Page 38 of Bossy Mountain Daddies
Buck leans over to look at the book, his shoulder brushing against Skye's.
Something twists in my gut. Not just jealousy—though there's plenty of that—but a memory. Miranda, three years ago, sitting at that very table with the three of us around her. The way she'd draw us in, made each of us feel like we were special. Until the night she left without a word, leaving all three of us nursing broken hearts and fractured friendships.
We'd promised never again. Never share a woman, never risk our friendship that way. And yet here we are, all three circling Skye like moths around a flame.
But Skye isn't Miranda. She's not playing games or making promises. She's just a woman passing through, and soon enough, she'll be gone.
That thought should make it easier—knowing this is temporary. But as I watch her lean into Buck's space, her hand casually touching Ford's arm as she makes a point about the book, I know I'm in deeper than I want to be.
I want her happy. After everything she's been through—her parents’ sudden death, the cheating boyfriend, the car breaking down, being stranded in a strange town—she deserves some happiness. If Buck's cooking or Ford's books or my... whatever I give her... if any of that brings her joy, why would I want to take that away from her?
When the afternoon lull hits, the four of us find ourselves at the bar together. Skye's talking about a customer who left her a twenty-dollar tip on a ten-dollar tab, her hands gesturing expressively as she tells the story. Buck's watching her with that sappy look on his face, and Ford's leaning against the back counter, a small smile playing at his lips.
"So what are you up to tonight?" Buck asks her when she finishes her story. "Ford and I were thinking of grabbing an early dinner at Rose's if you want to join."
She looks momentarily flustered, glancing between the three of us. "Actually, I'm going to the movies with Vanna. There's some horror flick she's been dying to see."
"Another time, then," Ford says smoothly.
Skye nods, her eyes meeting mine briefly before she turns away to greet a customer who's just walked in.
I watch her go, wondering what she's thinking. Wondering if she feels the pull between the three of us, the tension that's beenbuilding since she arrived. Wondering if she's using her night out with Vanna to get some breathing room from our obvious interest.
Most of all, I wonder what happens next, and whether any of us are ready for it.
Later that evening, the usual Tuesday crowd starts trickling in—locals stopping in for dinner, a few tourists passing through, the dart league in the back corner. I'm bartending while Ford works the floor, both of us picking up the slack with Skye gone for the night. Buck's in the kitchen, occasionally appearing in the pass-through window to slide plates onto the counter.
It feels strange not having Skye here, and I realize I miss her. I catch myself looking for her blonde hair more than once, before remembering she’s at the movies.
"Order up," Buck calls, ringing the bell.
Ford slides behind the bar to switch with me. "Your turn on the floor," he says. "Table four needs another round, and seven just sat down."
We've got a good rhythm going, trading places every half hour or so. It's efficient and keeps us both from getting bored,
I'm delivering beers to the dart league when I hear the front door slam against the wall as it opens. Reynolds stumbles in, already half-drunk, his eyes bloodshot and his shirt wrinkled. Great. Just what we need tonight. I love the guy but he’s such a pain in the ass sometimes.
"Griff, my man!" he shouts across the bar. Several heads turn to look, then quickly turn away when they see who it is. "Pour me a cold one!"
I finish with the dart league and head to the bar. Ford's already sliding a beer across to Reynolds, his expression carefully neutral. "One beer, Reynolds. You look like you've had plenty already."
Reynolds scoffs, grabbing the glass. "It's Wednesday, Ford. Wednesdays are for drinking."
"Every day is for drinking in your world," Ford replies dryly, already moving away to serve another customer.
I keep an eye on Reynolds while I work the floor. He sits quietly enough at first, drinking his beer and occasionally calling out to people he knows. But after about twenty minutes, he slides off his stool and moves to the end of the bar where a couple is sitting. The woman, pretty in a wholesome sort of way, is wearing a simple gold band on her left hand. Her husband sits beside her, his back to Reynolds as they talk quietly together.
Reynolds approached the woman. "Don't think I've seen you in here before," he says, his voice too loud. "I'd remember a face like yours."
The woman glances at him, then back at her husband. "We're just passing through," she says politely but firmly.
Her husband takes in Reynolds' disheveled appearance. A flicker of annoyance crosses his face, but he turns back to his wife without engaging.
"Where you folks headed?" Reynolds asks, not taking the hint. He leans closer, his arm brushing against the woman's shoulder. "I know all the best spots around here if you're looking for recommendations."
I watch the husband's shoulders stiffen. Ford catches my eye from behind the bar, a warning in his look.
"We're fine, thanks," the woman says, shifting away from Reynolds slightly.
