Page 23 of Bossy Mountain Daddies
"She's right," I admit, accepting the twenty and making change. "But he can be persistent as hell sometimes."
"I've dealt with worse," Skye says, and I know she’s talking about the asshole bikers who were in earlier. Griff told me the whole story before he left and made me promise to watch over her the rest of the night.
I slide her tip across the bar. "You handled him well."
"Years of practice deflecting unwanted attention," she says with a shrug.
I can't help but smile at that. "I bet." With the way she looks, I’m sure it happens all the time.
She pockets her tip and glances around the nearly empty bar. Two customers remain, nursing their beers in silence while they watch the end of a baseball game on the TV in the corner. "Anything else you need me to do before we close?"
I shake my head. "Just make sure you wipe down all the tables."
She nods and goes to work on the tables we've already cleared. I watch her from the corner of my eye as I count the register. There's something compelling about her—not just her obvious beauty, but the way she carries herself. The quiet confidence. Her obvious emotional intelligence.
I've known her less than a day, but I can already see why Griff seems to be drawn to her. She's like a puzzle with a few missingpieces—intriguing, mysterious. It’s kind of crazy she ended up in our tiny mountain town.
I feel a pull toward her that I haven't felt in a long time, and it's both exhilarating and concerning. Getting involved with someone like her—someone passing through, someone who appears to be already entangled with Griff—would be complicated at best, disastrous at worst.
The last two customers finally drain their beers and head out with a casual wave. I lock the door behind them, flipping the sign to "Closed".
When I turn back, I notice Skye has settled onto a barstool, her cleaning duties apparently complete. She's reading a paperback, completely absorbed, one finger twirling a strand of hair that's escaped her ponytail. I'm about to ask if she wants a drink when I catch sight of the book cover. It's "The Substance of Silence" by Hugo Valentes. I'd recognize that minimalist blue cover anywhere—I've read my own copy so many times the spine is held together with tape.
"You're reading Valentes?" The question slips out before I can hide my surprise.
Skye looks up, momentarily startled. "Yeah. Have you read this book?"
"Only about twenty times," I admit, moving behind the bar. "Didn't expect you to be reading that."
She marks her place with a receipt and closes the book. "Why not?"
I shrug, trying to appear casual as I wipe down the bar top. "Not exactly bestseller material. Most people have never even heard of him."
"That’s a shame," she says. "Valentes really nailed the complexity of grief in this one. The way he describes that moment when the main character realizes his father's deathdidn't just take away a person, but a whole future of conversations they'll never have..."
"That passage destroyed me," I say, remembering the exact lines she's referencing. "The part about how grief isn't just for what was, but for what will never be."
Her eyes light up. "Yes! Exactly. My parents died about a year ago, and that part just..." She trails off, vulnerability flickering across her face before she composes herself. "It was like he'd been inside my head."
"I'm sorry about your parents," I offer quietly.
"Thanks." She runs her finger along the edge of the book. "Reading helps. Finding the right words when you don't have your own."
I pour two fingers of bourbon into two glasses without asking if she wants one. She accepts hers with a small nod of thanks.
"What else do you read?" I ask, genuinely curious. I'd assumed someone her age would be glued to their phone, doomscrolling through social media. The thought immediately makes me feel old and judgmental.
"Everything. Classics, contemporary fiction, poetry. Some philosophy when I'm feeling particularly masochistic." Her smile is wry. "I have a master's in literature, so reading is kind of my thing."
I lean against the counter, studying her. The soft bar lighting casts shadows that accentuate the angles of her face. "So who are your favorite authors?"
She takes a sip of bourbon, considering. "Toni Morrison. Márquez. Murakami. Annie Dillard for essays. You?"
"Valentes, obviously. Cormac McCarthy. Kent Haruf for his simple, beautiful sentences. And I have a weakness for Steinbeck that I've never outgrown."
"East of Eden is perfection," she says immediately.
"Timshel," I respond, and she smiles at the reference.
