Page 43 of Bossy Mountain Daddies (Reverse Harem Mountain Daddies #3)

Skye

I stand in front of the mirror, adjusting my blouse for what must be the tenth time.

My stomach twists with a familiar anxiety—not the butterfly flutter of excitement, but the heavy weight of dread.

Today is the Flounder Ridge Harvest Festival, and for the first time, I'll be attending a public event with all three of my men.

Together. As a unit. The thought alone makes my palms sweat.

I thought I was finished with these uncomfortable feelings, but apparently I’m not.

"You ready, babe?" Buck calls from the other room. I can hear the television on in the background—some football game Griff's been watching before we head out.

"Almost," I call back, though I'm as ready as I'll ever be. It's not my outfit I'm fussing with at this point, but my courage.

What will people say when they see us together?

Will they whisper behind our backs? Make snide comments?

I've finally made peace with our unconventional relationship, but that doesn't mean everyone else will.

Daniel may have promised to stop posting about us online, but that doesn't protect us from old-fashioned small-town gossip.

I take a deep breath and move away from the mirror.

They're waiting for me in the living room—Buck in a blue flannel that brings out his eyes, Griff in a dark henley that hugs his broad shoulders, and Ford in a soft gray sweater that looks ridiculously good on him.

The sight of them together still takes my breath away sometimes.

"Worth the wait," Ford says with a soft smile when he sees me.

"You look beautiful," Griff adds, his eyes warming as they take me in.

Buck just grins and wraps an arm around my waist, pressing a kiss to my temple. "Ready to eat our weight in funnel cake?"

I laugh despite my nerves. "As ready as I'll ever be."

I stare out the window during the drive to the festival grounds, watching Flounder Ridge roll by. The massive mountains loom in the background, and as always, they take my breath away.

Griff parks in a field that's been turned into a makeshift lot, already filled with cars and trucks. The festival sounds reach us as soon as we step out of the truck—music, laughter, shrieks from one of the carnival rides set up on the edge of the grounds.

"Here we go," I murmur, more to myself than to them.

Ford's hand finds mine, his fingers intertwining with my own. "We can leave anytime you want," he says quietly, reading my anxiety. "Just say the word."

I squeeze his hand gratefully. "I'm okay. Just a little nervous."

"Nobody's gonna say shit," Buck says confidently, his large frame reassuring beside me. "And if they do, they'll have to deal with me."

"With us," Griff corrects, coming around the truck to join us.

We walk toward the entrance, a simple wooden archway decorated with corn stalks and autumn flowers.

I'm hyperaware of every glance that comes our way.

A couple walking ahead of us turn and nod in greeting.

The woman's eyes take in our joined hands—mine and Ford's—and Buck's arm slung casually around my shoulders, with Griff walking close to Buck.

But her smile doesn't falter; if anything, it grows warmer.

"Afternoon, folks," she says cheerfully. "Beautiful day."

"Sure is," Griff replies with a nod.

And just like that, they continue on their way. No double-takes, no shocked expressions. Just a normal, friendly exchange.

Inside the festival grounds, the full spectacle spreads before us.

Rows of booths selling everything from handmade crafts to local honey line the main path.

Food vendors hawk fried everything, the smells of sugar and grease mingling with the crisp autumn air.

A stage has been set up at the far end where a local band plays country covers.

Children dart between adults, faces sticky with cotton candy residue.

"What first?" Buck asks, his eyes already tracking a man carrying what looks like a turkey leg the size of my forearm.

"Games first, then food," Ford says. "I want to try the shooting gallery before I'm too full to lift my arms."

"I could eat now and later," Buck argues, but he's already being pulled along by Ford toward the game booths.

Griff's hand settles on the small of my back as we follow them. "How you holding up?" he asks, his voice low enough that only I can hear.

"Better. I think I’m going to be okay."

"Reynolds at your three o'clock," he murmurs, nodding toward the ring toss booth.

I glance over to see his familiar weathered face breaking into a grin when he spots us. We haven’t seen much of him lately, now that he’s sober. He waves, abandoning his attempt to land a ring around a bottle neck.

"There they are!" he calls, making his way over. "The happy foursome!"

My face heats at his casual acknowledgment of our relationship, but there's no judgment in his tone, just genuine warmth.

"Afternoon, Reynolds," Griff says, clasping the man's outstretched hand. "Enjoying the festival?"

"Can't complain," Reynolds replies, then turns his attention to me. "These three treating you right?"

"They are," I confirm, surprised by the steadiness in my voice.

"Good," he nods firmly. "Because if they don't, they'll have me to answer to." He winks, taking any sting out of the words. "You all tried the cider yet? Some woman from over in Pine Creek's got a booth, and I swear it's the best I've ever had."

We chat with Reynolds for a few more minutes before he wanders off in search of his friend.

As soon as he's gone, another familiar face appears—one of the women who comes to the bar every Saturday night for the live music.

She hugs me like we're old friends and tells me she's thrilled I decided to stay in Flounder Ridge.

"This place needs more young blood," she insists.

"And these three need someone to keep them in line. "

It keeps happening as we make our way through the festival.

People we know from the bar greet us warmly.

They ask about business, comment on the weather, critique the festival food—normal, everyday conversations that don't even acknowledge the fact that I'm there with three men who are all clearly involved with me.

By the time we reach the shooting gallery, where Buck proceeds to win a ridiculously large pink stuffed bear, I've nearly forgotten my earlier anxiety.

"Told you," Buck says smugly, handing me the bear. "Nobody gives a shit."

"Language," Ford chides, though he's smiling. "There are kids around."

"Like they haven't heard worse," Buck scoffs, but he ruffles the hair of a passing kid who's eyeing my bear with naked envy.

We're heading toward the food stalls, drawn by the smell of barbecue, when I spot Vanna across the way. Loverboy trots at her heels, and beside her walks a tall, lean man I don't recognize. Her face lights up when she sees us, and she changes course to intercept our path.

"About time you all showed up," she says. "I was beginning to think you'd decided to spend the whole day in bed."

"Vanna," Ford warns, but his tone is amused.

She grins, unrepentant, then turns to the man beside her. "Harry, these are the guys I was telling you about. Griff, Ford and my brother, Buck. And this is Skye." She looks back at us. "Everyone, this is Harry. We met at the farmer's market last week."

Harry is handsome in a weathered way, with laugh lines around his eyes and an infectious grin. He shakes hands with each of the guys, then offers me a warm smile.

"Heard a lot about you all," he says.

Vanna gives us all a look that tells us to behave, then bends to scratch Loverboy behind the ears. The dog immediately flops onto his back, begging for a belly rub.

We chat for a while, the conversation flowing easily. Harry turns out to be a carpenter who's been hired to renovate the old library building. Vanna watches him as he talks, a softness in her expression I've never seen before.

"We're heading to get something to eat," Griff says when there's a lull. "You two want to join us?"

"Thanks, but we just had those amazing loaded potatoes from the stand by the entrance," Vanna says. "We're going to check out the craft booths now. Harry's looking for some new coffee mugs."

"Mine all broke in the move," Harry explains.

As they walk away, Loverboy trotting happily between them, I feel something settle in my chest—a quiet certainty that maybe, just maybe, everything really is going to be okay.

"I think I could use some of that cider Reynolds mentioned," Ford says. "Anyone else?"

As we navigate toward the cider stand, people continue to greet us with smiles and friendly words. No one stares. No one whispers.

I take a full, deep breath, letting the tension drain from my shoulders. I'm not sure what I expected today—pitchforks and scarlet letters, maybe—but whatever it was, the reality is nothing like that.

Eventually, the festival transforms as dusk settles over Flounder Ridge. String lights flicker to life overhead, casting a warm glow across the grounds. The air cools enough to make me grateful for my denim jacket, and the scent of woodsmoke mingles with sugar and spice.

On the main stage, the afternoon band packs up their equipment as a new group begins to set up—this one with a fiddle player and a stand-up bass.

We've spent the day wandering from booth to booth, checking out cute local crafts and eating like we’ll never eat again.

"They're clearing space for dancing," Ford observes, nodding toward the area in front of the stage where volunteers are moving benches to create an impromptu dance floor.

Buck's eyes light up. "Perfect timing. I need to dance off some of this food. Best way to work off four servings of pie," he insists, patting his belly without an ounce of regret.