Page 14 of Bossy Mountain Daddies
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.
Chapter 5
Griff
Saturday 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 forsomething 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.
