Page 5 of Bossy Mountain Daddies (Reverse Harem Mountain Daddies #3)

Griff

I can't help the low chuckle that escapes me as I watch her walk off toward the stairs, clutching that overnight bag like it might grow legs and run away.

Her face when I dropped that little bomb—priceless.

The way her eyes widened, jaw going slack for a split second before she caught herself.

She definitely wasn't expecting that curveball.

But then, from what Jed just told me about her day, nothing's gone according to plan for her since this morning.

"You're an ass, Griff," Jed says, leaning against the bar. His weathered face crinkles with disapproval, but there's a hint of amusement in his eyes. "You know damn well I told her you rent that room out. Not exchange it for working in your bar."

I grab a glass and start polishing it, more for something to do with my hands than because it needs it. "Yeah, well, usually I do."

"So what's different about this one?" Jed raises an eyebrow, reaching for the beer I've already started pouring him. Guess he changed his mind about having a drink.

"Nothing," I say too quickly. "Just need the help, that's all. Tammi's gone for a couple of weeks, remember?"

"Sure," Jed says, drawing out the word like he doesn't believe me. He takes a long pull from his beer. "Nothing to do with the fact that she's pretty."

I shoot him a look. "I’m old enough to be her daddy."

And I really do need the help. Tammi left two days ago for her sister's wedding in Arizona. We've been managing without her, but just barely. Another pair of hands, even inexperienced ones, could be the difference between staying afloat and drowning.

"Besides," I add, "I’m sure she’s going to need some extra money after paying you to fix her car. This way she gets a place to stay, some tips, and I get some help. Win-win is how I see it."

Jed grunts, unconvinced and gulps half his beer.

I move down the bar to refill water for the Henderson brothers, who come in every Thursday after their shift at the lumber mill. They're deep in conversation about some football player, barely acknowledging me as I top off their glasses.

The evening crowd is starting to filter in—familiar faces mostly, with a few tourists mixed in, probably staying at the campground up the road.

Devil's Pass isn't much to look at, but it's mine. Well, mine and Buck’s and Ford’s.

The three of us bought it five years ago when Old Man Cartwright decided to sell.

We kept the name, kept most of the décor—the biker paraphernalia, the vintage beer signs, the collection of license plates from all fifty states.

Added a few touches of our own, like the stage for live music on weekends and the kitchen that serves actual decent food instead of just microwaved frozen pizzas.

When the girl walked in with Jed, I noticed her right away.

Hard not to—she stuck out like a sunflower in a pine forest. City clothes, expensive-looking purse, that deer-in-headlights look that screams "not from around here.

" But there was something else too, something in the way she was standing there. She’s running from something. And not just a broken-down car.

I've seen that look before. Hell, I wore it myself about ten years back when I first rolled into Flounder Ridge on my Harley, nothing but a duffel bag and enough cash for a tank of gas.

I wasn't planning on staying, but then Cartwright offered me a job bartending, and one month turned into six, turned into a decade.

Sometimes the place you're running to finds you before you even know you're looking for it.

Should I have told her she had to work for her room and board? Probably not. But something about the way she stood there, trying so hard to look composed, made me want to challenge her a little. See if there was some steel under all that polish. Not exactly my most mature moment.

"You think she'll take you up on it?" Jed asks, interrupting my thoughts.

I shrug, wiping down the bar top. "Fifty-fifty. Depends on how desperate she is."

"Desperate enough," Jed says with certainty. "That car of hers isn't going anywhere anytime soon. And from what she told me on the drive over, she doesn't have much in the way of options."

A twinge of guilt nips at me. I push it away. "What's her story anyway?"

"Not mine to tell," Jed says, but then suddenly changes his mind. "She's had a rough go of it lately. Caught her boyfriend with another woman today—her boss, if you can believe it. Packed up and left, heading to a friend's place in Wyoming when the Mustang gave out."

Jesus. No wonder she looked shell-shocked. "That's a hell of a day."

"Yeah," Jed agrees. "So maybe cut her some slack."

If she takes the job, what would I even have her do?

Can't put her behind the bar, not without training.

Waiting tables maybe, or helping in the kitchen.

Buck's always complaining about needing more help with prep work.

Nothing too complicated to start, just enough to earn her keep while her car gets fixed.

I'm sending a tray of shots over to a table of hikers celebrating the end of some trail when I see her coming down the stairs.

She's changed clothes—jeans and a simple t-shirt now instead of the dress she had on before.

Her hair's pulled back, face freshly washed.

She hesitates at the bottom of the stairs, scanning the crowded room, before her eyes find mine at the bar.

Her chin lifts slightly as she makes her way through the crowd toward me. That little gesture—that's what I was looking for. Steel underneath, just like I thought.

She slides onto an empty stool at the far end of the bar, away from the regular crowd. There's a determined set to her jaw now, like she's made a decision she doesn't love but will have to live with.

I finish pouring a whiskey for one of the regulars before making my way over to her, giving her time to settle.

Up close, I notice details I missed before—the slight redness around her eyes that suggests she's been crying, the tension in her shoulders, the way her fingers nervously tap against the wooden bar top.

"So," she says when I approach, "about that job offer."

I lean against the back counter, giving her space. "Whatchya thinkin’?"

"Not much choice, is there?" A wry smile appears on her lips. "My car's shot, I'm basically broke, and Wyoming's still a long way off. So yes, I'll work here in exchange for the room."

"Deal." I extend my hand across the bar. "Griffin Hawkins. Most people call me Griff."

"Skye McMillan." Her hand is small in mine, but her grip is surprisingly firm. "I should warn you, I've never worked in a bar before."

"Everyone's gotta start somewhere."

Now that she's sitting still and I'm not busy being an ass, I really look at her.

She's beautiful in a way that catches you off guard—not the obvious kind of pretty, but the sort that reveals itself in pieces.

Wide-set eyes that can't decide if they're blue or green.

A small constellation of freckles across her nose.

Blonde hair that falls just past her shoulders.

She's young—mid-twenties at most—which makes me feel ancient at forty-six.

"What can I get you to drink?" I ask, suddenly aware I've been staring.

"Just a beer. Whatever's on tap that isn't too hoppy."

I pull her a Coors Light, placing it in front of her. "On the house. Consider it a welcome to Flounder Ridge."

"Thanks." She takes a long sip, closing her eyes briefly. When she opens them again, some of the tension has left her face. "God, I needed that."

"Rough day?"

"You could say that." She traces a finger through the condensation on her glass, drawing patterns. "Though 'catastrophic' might be more accurate."

I lean forward, elbows on the bar. "Jed mentioned something about your car. '67 Mustang, right?"

Her face lights up for the first time since she walked in. "Yeah. Poppy. She's a beauty. Or was, before the head gasket blew and apparently took half the engine with it."

"You know your cars," I observe, impressed. Most women her age wouldn't know a head gasket from a hole in the ground.

"My grandfather taught me." She takes another drink. "He was a mechanic. Had that Mustang since it was brand new. Used to let me help him work on it when I was a kid."

"So he left it to you?"

"Yeah." Her smile turns soft with memory. "Everyone thought he'd leave it to one of my cousins, but Grandpa and I had a special bond."

I find myself smiling too. "My dad was like that with his truck. Could talk for hours about pistons and cylinders."

"Exactly! Grandpa would spend whole afternoons showing me how to change the oil or replace spark plugs. My mom used to get so mad because I'd come inside covered in grease." She laughs, then her expression falls. "She'd be horrified if she knew I let the car fall into this condition."

Something in her tone makes me tread carefully. "Where do your folks live?"

"They died." The words come out flat. "Car accident, about a year ago. A drunk driver crossed the median on the highway."

"Jesus," I breathe. "I'm sorry."

She shrugs, but I can see how her fingers tighten around her glass. "It's fine. I mean, it's not fine, but... you know. Life goes on, right?"

Her eyes swim with unshed tears, and I have the sudden urge to reach across the bar and take her hand.

"My dad died when I was sixteen," I offer instead. "Heart attack. Came out of nowhere."

She looks up, surprised by the confession. "That's rough."

"Yeah." I rarely talk about my dad, especially with strangers, but something about her makes me want to share. Maybe because she looks like she needs to know she's not the only one who's lost people.

"Anyway," she says after a moment, "the car is basically all I have left of him. Of them, really. I can't just leave it behind."

"Jed's the best mechanic in three counties," I assure her. "If anyone can fix it, he can."

"I hope so." She finishes her beer, and I automatically begin to pour her another. She doesn't stop me. "This whole day has been one disaster after another."

"The boyfriend thing?" I venture, remembering what Jed mentioned.

Her face darkens. "How much did Jed tell you?"

"Just that you caught your boyfriend with someone else. Your boss?"

"Yeah." She accepts the fresh beer with a nod of thanks. "I went home for lunch and found them in my bed. Our bed. Whatever." She takes a long drink. "I’m not going back to that job now."

"No, I wouldn't think so." I try to imagine what kind of asshole cheats on someone like her. "What kind of work did you do?"

"Literary assistant at a publishing house. Glorified coffee fetcher, really." She makes a dismissive gesture. "I have a master's degree in literature, and I spent most of my time proofreading celebrity cookbooks."

"That's a waste—you can definitely do better than that."

"Yeah, well." She stares into her beer. "Daniel—my ex—he always said I should be grateful for the opportunity."

The bitterness in her voice stirs something protective in me.

I want to find this Daniel guy and introduce his face to my fist. Which is ridiculous—I've known this woman for all of twenty minutes.

But there's something about her vulnerability combined with that grit I glimpsed earlier that makes me want to know her better.

"His loss," I say simply.

She looks up, studying my face like she's trying to decide if I mean it. Then she gives me a wide smile. "Thanks, Griff."

I clear my throat, uncomfortable with the fact that I like the way she says my name.

"So, about the job. We're pretty flexible here.

Breakfast shift starts at seven, or you could work dinner service if you're not a morning person.

Mostly taking orders, running food, bussing tables. Nothing complicated."

"I can do either," she says. "Tomorrow I'd like to check on my car sometime during the day, see how Jed's doing with it."

"We’ll have you work breakfast tomorrow then. Shift starts at seven." I glance at the clock. "Kitchen's still open if you want some food."

"Actually, I had a BLT not long ago at Rose’s and I'm exhausted. Think I'll just head up and crash." She slides off the stool, picking up her purse. "Thanks for the beers. And the room."

"No problem." I watch as she stands up and starts to walk away, my eyes lingering longer than they should. She pauses, turning back to me.

"Griff?"

"Yeah?"

"Thanks for listening."

I nod. "You got it. Get some sleep, Skye. Things usually look better in the morning."

She gives me a skeptical look but heads upstairs without another word.

I watch until she disappears, then turn back to the bar, trying to ignore the uncomfortable feeling settling in my chest. It’s something between sympathy and attraction, neither of which I should be feeling for a woman who's clearly going through hell and just needs a place to stay while her car gets fixed.

But there it is anyway, that pull toward her. That desire to smooth away the crease between her eyebrows, to see her smile reach her eyes.

Dangerous territory, Hawkins. Very dangerous territory.