Page 22 of Bossy Mountain Daddies
I move glasses from the sink to the shelf, arranging them in perfect rows. Years of bartending have made the motions automatic, freeing my attention to focus on Skye. Her blonde hair is pulled back in a messy ponytail, wisps escaping to frame her face. She's got on jeans and a tight tee that hugs her curves.
"What kind of car you got?" Reynolds continues, his fingers tapping against his beer bottle.
"'67 Mustang," she answers, and even from here, I can see the pride in her eyes. "She was my grandfather's."
"No shit?" Reynolds perks up. "Those are beauties. What color?"
"Red. Faded in spots, but still gorgeous."
"What's wrong with her?"
"Head gasket and a cracked cylinder head. Jed's looking for parts."
Reynolds nods like he understands, though I doubt he knows a head gasket from a hole in the ground. "Jed's good people. Best mechanic around." He takes another swig of beer. "So how long you stayin’?"
I tune out momentarily to serve one of our regulars his final whiskey of the night. The old-timer nods his thanks, shoots back the whiskey, and shuffles toward the door. After I watch him go, making sure he's steady on his feet, I find myself listening to Skye and Reynolds conversation again.
"Depends on the parts," she's saying. "Could be another week. Maybe longer."
"Lucky for us," Reynolds says, his voice taking on that tone I've heard a hundred times before—the one he uses when he thinks he's being charming. "Not often we get pretty new faces around here."
I feel my shoulders tense slightly. Reynolds is harmless, mostly—a lonely guy who drinks too much and flirts withanything female. But sometimes he pushes too far, forgetting boundaries in his alcohol-fueled confidence.
Skye doesn't miss a beat. "I'm sure that's not true. Lots of hikers and tourists come through, don't they?"
"Yeah, but they don't stick around." Reynolds leans forward again. "You should stick around. I could show you the sights."
"What sights are those?" she asks, and I detect amusement in her tone rather than discomfort.
"There's the lake—good fishing. And the old mining trails." Reynolds scratches his stubbly chin. "And my trailer's got a great view of the valley."
I set down the glass I've been drying with more force than necessary, drawing Reynolds' bloodshot gaze my way. He has the decency to look slightly embarrassed.
"Just being friendly, Ford," he mutters.
"I'm sure you are," I reply, my tone measured. I glance at Skye, ready to intervene if needed.
But she doesn't need rescuing. "I appreciate the offer, Reynolds, but I don't think I'll have much free time. My schedule's pretty full."
"Maybe next time, then," he says, undeterred.
"Maybe," she agrees noncommittally. "Another beer?"
He shakes his head. "Nah, better not. Got work tomorrow." He stands, swaying slightly. "You're all right, Skye. Not stuck up like some of those city girls."
"Thanks... I think," she replies with a small smile.
Reynolds fumbles for his wallet, pulling out a crumpled twenty. "Keep the change," he says, though his beer cost five dollars.
"That's very generous," Skye says. "Get home safe, okay?"
I watch as she navigates Reynolds toward the door with subtle guidance—a light touch on his elbow, a step in the right direction. It's masterful, really. She's steering him withoutmaking it obvious, preserving his dignity while making sure he actually leaves.
Once the door closes behind him, she turns and catches me watching. "What?" she asks, a hint of challenge in her voice.
"Nothing," I say, impressed despite myself. "Just thought you might need backup with Reynolds."
She walks toward the bar, the twenty-dollar bill in her hand. "He's not so bad. Vanna warned me about him my first day. Said he hits on everyone but he’s harmless."
