Page 47 of Bossy Mountain Daddies (Reverse Harem Mountain Daddies #3)

The car's hum is a lullaby. It would almost be soothing…if it weren't for the constant buzzing of my phone. I toss another glance at the offending object. Not today. Nope.

I am not picking up to hear another round of, “ Did you see the memes?" or "Is it true he was hooking up with her for months?"

And the request for interviews. So many of them. Nope. Not doing it.

I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t even want to think about it. Because thinking leads to feeling, and feeling means this whole mess might actually sink in. And I can’t let that happen.

Especially not with the vultures circling, waiting for me to break.

So, I’m doing the mature thing. Running away…

The road stretches out, all curves and dips, leading me further away from the mess I left behind. Maybe if I go a little faster, I can outrun all of my problems.

Or, you know, create new ones.

My bladder reminds me it’s been hours since my last pit stop. I glance at the fuel gauge—almost on E. Great. Might as well kill two birds with one stone.

For once in my "charmed" life, luck is on my side. A gas station sign appears through the pines, and I flip on my signal. Hopefully, this isn't some dilapidated shack, and I can pee without worrying about contracting hepatitis.

I pull into the lot, cut the engine, and step out, my legs aching in relief. I take a moment to stretch out my poor muscles, taking in a deep breath. The air is a mix of pine and gasoline—acidic and toxic, just like my mood.

"Fill 'er up," I say to myself, swiping my card at the pump. Numbers climb as liquid gold flows into the tank. I lock the handle in place and beeline for the restroom.

As I head toward the mini-mart, I’m very conscious of the way my hair must look—a bird's nest at best—and the fact that my face is bare, stripped of its usual mask of makeup.

I’m almost always completely done up—full makeup, designer clothes, every detail curated and camera-ready. That’s the job. My reflection in the glass door looks nothing like that. I’m in faded leggings and an oversized hoodie, with dark circles under my eyes and bare lips. I look like a stranger.

But that’s the point. The entire drive, I told myself that blending in was the safest bet.

No high heels clicking on pavement, no signature perfume announcing my presence.

If no one recognizes me, there’ll be no pitying glances, no whispered gossip, no strangers shoving a phone in my face to catch my latest downfall in real-time.

I can have a moment of peace for once in my life.

But standing here, stripped of the armor I’ve worn for years, it feels…wrong. Like I’m walking around in someone else’s skin.

Maybe that’s a good thing though.

I tug my hood up and push through the door, the bell jingling overhead. Eyes down, I scurry toward the restroom in the back. The sooner I get back on the road, the better.

It doesn’t help that I’ve waited too long. My bladder is past warning and into full-blown emergency mode.

I move faster, barely glancing at the sign as I shove the door open. Relief is so close?—

I freeze. My brain takes a second too long to catch up, but when it does, it slams on the brakes.

There's a man.

Not just any man—a behemoth of flesh and flannel hunched over the porcelain. His massive hand steadies him against the wall, and for a moment, all I can do is gawk at the sheer size of him.

Broad shoulders. Brawny arms dusted with dark hair. Worn flannel stretched across his back. Faded jeans slung low on narrow hips. And then, impossibly, between his legs…

Oh.

Oh.

My breath stalls. My brain? Completely offline. Because holy hell, this man isn’t just big in stature. He’s big everywhere.

Like, that thing is monstrous. Long, thick, veiny. How does he even walk around with it? More importantly…how does that even fit inside a woman?

Heat scorches up my neck. I should turn around, bolt, do something. Instead, I just stand there, wide-eyed and frozen, my bladder screaming and my dignity circling the drain.

I'm transfixed by this impossibility, this...spectacle of manhood. He seems unaware of my presence, the sound of trickling water muffled by the pounding of blood in my ears. A flush of heat creeps up my neck as I stand there, a deer caught in the most awkward headlights possible.

Then, it registers—the distinct lack of stalls, urinals lining the wall, and him, standing there, doing his business as nature intended. I am not in the women’s room.

For a split second, we're frozen—me on the threshold, him midstream. Then reality crashes back, the absurdity too much for silence. I should move, speak, flee—but instead, a breathy, involuntary whisper escapes me.

"Jesus."

The moment shatters, his gaze locking with mine. Eyes like storms at sea, deep gray and turbulent, pin me in place. My breath catches. He's more than just large; he's a rugged masterpiece, as if the mountains themselves forged him—solid, wild, untamed.

"Ah, I—" Words tangle on my tongue, thick and clumsy. "Sorry, I didn't mean?—"

I lurch backward, the apology a garbled mess spilling from my lips. My heel clips the doorframe, sending me stumbling. Panic flares, a hot, embarrassing blaze. I grab for something, anything, to keep from sprawling on the grimy floor.

"Wrong door," I squeak, voice pitched too high, betraying my mortification.

My fingers fumble against cold tile, scraping for balance.

My other hand flails wildly, catching on the edge of the sink, but my grip slips.

The momentum sends me spinning in a humiliating half-circle before I crash—hard—into the paper towel dispenser.

The metal groans under the impact, rattling like it might just fall off the damn wall.

I suck in a breath, eyes darting back to him.

He’s still standing there, still hanging out, watching me with a mix of amusement and confusion. He offers me a slow, almost lazy blink, like he’s trying to decide if I’m a genuine threat or just the dumbest woman alive.

Spoiler alert: it’s not the first option.

I jerk my gaze anywhere else. The ceiling. The floor. The very interesting grout lines in the tile. My heart pounds so loudly it drowns out everything but the oh my God, oh my God, oh my God screaming through my head.

"Y-you should put that away," I stammer, waving vaguely in his direction, trying not to look.

A beat of silence. Then, in a deep, rumbling drawl that I feel more than hear, he says, "Darlin’, this is the men’s room.”

I gape like a fish, cheeks flaming hotter than any paparazzi flashbulb. He is not wrong. And I can’t do anything right.

“You gonna stand there all day, or you gonna get the hell out?"

Mortification floods my veins. I whip toward the door, reach for the handle?—

And miss.

My fingers skim the air instead of solid metal. I lunge again, gripping nothing but panic. Why is the door so far away? Did it move?

Behind me, I hear the telltale sound of a zipper sliding up, followed by the sink turning on. Oh, thank God.

“Not from around here, huh?” he drawls, voice thick with amusement.

“Nope!” My laugh comes out strangled. “Just…passing through. Accidentally. Into the men’s room. Where I should not be.”

Kill me. Just end it.

My hand finally finds the handle, and I yank the door open so hard it nearly smacks me in the face. I stumble out, almost taking down a display of beef jerky on my way.

I do not look back.

I stumble into the hall, finding the ladies' room at last. I tumble through the correct door, heart pounding against my ribs. The slam of the door echoes, a punctuation mark to my complete lack of grace.

I stand there in front of the sink for a moment, willing my heart to slow down. The mirror’s reflection is a betrayal. I look like I lost a fight with a wind tunnel. The lopsided bun, the dark circles, the oversized hoodie swallowing me whole.

This is not blending in. This is a hot-mess-express. And isn’t that just the putrid green sprinkles on top of a shit sundae?

A dry laugh escapes me, edged with hysteria. As if it matters. It’s not like I’m looking for attention. Quite the opposite actually. And even if I were…

A man like that? One who looks like he probably chops down trees with his bare hands and wrestles bears before breakfast?

Not in a million years.

My bladder clenches, a sharp reminder that there are more pressing matters at hand. I turn and lock myself in a stall, yanking down my leggings with shaky hands. As I sit, the tension begins to ebb away, carried off by the simple relief of answering nature's call.

"Okay, Ivy. That's enough drama for one day," I say to the stall door.

I push open the bathroom door, blinking in the harsh fluorescent light of the gas station. It isn’t a dilapidated shack, but it’s no palace either. Dingy and brown are probably the two words that best describe this place. The air smells like burned coffee and motor oil.

My eyes scan the space, half-expecting that beast of a man to still be there, but the shop is empty. Relief floods me, swift and cold as mountain streams.

"Good riddance," I mumble, tucking a stray lock of hair behind my ear.

I grab myself a drink and a couple of snacks and make a beeline for the counter, avoiding eye contact with the bored cashier. Maybe she saw the whole thing, maybe not. Doesn't matter.

"Just these," I say, sliding some bills across the counter. My voice doesn't waver, but my fingers tremble just a little as I pick up my change.

"Thanks," I add, almost an afterthought, turning away before she can reply.

The bell above the door jingles as I step outside, and a sharp gust of wind cuts straight through my hoodie. I suck in a breath, the cold shocking against my too-thin leggings and the sneakers that do nothing to keep my toes warm.

Perfect. Just perfect.

A fresh layer of snow dusts the pavement, and more flurries drift from the sky, fat and lazy. I should have checked the forecast. Should have packed for this. But in my rush to get away, I hadn’t exactly been thinking about the weather.