Page 26 of Bossy Mountain Daddies
"I’m surprised you know how to knit," I say.
His shoulders lift in a slight shrug. "Not something I advertise. The guys love to give me shit about it." There's no real concern in his voice, just amusement. "But yet, they love the hats I’ve made for them and wear them all winter long."
The coffee finishes brewing, its rich aroma filling the kitchen and mingling with the sweet smell of the muffins. I pour two mugs, sliding one across to Buck. He nods his thanks, his fingers never pausing in their rhythmic movement.
“Cream and sugar?” I ask, grabbing the cream from the refrigerator.
“No,” he responds. “I’m a black coffee kind of guy.”
"How many of those do you make?" I ask, wrapping my hands around the warm mug.
"About ten a month. More in winter." His eyes remain on his work, but a small smile plays at the corners of his mouth.
I watch his hands move, the needles clicking in a soothing pattern. There's something hypnotic about it, something that makes the lingering unease from my dream recede like mist in sunlight.
"Did your mom teach you?" I ask.
He chuckles, the sound warm and genuine. "No. My grandmother. Mom was working three jobs when I was little. Grandma Sadie practically raised us."
The timer on the oven beeps, and Buck sets down his knitting, sliding off the stool with surprising grace for someone his size. He grabs oven mitts—comically small against his massive hands—and pulls out a tray of golden-brown muffins that look like they belong in a bakery window.
"Those smell amazing," I say, inhaling deeply.
"Secret recipe." He winks, setting the tray on a cooling rack. "Grandma Sadie’s actually. Though I've tweaked it over the years."
As he returns to his stool and picks up the knitting again, I find myself studying him. The tattoo sleeve on his right arm tells stories—images of mountains, what might be a family crest, words in a script too elaborate to decipher from this distance. His salt-and-pepper hair is cropped close to his head, emphasizing the strong line of his jaw and the slight crow's feet around his eyes that deepen when he smiles.
"So, bad dream, huh?" he asks, those blue eyes flicking up to meet mine briefly before returning to the hat. "Wanna talk about it?"
I take a sip of coffee, considering. "My ex was in it. And my ex-boss. They were getting married." The words sound ridiculous now. "I was in the wedding party, for some reason. You know how dreams are sometimes…"
"Your subconscious has a twisted sense of humor," Buck says.
"Yeah, well, it's not that far off from reality. They're probably together right now as we speak." I stare into my coffee. "The worst part in the dream was I couldn't leave. My legs wouldn't work."
"Classic anxiety dream," Buck says. "Feeling trapped. Powerless."
I look up, surprised by his insight. "Yeah, exactly."
"I used to have dreams like that after my dad left." He ties off a section of the hat with practiced movements. "Except in mine, I was trying to follow him down the street, and I kept trying to call out to him, but no sound would come out of my mouth."
There's something about the casual way he offers this piece of himself—this vulnerability—that makes me feel less alone. Less like the girl who fled her life last week and more like someone who's simply sharing a quiet moment with a friend.
"The muffins should be cool enough to eat now," Buck says, nodding toward the tray. "Grab a couple? There’s butter in the fridge."
I stand to get the plates, butter and muffins and bring them back to the counter.
"So how did your grandmother convince you to take up knitting?" I ask, slathering a muffin with butter. "I can't imagine many kids would be up for that." I'm genuinely curious—both about the story and about this surprising side of Buck that seems so at odds with his intimidating appearance.
Buck laughs, the sound deep and rich. "She didn't give me much choice. I was eight, bouncing off the walls with too much energy and no father around to beat it out of me. She said I needed something to keep my hands busy and out of trouble."
He turns the tiny blue hat in his hands, examining his work. "She sat me down at her kitchen table one afternoon when I'd broken a window playing baseball in the house. Put needles in my hands and said, 'Either you learn this, or I'll tell your mother about the window.' Blackmail, basically."
I smile, picturing a miniature version of Buck, all gangly limbs and restless energy, forced to sit still and learn something so intricate.
"Did you hate it?" I ask, taking a bite of muffin and practically groaning with pleasure. “Oh my god, this is good…”
He smiles proudly and continues with his story. "At first, yeah. But once I got past the frustration of learning, it was... calming. And Grandma Sadie was smart—she made me feel like it was this secret manly skill. Told me sailors used to knit their own socks on long voyages. And that old Scottish fishermen knit their own sweaters."
