Page 3 of Mountain Daddy (Mountain Men #2)

Luther

“No.” My sister holds her hands up, stopping me from coming behind the bar. “You’re not even supposed to be here tonight.”

I narrow my eyes at her. “Says who?”

“Says HR.” She throws her thumb over her shoulder, indicating Steve, the stuffed muskie mounted on the wall.

“Steve would never dare to tell me, the owner of said bar, what I can and cannot do.”

“Fine.” Jessie huffs and shakes her head. “But if you’re going to insist on being here, I’m going to insist you sit on the patron side of the counter. But, and this is just a suggestion, maybe relax a little. Pretend like you’re actually taking the day off like you said you would.”

I heave out a breath, as though that’s a hardship, and back away from the space that Jessie has claimed as her own.

She’s right, of course. I said I wasn’t going to come in tonight.

But then I couldn’t decide what to watch on TV, and I… well, I didn’t know what to do with myself.

And rather than address the underlying factor of my inability to just relax, I drove the few minutes here.

Two couples sit at the other end of the bar, so I slide onto a vacant stool at this end, leaving plenty of space between us.

They aren’t arguing or doing anything exciting, so I don’t need to eavesdrop.

Jessie sets a lowball glass filled with dark liquid in front of me. “Drink it.”

“So fucking bossy,” I grumble under my breath.

I sniff the drink.

Smells like a whiskey cola.

I don’t have a usual drink. There are too many good options in the world to always drink the same thing. But this is one of my favorites. Especially since we use a local Colorado soda company that makes for superior cocktails.

I take a long sip.

Then down half the glass.

Lowering the drink, I look around the bar.

Jessie has the music set to classic rock tonight, loud enough for those who want to sit and listen, but not so loud you have to shout to be heard over it.

It’s a weeknight, so the tables are about a third full, plus the other folks at the bar, but it’s not too rowdy.

Some weekends, we fill every seat and then some, but if Jessie won’t let me help her, then I’ll sit here and take in the chill evening.

As I take another drink, Diego steps out from the kitchen door—along the back wall behind the bar, a dozen steps from where I’m sitting—with a trio of plates balanced on his arm.

He gives me a nod, and I tip my glass toward him.

Diego runs the kitchen and is in charge of the menu. It’s a small menu, consisting of three options—a burger, a chicken sandwich, and a veggie wrap. But he changes the flavors each week, hooking our regulars to come try whatever is new.

On busier nights, we’d have two working the bar and two working the grill, but since it’s chill, it’s just him and Jessie on the clock.

I’m about to turn my attention to the baseball game playing on the TV above the liquor bottles when the back door opens.

The door is on the other end of the bar, mirror location of the kitchen door, and it leads out to the paved area between here and the motel building.

It’s pretty much only used by guests of the motel.

Out of habit, my gaze moves toward the guest coming in for a late dinner. Or a drink.

Nothing exciting.

But then the dim overhead lights shine off the newcomer’s dark hair.

And my attention is snagged.

It’s a woman.

I sit up straighter.

The woman is fucking gorgeous.

Her hair hangs perfectly straight, long enough to brush her shoulders.

Her bare shoulders.

She’s wearing a white tank top, and the fabric is stretched tight over full-size tits.

I swallow.

I want to face-plant into her chest.

The bar is blocking my view, so I can’t see below her waist. But her body is soft.

Curvy.

Edible.

And way too young for me.

I lift my glass to my lips and swallow the rest of my drink.

The woman’s gaze is busy taking in her surroundings, so she doesn’t notice me perving.

And before she can catch me staring, I face forward.

I couldn’t see the color of her eyes, but the rounded slopes of her cheeks are burned into my mind.

Society likes to make it seem as though men don’t like thick, curvy women, but that’s not true.

Not for me.

Not one fucking bit.

I like to watch my women bounce. Like to watch my fingers indent into soft flesh.

I like tits that can suffocate me.

I shift in my seat. And I remind myself that I also like to act professionally at my place of business.

I glance back over to the woman.

Our eyes connect for a split second before she drops her gaze.

Was she looking at me?

I watch her roll her lips together as she looks over the open tables again, and I understand her dilemma. Either she sits at a table alone, or she sits between me and the group at the bar.

Hiding my hand behind my empty glass, I cross my fingers.

Pretty fucking please sit by me.