Page 4 of Bossy Mountain Daddies (Reverse Harem Mountain Daddies #3)

I close my eyes, suddenly exhausted. The adrenaline that's been keeping me going since I saw Daniel and Alicia together drains away. "How long to fix it?"

"Can't say for sure until I get a better look. Why don't you head over to Rose's Diner while I check it out properly? Get yourself something to eat. You look like you could use it."

He's not wrong. I could definitely use something other than a protein bar to eat.

"It’s just up that way," Jed continues, pointing. "Can't miss it. Only place in town with a neon coffee cup in the window."

"Thanks," I say, grabbing my purse from the car. "How long do you need?"

"Give me an hour. I'll have a better idea by then."

I nod, setting off down the street. Flounder Ridge is exactly what you'd expect from a small mountain town—quaint, quiet, lost in time. A general store with rocking chairs out front. A post office the size of my bathroom. A bulletin board covered with community notices and lost pet flyers.

As I push open the door to Rose’s Diner, the smell of coffee and grilled onions hits me, and my stomach growls in response, reminding me that my last meal was those stale crackers and peanut butter hours ago.

A woman with silver-streaked hair looks up from behind the counter. "Take any seat you like, honey. I'll be right with you."

I slide into a booth by the window, the vinyl seat squeaking beneath me.

The waitress approaches, notepad in hand. "What can I get you?"

“What’s good?” I ask.

“What are you in the mood for? Our special today is meatloaf, but the BLT is what most people come in for."

"A BLT sounds perfect. And coffee, please."

As she walks away, I check my phone. No service. Of course. I should text Charlotte, let her know I'm delayed, but that will have to wait.

The sandwich arrives quickly, piled high with bacon and fresh tomatoes. I didn't realize how hungry I was until the first bite, and then I'm devouring it, washing it down with gulps of coffee.

My mind races as I eat. What if the car can't be fixed? How much will it cost? I’ve got no money in my account and my credit cards are just about maxed out.

The diner fills and empties around me as I sit there, locals coming in for early dinners. They chat with the waitress, with each other, occasionally glancing curiously at me. In a town this small, everyone must know everyone else's business.

An hour passes and I head back to Jed's garage, the sun is starting to dip behind the mountains.

Jed is leaning against the garage door frame, a fresh cigarette between his fingers. His expression tells me everything I need to know.

"It's not good news, is it?" I ask, bracing myself.

He shakes his head. "Head gasket's blown for sure. But you've also got a cracked cylinder head, and the radiator's shot. Coolant's been leaking into places it shouldn't for a while now."

"Can you fix it?"

"I can, but it won't be quick or cheap. Parts for these old beauties are hard to come by. I'll have to order them special, and that'll take at least a week. Maybe longer." He takes a drag of his cigarette. "Then there's the labor. All told, you're looking at about twenty-five hundred, minimum."

The number hits me like a physical blow. "Twenty-five hundred dollars?"

"I know it's steep," Jed says apologetically. "But that's what it costs to keep a classic like this on the road. I could try to find used parts, might save you a few hundred, but I can't promise anything."

"I—I don't have that kind of money," I admit, my voice small. "And I need to get to Wyoming. My friend is expecting me."

Jed studies me for a moment. "Rough day?"

"You have no idea," I laugh, but it comes out more like a sob.

He sighs, flicking his cigarette away. "Look, I know a place you might be able to stay while you wait for the parts. There's a bar called Devil's Pass about a half mile down the road. They've got a room they rent out over the bar. Nothing fancy, but the owners are good people."

"A room over a bar?" I repeat, trying to picture it.

"It's not as bad as it sounds," Jed assures me. "Lot of travelers end up there when they're passing through. Might be your best option if you're stuck here for a week."

A week in this tiny town, sleeping above a bar, waiting for car parts. This is not how I imagined my escape to Wyoming going. But what choice do I have?

"How do I get there?" I ask, resignation settling over me like a heavy blanket.

"I can give you a ride," Jed offers, jingling a set of keys from his pocket. "Got my truck right around back. No point in you walking when you've had such a rough day already."

His kindness catches me off guard. In the city, strangers don't offer rides. They don't look at you with genuine concern in their eyes. But Jed seems to operate on a different frequency, one tuned to small-town helpfulness that I've forgotten exists.

"That would be great, actually. Thank you." I glance back at my car, sitting forlorn in front of the garage. "Will it be okay here overnight?"

"Nobody's gonna mess with it,” Jed assures me. “I'll pull it into the garage before I close up."

I grab my overnight bag from the trunk, leaving the rest of my hastily packed life inside.

Jed leads me around to a battered blue pickup truck that's seen at least as many miles as my car, maybe more.

The passenger door creaks when I pull it open, and the leather seat is worn smooth from years of use.

We drive in silence. Through the windshield, I watch the mountains turning purple against the darkening sky.

"So," Jed says, "what's got you heading to Wyoming all by yourself?"

I consider how much to share with this stranger who's been nothing but kind. "I caught my boyfriend cheating. With my boss." The words still taste bitter on my tongue. "I decided I needed a change of scenery."

Jed lets out a low whistle. "That'll do it." He doesn't offer platitudes or unwanted advice, just a simple acknowledgment of the pain.

The truck slows as we approach a weathered wooden building set back from the road. A neon sign glows in the twilight: "Devil's Pass" in red letters, with a smaller sign beneath it that says "Bar & Grill." The parking lot is half-full, a mix of trucks, motorcycles, and a few sedans.

"Here we are," Jed announces, pulling up near the entrance.

Devil's Pass looks like it grew out of the mountainside itself—all rough-hewn timber and stone, with a metal roof that's developed a patina of rust along the edges.

A covered porch runs along the front, with a few patrons sitting at picnic tables.

Through the windows, I can see the warm glow of lights and the shadowy movements of people inside.

"It looks... rustic," I say, searching for a polite word.

Jed chuckles. "Don't let the outside fool you. Place is clean, food's good, and the owners don't tolerate any nonsense. C’mon, I’ll go in with you."

I follow him up the wooden steps, the boards creaking beneath our feet. When he pushes open the heavy door, a wall of sound greets us—laughter, conversation, the clink of glasses, and the low thrum of music from a jukebox in the corner.

Inside, Devil's Pass is larger than it appeared from outside.

A long bar runs along one wall, stools occupied by a mix of people—most in T-shirts and jeans.

Tables are scattered throughout, most filled with patrons eating or drinking.

A small stage sits in the far corner, empty now but set up with microphones and amplifiers.

What strikes me most is the décor—a strange blend of biker bar and family restaurant. Motorcycle memorabilia hangs on the walls alongside vintage signs and framed photographs of mountain landscapes. The lighting is dim but not dark, casting a warm glow over the weathered wood interior.

I stand just inside the doorway, clutching my overnight bag, suddenly aware of how out of place I must look. A few heads turn in our direction, curious gazes taking in the newcomer.

"That's Griff behind the bar," Jed says, nodding toward a bearded man pouring drinks. "He and a couple other guys own the place. Come on, I'll introduce you."

I follow Jed through the crowded room. I've spent the past several hours making snap decisions, running on pure adrenaline and anger.

Now, surrounded by strangers in an unfamiliar place, reality is catching up to me.

I'm broke, my car is falling apart, and I'm about to ask if I can stay in a room above a bar in a town I'd never heard of until today.

The man behind the bar looks up as we approach. He's tall, with broad shoulders and a thick beard. His hair is pulled back in a ponytail, and his forearms are covered in intricate tattoos that disappear beneath rolled-up sleeves. I find it hard to look away.

"Jed," he greets, voice deep and gravelly. "The usual?"

"Not tonight, Griff. Actually, I'm here to ask a favor.

" Jed gestures to me. "This is Skye. Her car broke down on the way to Wyoming—'67 Mustang with a blown head gasket and a cracked cylinder head.

Parts won't be in for at least a week. She needs a place to stay. Thought maybe your room was available."

Griff's direct gaze shifts to me, assessing without being intrusive. "You want to stay upstairs?"

I clear my throat. "Just until my car's fixed."

"Sure. It’s currently unoccupied," Griff says. "Includes breakfast. Bathroom's shared with the office, but no one's in there most of the time. It's not the Ritz. Just a bed and a dresser, but it does have a nice view of the mountains."

"How much?" I ask cautiously.

“It’s free,” he says, giving me a small smile that includes a dimple deep enough to drink a beer out of it. “Only catch is you have to work here.”