Page 7 of Bossy Mountain Daddies (Reverse Harem Mountain Daddies #3)

"Wyoming. My friend Charlotte lives there." I focus on cutting a pineapple the way he showed me. "I was... leaving a bad situation."

Buck doesn't press for details and I wonder if Griff already filled him in. He just nods, his expression softening. "Well, you're welcome here as long as you need. Flounder Ridge has a way of taking care of people who need a little breathing room."

The swinging doors push open, and Vanna pokes her head in. "Andy's here for his usual."

"Coming right up," Buck says, already reaching for a pan. He turns to me with a smile. "Andy's our most loyal customer. Same order every single morning—two eggs over easy, wheat toast, side of bacon. Black coffee."

I follow Vanna back out to the front, where an older man sits at the bar, a worn baseball cap on his head. His weathered face breaks into a smile when he sees Vanna.

"Mornin’, Vanna," he greets her. "Beautiful day, isn't it? Reminds me of that summer back in '87 when we had three weeks straight of perfect weather. Not a cloud in the sky. My Maggie and I went fishing every single day."

"Good morning, Andy," Vanna says, already pouring him a cup of coffee. "This is Skye. She's helping us out for a while."

Andy turns his kind eyes to me, extending a gnarled hand. "Pleasure to meet you, young lady." His handshake is surprisingly strong for a man his age.

"Nice to meet you too, Andy," I reply, finding myself warming to his friendly demeanor.

"You're not from around here," he observes, taking a sip of his coffee. "I know every face in Flounder Ridge, and yours is new. Just passing through?"

"Car trouble," I explain. "I'm staying until it's fixed."

Andy nods sagely. "Jed's your man, then. Fixed my truck after I drove it into Miller's Creek last spring. That water came up faster than you'd believe. One minute the road was clear, next thing I knew, I was floating. Reminded me of the flood of '83 when?—"

Vanna gives me a subtle wink as Andy launches into his story. She slips behind the bar to grab menus as I listen to his rambling tale. There's something soothing about the way he talks, like he's got all the time in the world and is happy to share it with you.

The morning flies by in a blur of coffee refills and food deliveries. More customers trickle in—a couple of construction workers in dusty boots, a woman with two small children, a pair of hikers with trail maps spread across their table.

I follow Vanna's lead, scribbling orders on a small pad and delivering plates from the kitchen.

My nervousness fades with each successful interaction, replaced by the satisfying rhythm of simple work.

It's nothing like my publishing job, where success was measured in manuscript pages edited and author egos soothed.

Here, success is a hot plate of food delivered with a smile and an empty coffee cup refilled before being asked.

"You're a natural," Vanna says as we cross paths between tables. "Sure you haven't done this before?"

I laugh. "Believe me, this is a first. I’m just happy I haven’t dropped anyone’s plate in their lap yet."

Buck pokes his head through the kitchen window. "Order up for table four!" His smile is warm as he slides two plates of perfectly arranged pancakes across the counter. "Looking good out there, Skye."

I smile and feel my face redden. Get a hold of yourself, girl. He’s just being nice.

As the breakfast rush starts to wind down, Vanna nods toward the far corner of the bar. "Let's clear those glasses from last night. Sometimes the closing crew misses a few. Can’t believe I missed them earlier…"

I follow her to an area near the jukebox where several empty beer glasses sit abandoned on high-top tables. Vanna stacks them expertly, three in each hand.

"Griff usually closes on Thursdays, and he gets distracted easily," she explains, balancing her precarious tower. "Especially if there's live music. He'll be mixing drinks and completely forget he started clearing a table but didn’t finish."

I gather the remaining glasses, careful not to drop them.

"How long have you worked here?" I ask, navigating around a chair.

"Since the boys bought it five years ago. I was waiting tables at the diner before that." Vanna shifts her grip on the glasses. "Buck insisted I come work for them. Said he needed someone who'd tell him when his food wasn't up to par."

I smile at that. "You don't seem the type to hold back opinions."

"Life's too short for—" Her sentence cuts off as she stumbles slightly, her hip catching the edge of a table. One of the beer glasses tips sideways in her hand, splashing amber liquid across the floor. "Damn it!"

From somewhere across the room comes a scrambling sound, nails clicking rapidly against wooden floors. I turn just in time to see Loverboy charging toward us, his small body a blur of white and brown, eyes locked on the spilled beer with an intensity that's comical.

He skids to a stop at the puddle and immediately begins lapping it up, his pink tongue working overtime, his entire body wiggling with delight.

"Loverboy, no!" Vanna scolds, trying to nudge him away with her foot while still balancing her stack of glasses. "Bad dog! Stop that right now!"

The dog ignores her completely, too entranced by his unexpected treasure to do as he’s told. His tail wags so forcefully that his behind sways from side to side as he drinks.

From his perch at the bar, Andy bursts into laughter, his weathered face crinkling with delight. "There he goes again! Fastest tongue in the West!"

"This happens a lot?" I ask, unable to suppress my own laughter.

"Every single time," Vanna sighs, giving up her attempt to move the determined dog. "He can be sound asleep in the back office, but somehow he always knows when beer hits the floor. It's like he has a sixth sense."

Andy's laughter continues. "I've seen that dog come running from outside when someone spills a beer. Through the door, across the room, doesn't matter how far away he is. He'll find it."

Loverboy finishes his impromptu drink and looks up at us, his expression both satisfied and hopeful, as if asking if we might spill more.

"You're incorrigible," Vanna tells him, but there's affection in her voice. "Go on, go lay down."

The dog trots a few steps away, then circles back, giving the now-clean spot on the floor one last hopeful lick before reluctantly retreating to a sunny patch near the front window.

"He's been doing that since he was a puppy," Andy explains, turning on his stool to face me.

"First time I saw it, Ford had knocked over a bottle on the bar and it dripped to the floor.

That little furball came running from the kitchen like his tail was on fire, and started licking up the beer before anyone could stop him. "

I set my collected glasses on the bar. "Sounds like he developed a taste early on."

"Folks around here think it's the funniest thing," Andy continues, warming to his story. "Some of the regulars, they'll pretend to accidentally spill a little just to see him do his beer dash. It’s become a form of entertainment."

Vanna rolls her eyes. "Which only encourages him."

"We joke he needs one of those twelve-step programs," Andy says, his eyes twinkling. "Doggie AA. 'Hi, my name is Loverboy, and I'm powerless over spilled beer.'"

The mental image makes me laugh out loud—this small, innocent-looking dog sitting in a circle of canine companions, sharing his struggles with alcohol.

"Last Christmas," Vanna adds, joining in despite her earlier exasperation, "Ford got him a tiny sobriety chip as a joke. Attached it to his collar. Buck was so mad—said we shouldn't make fun of addiction."

"That's Buck for you," Andy nods. "Heart as big as the rest of him."

I glance over at Loverboy, now seemingly asleep in his patch of sunlight, the very picture of innocence. "Does he go after beer if it’s still in someone’s glass?"

"No, only if it’s spilled, thank god," Vanna assures me. "Otherwise I wouldn’t be able to bring him to work with me.”

Andy drains his coffee cup. "Makes for good entertainment. You should see it when we're busy. People will stop mid-conversation to watch The Loverboy Show."

As I help Vanna bus a couple of empty tables, I find myself smiling. Maybe this unintended pit stop won’t be so bad after all.