Page 8 of Bossy Mountain Daddies (Reverse Harem Mountain Daddies #3)

Griff

S aturday nights at the bar are always a blur of faces, drinks, and noise. Tonight's no different, except for one thing—Skye. She's been here just a couple of days but already moves through the crowd like she's done this for years.

I lean against the back counter, wiping a glass dry while watching her laugh with a table of hikers, the sound carrying over the jukebox and conversations.

She's wearing these denim cutoffs that show off legs that seem to go on forever, paired with a cropped t-shirt that reveals an occasional flash of stomach.

I'm staring. I know I'm staring. And I need to stop before someone notices.

But damn, she's something to look at. Not just her body—though I'd be lying if I said I haven't noticed that—but the way she carries herself. She’s got the kind of presence you don’t see a lot in women her age.

"Earth to Griff," Buck says, nudging me as he passes behind the bar. "We're out of limes."

I chew the inside of my mouth, knowing I’ve been caught. "I'll grab some from the back."

"Yeah, you do that," he says with a knowing smirk. "After you're done ogling our new waitress."

"I wasn't—" but he's already walked away, shaking his head.

I duck into the storeroom, grabbing a bag of limes and taking a moment to get my head straight. She's just a girl passing through. A very pretty girl with gorgeous eyes and a smile that makes me forget I'm twenty years too old for her. But she’s still just passing through.

When I return, Skye is at the bar, tapping her fingernails against the wood while waiting for an order.

"Two IPAs, a vodka soda, and a whiskey neat," she says when I approach. Her voice has a slight huskiness to it, like maybe she's been talking too much over the music.

I start pouring the first beer. "How you holding up? The Saturday crowd can be a lot."

"It’s a hell of a lot better than proofreading celebrity cookbooks." She leans her elbows on the bar, bringing her face closer to mine.

"That’s a pretty low bar," I say, sliding the beers toward her.

Her laugh is quick and genuine. "Was that a pun? Bar? Really, Griff?"

I feel my face warm. "Unintentional. But I'll take credit for it."

She watches me pour the whiskey, her eyes tracing my movements. "How long have you been bartending?"

"Longer than you've been legal to drink it, probably," I say before I can stop myself.

Her eyebrows rise slightly, but she doesn't look offended. "You don't know how old I am."

"Old enough to know better, young enough to do it anyway?" I offer, mixing the vodka soda.

"I'm twenty-six, in case you were wondering," she says, gathering the drinks onto her tray with ease.

She walks away with the drinks before I can respond, leaving me with my mouth half-open and my brain scrambling for something clever to say. Twenty-six. Way too young for my old ass.

The night rolls on, the bar filling to capacity as a local band sets up on our small stage. Skye moves through the crowd, delivering drinks, clearing empties, smiling, laughing. Occasionally our eyes meet across the room, and she gives me a smile that feels like it’s just for me.

Around ten, a few guys in hiking gear—clearly tourists stopping in on their way through—sit down at the bar.

I watch as one of them, a blonde guy with an expensive watch, leans in too close when he talks to Skye.

She steps back, maintaining her smile, but I can see the slight stiffening in her shoulders.

They keep waving her over, trying to chat her up.

"Another round for you boys?" she asks, gathering their empties.

"And a shot for you," the blonde guy says, reaching for his wallet. "Join us."

She glances toward me, a question in her eyes. I give a small nod. We're not strict about it—staff can have a drink if offered, as long as they stay functional.

"What'll it be?" she asks, maintaining her professional smile.

"Whiskey," he declares. "The good stuff."

I quickly pour three beers and four shots of mid-range whiskey. Nothing special, but not the cheap stuff either.

"You don't have to drink it," I tell her quietly as I line up the glasses in front of them.

"I know," she says. "But I kind of want to. Been a hell of a week."

I can't argue with that logic. "Just pace yourself."

She takes her shot with them, tipping her head back as she swallows. She doesn't cough or sputter, just sets the glass down with a satisfied little exhale. The blonde guy says something that makes her laugh, but she's already moving away, back to work.

An hour later, when the crowd has thinned slightly and the band is taking a break, I pour her another shot—this time from the bottle I keep under the bar for special occasions. It's a small-batch bourbon from a distillery in Kentucky that went out of business years ago.

When Skye comes to the bar for her next order, I slide it toward her. "Try this."

She looks at the amber liquid, then at me. "What is it?"

"Something better than what your hiking friend bought you."

She picks up the glass, sniffs it curiously, then takes a small sip. Her eyes widen. "Wow. That's smoothe."

I can't help but smile. "It's from a little place in Kentucky. They don't make it anymore though."

"And you're sharing it with me?" The way she says it makes it sound like I've given her a precious gift rather than just a shot of whiskey.

"Thought you might appreciate it," I say, trying to sound casual. "After everything you’ve been through this week.”

She holds my gaze for long enough to make me uncomfortable, then tips back the rest of the shot. "Thank you."

Eventually the band packs up, the hikers stumble out, locals drift home until it's just a handful of regulars nursing their last drinks. Buck left hours ago, leaving me to close up with Skye.

When the last customer finally leaves, she collapses onto a barstool with an exaggerated groan. "My feet are killing me."

I grab two beers from the cooler, pop the caps, and slide one toward her. "You did good tonight."

"Yeah?" Her smile is tired but pleased. "I didn't drop anything, at least." She laughs, then stretches her arms above her head, revealing that strip of stomach again. I look away, focusing on wiping down the bar top.

"Any word from Jed about your car?" I ask after a moment.

She shakes her head. "Still looking for parts. They're not exactly stocking the components at the local AutoZone for these old Mustangs."

“How ‘bout your boyfriend… did you hear from him?”

“My ex ,” she says pointedly. “Not a word and it’s better that way. There’s not a thing he could say to make me change my mind at this point.”

"He’s an asshole," I say simply.

A surprised laugh escapes her. "Yeah. A complete asshole." She shakes her head. "You know what the worst part is? I keep wondering how many other women there were. How many times he lied to my face. How many times he said he was going somewhere but he wasn’t..."

She trails off, staring into her beer. I have the sudden urge to find this guy and introduce his face to my fist.

"His loss," I say instead.

Her eyes meet mine, searching for something. "Thanks for saying that, Griff."

"I mean it."

She smiles and I feel something stir in my chest.

She finishes her beer and immediately reaches for mine, taking a sip without asking.

It's such a casual, intimate gesture that it catches me off guard.

We sit in silence for a moment, the only sounds the hum of the refrigerator behind the bar and the occasional car passing on the road outside.

When she sets my beer down, her fingers brush against mine deliberately, and the look she gives me from under those lashes isn't something I can pretend to misunderstand.

"Want another?" I ask, my voice rougher than I intended.

She shakes her head slowly. "Not really."

The way she's looking at me makes my heart hammer against my ribs. Her eyes are dark in the dim light, fixed on mine with an intensity that completely does me in.

I should look away. I should make some excuse about needing to finish up and get home. I should remember that I'm too old for her, that she's just passing through, that she's on the rebound from a relationship that imploded only days ago.

But I don't do any of those things. I just sit there, caught in her gaze like a deer in headlights.

"What are you thinking about?" she asks softly.

"That I shouldn't be thinking what I'm thinking," I answer honestly.

A small smile plays at the corners of her mouth. "And what's that?"

I run a hand through my hair, buying time. "Skye, I'm twenty years older than you."

Her smile widens. "Is that all that's bothering you?"

"You just got out of a relationship."

"Three days ago, yeah." She leans forward slightly. "And I've had three days to think about exactly what I want right now."

My mouth goes dry. "And what's that?"

Instead of answering, she slides off her stool and moves between my knees, tilting her head up to look at me. My hands hover uselessly at my sides, hesitant to touch her.

"I think you know," she says, and then she's rising up on her toes, pressing her lips to mine.

For a second, I'm too surprised to respond. Her lips are soft and tentative at first. Then something breaks loose inside me and I'm kissing her back, my hands finding her waist, pulling her closer. She makes a small sound in the back of her throat that sends electricity down my spine.

The kiss deepens, her tongue sliding against mine as her fingers tangle in my hair. She tastes like beer and whiskey. I stand, not breaking the kiss, and now I'm the one leaning down, my hands moving from her waist to cup her face.

When we finally pull apart, we're both breathing hard. Her cheeks are flushed, lips parted. I should say something, make sure this is really what she wants, but before I can form the words, she's kissing me again, more urgently this time. Her body presses against mine, all soft curves and heat.

"Upstairs," she whispers. "Take me upstairs."