Page 45 of Bossy Mountain Daddies (Reverse Harem Mountain Daddies #3)

One Year Later

I burrow deeper into the warm spot where Ford’s body was just minutes ago, before he slipped out of bed to make coffee. It’s a chilly fall morning—and I thank god for the warmth of the blankets.

One year. It's been one full year since I drove back from Wyoming with my heart in my throat, not knowing if the guys would forgive me for leaving. Now I can't imagine being anywhere else but here, with these men, in this small mountain town that's become my home.

I glance at my phone and see I have a text from Charlotte. It’s a picture of Shawn and her, out with some friends for dinner. She looks so happy and it makes me smile. They’re getting married in three months, I’m the maid of honor and all my guys are going with me.

The smell of fresh coffee drifts into the room, and I finally drag myself out of bed even though I feel like I could just lay here for another hour or two.

I grab one of Ford's shirts, pulling it over my head as I pad downstairs.

His house—our house now, really—is my primary address, but that's just a technicality.

We actually flow between all three homes with an ease that constantly surprises me.

"Morning, beautiful," Ford says, handing me a mug of the magical liquid as I enter the kitchen. His hair is still damp from the shower, and he's dressed in jeans and a button-down, ready for work.

"Morning," I mumble, accepting the coffee with grateful hands. "Buck still asleep?"

Ford nods. "He must have finished cleanup at the bar later than usual."

I smile into my mug, thinking about how naturally we've all settled into this arrangement. Some nights Buck sleeps here. Some nights we sleep at Griff's. We each have our own spaces but also our shared ones. It works better than I ever imagined it could.

"We should get going in twenty," Ford says, glancing at his watch. "We've got that zoom meeting with the new author at nine."

I nod, my mind already shifting to Ember House Publishing.

The company was Ford's idea initially—a casual suggestion made during a late-night conversation about our shared love of books and his background in business.

"Small presses are where the real innovation happens," he'd said. "Let’s go for it and see what happens."

Two months later, we signed the lease on a small office space just off Main Street.

Ford handled the business side, setting up the LLC, securing modest funding, and creating our operational framework.

I took charge of acquisitions, reading countless manuscripts from new authors, learning to trust my instincts about what stories deserve to be told.

"I finished the rest of that manuscript last night after you fell asleep," I tell Ford as I pour cereal into a bowl. "The one about the elderly man who befriends the troubled teen?"

Ford raises his eyebrows. "What did you think?"

"It's good. Really good." I feel the familiar excitement building as I think about the story. "The author needs some guidance on pacing, but the voice is authentic, and the relationship between the characters feels honest. It's exactly the kind of book we want to publish."

Ford's smile is slow and satisfied. "Let's make an offer then."

That's what I love about working with him—this perfect balance of independence and partnership.

He never questions my literary decisions, and I defer to his expertise on the business side.

Together, we've published three books so far, with three more in production.

Small numbers by industry standards, but each one carefully chosen, lovingly edited, and proudly released into the world.

I’m about to pour some milk into the cereal bowl and I take a quick whiff of it first. It smells off and I give it to Ford to smell.

“Smells totally fine to me,” he says, giving me a questioning look.

I shrug and pour the milk into my bowl. For some reason, food has been smelling and tasting a little off lately.

"Griff's stopping by the office around noon," Ford reminds me as we finish breakfast. "He's bringing lunch."

"Perfect. I want to show him the cover design for the next launch."

Griff has become our unofficial aesthetic consultant, his eye for what works proving surprisingly valuable.

Buck contributes too, though in different ways—he's our best promoter, talking up our books to every customer who comes into the bar, and organizing online launch parties that get readers excited.

I change quickly, thinking about the schedule for the rest of the week.

Tomorrow night I'll work at Devil's Pass, something I still do most Fridays and Saturdays. I love those shifts—the familiar rhythm of pouring drinks, the easy banter with regulars, the satisfaction of being part of a place that means so much to this community. Lately I’ve been completely worn out at the end of my shifts though—I suppose I’ve just got too much going on.

"Ready?" Ford asks, grabbing his keys from the hook by the door.

I nod, following him outside to where Poppy sits in the driveway beside his car. We still take separate vehicles some days—we need to due to our different schedules. Today, though, I slide into the passenger seat of his Subaru, settling in for the short drive to our office.

Our morning meeting with the new author goes splendidly.

Her writing is spectacular and she’s agreeable to our terms. Every time we sign a new author, I still can’t believe that I’m lucky enough to do this for work.

I think back to working under Alicia at my last job and I’m so happy things happened the way they did.

A couple of days later, I stare at the calendar app on my phone, counting days for the third time. I'm late. Not just a little late—nearly two weeks late, which has never happened before.

I've been so busy with the publishing company, the bar and life with the guys that I didn't notice at first, but now that I've realized, I can't think of anything else.

My body feels different too—my breasts are tender, I'm exhausted by eight every night, and yesterday the smell of Buck's famous chili turned my stomach.

I slip out of the house, head to the drugstore and find the row that has condoms and pregnancy tests. It’s always amused me that those items sit side by side in most drug stores.

The plastic pregnancy test feels impossibly light in my hand as I stand in the checkout line. The cashier doesn't bat an eye—just scans it, gives me my receipt, and tells me to have a good day. On the drive home, the small paper bag on the passenger seat seems to pulse with possibility.

The house is still empty when I return, which is perfect. I need to do this alone, to process whatever the result might be before sharing it with the guys.

In the bathroom, I read the instructions twice, though there's nothing complicated about peeing on a stick. My hands tremble slightly as I remove the test from its packaging. Three minutes. That's how long I need to wait after taking the test. Three minutes that feel like an eternity.

I set a timer on my phone and place the test flat on the counter.

Then I sit on the edge of the bathtub, staring at the small window where lines will either appear or not.

I fiddle with my mom’s locket around my neck while my mind races with possibilities.

A baby. Our baby. Would it have Buck's blue eyes?

Griff's strong jaw? Ford's thoughtful expression?

My hair? My heart pounds so loudly I can hear it in my ears.

The timer dings, and I take a deep breath before looking at the test.

Two pink lines.

Clear as day.

I'm pregnant.

A sound escapes me—something between a gasp and a laugh. My hands fly to my stomach instinctively, pressing against the flat surface beneath which a tiny life is growing. Our child.

"Oh my god," I whisper to myself, tears springing to my eyes.

I sit there for several minutes, letting the reality wash over me. I'm going to be a mother. We're going to be parents. Fear mingles with joy in my chest—not fear of motherhood exactly, but the enormity of it. The responsibility. The love already swelling inside me for someone I haven't even met.

From downstairs, I hear the front door open, followed by the familiar sound of male voices. They're talking about football, their voices rising in good-natured disagreement about some call in last weekend's game. I tuck the pregnancy test into my pocket and wipe my eyes.

When I make my way downstairs, I find them exactly as I expected: sprawled across the living room furniture, eyes fixed on a football game.

Buck takes up most of the couch, his long legs stretched out in front of him.

Ford sits in his favorite armchair, a notebook in his lap where he's probably calculating stats.

Griff stands by the window, beer in hand, his eyes glued on the screen.

It's such a normal scene—one I've witnessed countless times over the past year—and yet everything has changed. They just don't know it yet.

"There she is," Buck says, his face lighting up when he sees me.

"You feeling okay?" Ford asks, always the perceptive one. "You look a little flushed."

I move into the room, my heart hammering against my ribs. "I need to tell you guys something."

The seriousness in my voice makes Buck reach for the remote, muting the TV without hesitation. Three pairs of eyes focus on me, concern evident in their expressions.

"Is everything alright?" Griff asks, setting his beer down.

I nod, then shake my head, then nod again. "Yes. More than alright. It's just... big news."

Buck sits up straighter, making room for me on the couch. I remain standing, too nervous to sit. My hand slides into my pocket, fingers wrapping around the plastic test.

"I'm pregnant," I say, the words rushing out of my mouth. I pull out the test, holding it up as evidence. "I just found out. Like, five minutes ago."