in the doorway of the guest room.

I'm curled up on the bed where I've spent most of the day, alternating between staring at my phone (no messages from any of the guys, not that I expected any after how I left) and staring at the ceiling, replaying every moment of my time in Flounder Ridge like a film reel I can't shut off.

"I'm not really in the mood, Char," I say, not bothering to sit up.

"Exactly why we need to go out." She strides into the room and opens my bag, rummaging through my clothes. "There's a great little place downtown with live music. Good drinks, casual vibe, pretty chill. It will help you feel better to get out."

"I don't know..." My voice trails off as she pulls out a pair of jeans and a black sweater.

"I hear you," Charlotte says softly. "But lying here isn't helping. Trust me, a change of scenery, some music, one drink—I think it’ll help. We'll come back home the minute you want to."

I sigh, knowing she's right. I can't spend the rest of my life in this bedroom, marinating in regret. "Okay. One drink."

An hour later, we're walking into a cozy bar called The Spotted Owl.

The space is warm and inviting, with exposed brick walls covered in vintage concert posters.

A small stage occupies one corner where a woman with a guitar is singing something folksy.

Tables are scattered throughout, most of them filled with people drinking and nodding along to the music.

"What'll you have?" Charlotte asks as we find a small high-top near the back.

"Whatever IPA they have on tap," I say automatically, then feel a pang as I remember Buck always teasing me about being "one of those craft beer snobs." He'd pretend to look disgusted whenever I chose an IPA over the domestic beer that all the locals drank.

Charlotte returns with our drinks, and I take a sip, barely tasting it. The music washes over us, and I try to let it soothe my battered heart. For a bit, it almost works. The singer has a beautiful voice, rich and emotional, and I find myself getting lost in her lyrics.

"Two beautiful women sitting alone? We can’t have that..."

The voice breaks through my thoughts, and I look up to find two men standing beside our table.

They're both attractive—one tall and blond, the other shorter with dark curly hair.

They're probably around our age, maybe a year or two older.

The blond one is smiling at me, his teeth perfectly straight and white.

"Mind if we join you?" the dark-haired one asks, his question directed primarily at Charlotte, who's already smiling back at him.

"Not at all," she says, gesturing to the empty chairs at our table.

They introduce themselves—the blond is Ty, the brunette is Shawn—and they ask if we come here often. Charlotte launches into an explanation about showing me around town, carefully editing out the part where I'm nursing a broken heart.

"Let us buy you ladies another round," Ty suggests, flashing that perfect smile at me again.

Before I can protest, Charlotte jumps in. "That would be great, thanks!"

As they head to the bar, Charlotte leans over to me. "Ty is totally into you. He hasn't taken his eyes off you since they walked up."

"I'm not interested," I say flatly.

"I know, I know. Too soon. But a little harmless flirtation might make you feel better."

I doubt that, but I don't want to ruin her night. She seems genuinely into Shawn, laughing at his jokes when they return with fresh drinks, leaning in close to hear him over the music.

Ty slides his chair closer to mine. "So, Skye, what brings you to Wyoming?"

"Just visiting," I answer. "Taking some time to figure things out."

"Ah, the quarter-life crisis," he says with a knowing nod. "I had mine last year. Quit my job, went backpacking through Europe for three months. Best decision I ever made."

He launches into a story about losing his phone in Barcelona, and I try to look engaged. He's nice enough—attractive, well-traveled, seems to be interested in me. At one point in my life, I would have been flattered by his attention.

But all I can think is how different he is from the men I left behind.

His hands are smooth and manicured, nothing like Buck's calloused palms that told the story of years of hard work.

His stories about European adventures seem rehearsed, lacking the thoughtful depth that Ford brought to every conversation.

And when he casually touches my arm, there's none of the electricity I felt whenever Griff was near.

I sip my beer and nod at appropriate intervals, but my mind drifts.

If the guys were here, Buck would be critiquing the beer selection, probably complaining that there weren't enough "normal" options.

Griff would be watching the crowd with those observant eyes, occasionally making a quiet comment that would make me laugh.

Ford would be lost in the music, appreciating the singer's thoughtful lyrics.

God, I miss them so much it's like a physical ache.

"This place has great music," Ty is saying. "And they get some pretty impressive acts for such a small venue."

I think about Devil's Pass and its tiny corner stage where local bands sometimes played on weekends.

How Ford told me they'd been talking about expanding that, maybe hosting more live music nights.

Griff mentioned once that he used to play bass in a band years ago, and he promised to play for me sometime.

Now I'll never hear him play.

"Skye? You with me?" Ty's voice cuts through my thoughts.

"Sorry," I mumble. "Just... tired from the drive yesterday."

Charlotte shoots me a concerned glance from across the table, where she's deep in conversation with Shawn. I try to give her a reassuring smile, but I probably just look constipated.

I excuse myself to use the restroom, needing a moment alone. In the small, dimly lit bathroom, I stare at my reflection in the mirror. I look terrible—dark circles under my eyes, pale skin, a tightness to my expression that I can’t seem to shake.

What am I doing here, pretending to be interested in some random guy when my heart is still in Colorado? When did I become the kind of person who runs away instead of facing things head-on?

When I return to the table, Charlotte and Shawn are laughing about something, their heads bent close together. Ty smiles when he sees me, but all I can think is how he's not Buck or Griff or Ford.

"Charlotte," I say, interrupting whatever Shawn is telling her. "I'm sorry, but I need to go. I'm not feeling well."

Her eyes search mine. "Of course," she says immediately. "Let me just settle the tab?—"

"Already taken care of," Shawn says, looking disappointed.

We say our goodbyes, Ty slipping me his phone number on a napkin that I shove into my pocket with no intention of ever using it. The cool night air hits my face as we step outside, and I take a deep, shuddering breath.

"I'm so sorry," I say as we walk to Charlotte's car. "I know you were having a good time."

"Don't apologize," she says firmly. "Shawn gave me his number. I can call him another time if I want to."

Back at her house, I change into pajamas and crawl into bed, finally letting the tears come that I've been holding back all night.

"What have I done, Char?" I whisper as she sits on the edge of my bed. "I’m sure they hate me now."

"They don't hate you," she says softly, squeezing my hand. "From everything you've told me about them, they sound like good guys who totally understand that you did what you had to."

"But will they ever forgive me?" My voice breaks on the question.

"I’m sure they will," she says. "Maybe just give it a little time."

I lie awake long after she leaves, staring at the ceiling. The thought of reaching out to them terrifies me, but beneath the fear is something else—a quiet certainty that I've made a mistake I need to fix.