Page 6 of Bossy Mountain Daddies (Reverse Harem Mountain Daddies #3)

Skye

T he alarm on my phone slices through a dream, dragging me into consciousness.

I blink at an unfamiliar ceiling—wooden beams and slanted angles instead of the smooth white ceiling I'm used to.

For a few seconds, I can't remember where I am or why I'm here.

Then reality crashes back like a rough wave, cold and harsh.

Daniel. Alicia. My car. This tiny room above a bar in a town in the middle of nowhere.

I press my hands to my eyes, trying to push back the images that flood my mind: Daniel's face buried between Alicia's thighs, her red-soled trampy Louboutins digging into our duvet, their oblivious pleasure.

My throat tightens. Less than twenty-four hours ago, I had a boyfriend, an apartment, a job.

I force myself to sit up.

The small room looks different in the morning light. There’s a double bed with clean but faded linens, a wooden dresser a little worse for wear and a small side table with a lamp. The walls are paneled in the same brown weathered wood as the ceiling, giving the space a cabin-like feel.

I slide out from under the covers and pad across the wooden floor to look out the window.

When I pull back the thin curtain, I’m surprised by what I see.

Griff wasn't lying about the view. Mountains rise in the distance, their peaks touched with early morning sunlight while shadows still cling to the valleys.

It's beautiful in an untamed way—nothing like the carefully framed city views from the floor-to-ceiling windows of my old apartment.

My phone buzzes with another alarm reminder, and I grab it from the nightstand.

No texts. No missed calls. No angry message from Daniel demanding to know where I am or why I left.

This sits heavy in my chest—both a relief and a strange disappointment.

After three years together, I at least expected him to call or send a text when he read my note.

I check my messages to Charlotte. I texted her last night before I met Griff, giving her a quick update about Poppy and my unexpected detour in Flounder Ridge. Her response came almost immediately: "Oh shit! Call me as soon as you know anything. Love you."

I gather my toiletries and a change of clothes.

The bathroom is at the end of a short hallway.

It’s simple but clean, with a shower stall, toilet, and pedestal sink.

The water pressure is surprisingly good, and I stand under the hot spray for a long time, letting it wash away the remnants of yesterday's pile of shit.

Back in my room, I brush my hair, pull it back into a ponytail, and apply a minimal amount of makeup—just enough to hide the shadows under my eyes from a night of fitful sleep.

My first day at a new job. Certainly not the literary career I'd imagined while earning my master's degree, but I’m happy to have something to do while I’m waiting on Poppy’s parts.

I sit on the edge of the bed for a minute, suddenly overwhelmed by my next moves. I'm in limbo, caught between the life I left behind and an uncertain future.

My fingers find the small locket around my neck—my mother's, with a tiny photo of my parents inside. I never take it off. "What would you do, Mom?" I whisper to the empty room. The silence offers no answers.

The clock on my phone shows 6:58. Time to go downstairs and start my new job. I stand up, straightening my shoulders. One day at a time. That's all I can manage right now. Just get through today, then tomorrow, then the next day until Jed fixes my car and I can head to Wyoming.

I slip on my sneakers and, with one last glance at the mountain view, I take a deep breath and head for the door.

The narrow staircase leads directly down to the back of the bar. Last night, the main room was filled with noise and people. Now it's quiet, with sunlight streaming through the windows. The smell of coffee drifts out from the kitchen.

I pause at the bottom of the stairs, suddenly nervous. What if I'm terrible at this? What if Griff regrets offering me the job? What if I drop a tray of orange juice or fuck up the orders?

Stop it, I tell myself firmly. It's just a temporary job in a small-town bar. Not life or death. No need to panic.

I square my shoulders and step forward, ready to face whatever happens. After yesterday, how bad can it be?

"There you are," A woman's voice calls out as I reach the bottom of the stairs. She's wiping down the bar, a rag in one hand and a spray bottle in the other. Her copper-colored hair is pulled in a scrunchie, freckles scattered across her nose and cheeks. "I'm Vanna. You must be Skye."

Before I can answer, something brushes against my leg. I look down to find a small white and brown dog gazing up at me, tail wagging with such enthusiasm his whole body wiggles. "And that's Loverboy," Vanna adds with a laugh. "Bar mascot and professional beggar."

I bend down to pet the dog, who immediately leans into my touch, eyes half-closed. He's some kind of beagle mix, I think, with a face that somehow looks like he's smiling.

"Nice to meet you both," I say, straightening up. "Griff mentioned I'd be working with someone this morning, but he didn't say who."

"Griff likes to leave out important details." Vanna tosses her rag onto the bar and extends her hand. Her grip is firm, her palms slightly calloused. "He's not much of a morning person, so you're stuck with me for the breakfast shift. Hope that's okay."

"More than okay," I assure her. "But I have to tell you, I’m kind of nervous."

Vanna's smile is warm. "Don't be. Breakfast is pretty low-key around here. Mostly locals grabbing coffee and something to eat before work." She gestures toward the tables. "Let's get set up. I'll show you the routine."

I follow her around the dining room, which looks different in the morning light—more worn-in and comfortable.

"So, we put condiments on each table," Vanna explains, handing me a caddy filled with ketchup, hot sauce, and various other bottles. "Salt, pepper, sugar packets, maple syrup. The works."

As we move from table to table, Loverboy follows us, occasionally sniffing at chair legs or looking for food that was dropped during last night’s dinner rush.

"Griff mentioned your car broke down?" Vanna asks, not looking up from arranging sugar packets.

"Yeah. It decided to self-destruct on the way to Wyoming."

"Tough luck. Jed's looking at it?"

I nod. "He says it'll be at least a week before the parts come in. Hence my new career as a waitress."

Vanna laughs. "Well, for what it's worth, we're happy to have the help. Our regular morning girl is on vacation, so it's been just me and Buck lately."

"Buck?"

"My brother. He's the cook—and co-owner with Griff and Ford. You'll meet him in a minute." She sets down the last caddy and dusts her hands on her jeans. "Let's head to the kitchen. Buck's probably wondering where I disappeared to."

We push through swinging doors into a kitchen that's surprisingly large for a place this size. Stainless steel gleams everywhere—countertops, appliances, a massive grill that takes up an entire wall. The air smells of coffee and something sweet, like cinnamon.

A mountain of a man stands at a center island, chopping fruit with practiced precision.

He's easily six and a half feet tall, with broad shoulders that stretch the fabric of his black t-shirt.

His right arm is covered in a colorful tattoo sleeve, and his salt-and-pepper hair is closely cropped.

Despite his intimidating size, there's something gentle in the way he handles the knife, carefully cutting perfect slices of melon.

"Buck, this is Skye," Vanna announces.

Buck looks up, and his serious expression transforms into a wide smile that crinkles the corners of his incredibly blue eyes. "The Mustang girl! Griff mentioned you'd be helping out." He sets down his knife and extends a massive hand. "Welcome to the madhouse."

His huge hand engulfs mine completely. His palm is warm against mine, and I feel a strange flutter in my stomach that catches me off guard. I've never been particularly attracted to men built like linebackers, but there's something about Buck that makes it hard to look away.

"So you're stuck here until Jed fixes your car?

" he asks, finally releasing my hand. I try not to stare at his forearms—thick, muscular, with veins visible beneath tanned skin—as he returns to chopping fruit.

I just caught my boyfriend cheating yesterday, and here I am ogling a stranger's arms. What the hell is wrong with me?

"Yeah," I manage to say, trying not to stare at the way his t-shirt stretches across his huge shoulders when he reaches for a plate on a high shelf. "I'm happy to help wherever you need me."

"Ever worked in a kitchen before?" he asks, returning to his fruit.

"No, but I'm a fast learner."

Buck nods, seemingly satisfied with my answer. "We'll start you off easy. Breakfast is pretty straightforward—eggs, bacon, pancakes, that sort of thing. Nothing fancy, but we pride ourselves on doing simple food really well."

He guides me to a workstation nearby, setting out a cutting board and knife. "How about you help me with the fruit prep? Just follow my lead."

I watch him slice a cantaloupe with efficiency, then attempt to mimic his technique. My first few slices are uneven, but he doesn't criticize.

"That's it," he encourages when I get the hang of it. "Nice and even. We'll make a line cook out of you yet."

There's something soothing about the repetitive motion of cutting fruit, the kitchen quiet except for the sound of knives on cutting boards and the occasional instructions from Buck.

He moves with surprising grace for someone his size, never wasting a motion as he starts toast, flips bacon, and cracks eggs one-handed into a bowl.

"So where were you headed when your car broke down?" Buck asks as he whisks the eggs.