Page 12 of Stuck with my Mountain Daddies

Riley.

I didn’t know where she’d come from or why she was here, but I had a feeling she wasn’t just passing through.

And weirdly for me, I kinda hoped she wasn’t.

I drained the rest of my coffee and stood, rolling my shoulders before heading out back where the real work happened.

The air was sharper up here, clean and biting as it sliced across my skin. The hum of saws and the heavy thud of wood against steel filled the space like a symphony only we knew how to play.

Out here, there was no bullshit. Only muscle, sawdust, and sweat.

The way Garrett preferred it.

He stood at the far end of the yard, clipboard in one hand, the other resting on the edge of a half-loaded truck. Even in his flannel and Carhartt jacket, he looked like a goddamn lumberjack calendar come to life.

Beard neat. Shoulders squared. That don’t-fuck-with-meenergy pouring off him in waves.

“’Bout time,” Garrett grunted as I approached.

“I was busy this morning,” I said casually. “Had… plans.”

He didn’t look up. “Plans that involve sneaking out of someone’s room before dawn?”

I blinked. “You spying on me now?”

Garrett flipped a page on his clipboard. “Small town, little brother. You think Samantha doesn’t text Aurora, who doesn’ttell Sadie, who’s probably already posted something cryptic about it on her Instagram story?”

I smirked. “You sound jealous.”

Garrett gave me a flat look. “I’m tired.”

“Of?”

“Of watching you screw your way through half the zip code and thinking it won’t catch up to you eventually.”

I whistled low, stepping around the truck bed. “Who said it was someone local?”

That got his attention. He looked up then, eyes narrowing. “Who was she?”

“No one,” I said, a little too fast. “Just someone passing through.”

Garrett stared at me like he was trying to read the thoughts behind my smirk. Which, to be fair, was usually accurate. But this time?

This time, the smirk felt like a mask. One I didn’t quite feel like wearing.

Before Garrett could press, a low whistle cut through the air. I turned as Beckett emerged from the line of trees, flannel rolled up to his elbows, sleeves dusted with sawdust, and a piece of wood slung over one shoulder as if it weighed nothing.

He had that signature broody look on his face, the one that made tourists think he was about to bite them and made every dog in town adore him.

“Morning, sunshine,” I called.

Beckett grunted in response, easily setting the log down on the sawhorse.

Garrett raised a brow. “He say more than that today?”

“Three words, tops,” I said. “We might be breaking records.”

Beckett glanced between us and shook his head, grabbing his axe and lining up a cut. “Y’all are loud.”

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