Page 45 of Bossy Mountain Daddies
Skye nods, a shadow crossing her face. "Every day. Both of them. It still doesn't feel real sometimes."
I understand that feeling. When Grandma Sadie died, it took me months to stop reaching for the phone to call her. "Grief's not linear," I say. "That's what my therapist told me after my divorce. Said it's more like weather—sometimes stormy, sometimes clear, but always changing."
"You saw a therapist?" She seems surprised.
"For about a year," I confirm, flipping the steaks. "Best thing I ever did for myself. Helped me understand why my marriage failed, why I kept falling into the same patterns." I glance at her. "Why does that surprise you?"
"I don't know." She takes a sip of water. "You just seem… like you've got it all figured out."
I laugh at that. "Not even close. Just better at hiding the mess than most."
Lunch comes together quickly after that—perfectly seared steaks, pan-fried vegetables, crusty bread from the local bakery. We eat at the small table by the window, watching the birds play in the birdbath in the back yard.
"This is incredible," Skye says, cutting into her steak. "Seriously, Buck. You've been hiding your talents."
"The bar menu doesn't exactly lend itself to fine dining," I say, pleased by her reaction.
"You could change that," she suggests. "Add some specials, expand beyond bar food. I bet people would love it."
"Maybe," I allow. "Been thinking about it, actually. Ford's been pushing for a menu upgrade for a while."
We talk easily through lunch, about books and food and travel. She tells me about her trip through Europe after she finished college—the cathedrals in Italy, the beaches in Greece, the cafes in Paris. I share stories about motorcycle trips through the Southwest, about the year I spent working as a cook in New Orleans before coming to Flounder Ridge.
The conversation flows, intermingled with pauses and lingering glances.
"Thank you again for today," she says, setting down her fork. "For sharing that part of yourself with me. It meant a lot."
"Thank you for wanting to see it," I reply. "Not everyone understands."
"I do," she says simply.
Our eyes hold across the table, and something electric passes between us. I reach for her hand, almost without thought. Her skin is soft against my calloused palm, her fingers curling around mine with gentle pressure.
I’ve never wanted a woman more than I do right now.
Chapter 13
Skye
Buck stands up and comes around the table. When he reaches me, he doesn't hesitate. He lifts me to my feet and his hand cups my face, thumb tracing my cheekbone with a gentleness that makes my knees weak.
"I've been wanting to do this since you walked into my kitchen this morning," he murmurs.
Then his mouth is on mine, and the kiss is tender at first. But when I press myself against him, sliding my hands up his broad chest, something breaks loose in both of us. The kiss turns hungry, almost desperate. His tongue slides against mine, and I moan into his mouth, my fingers tangling in his hair.
He walks me backward until I feel the wall behind me, his body hot against mine. His hands roam my sides, up to cup my breasts through my sweater, down to grip my hips. When we break apart to breathe, his eyes are dark with desire.
"Sure you want this?" he asks, voice rough.
I nod quickly, unable to form words. For a split second, Griff's face flashes in my mind—his dimpled smile, the way he looked at me by the waterfall. But I push the thought away. I can't have that conversation with Buck right now. I can't think about what this means or doesn't mean. I just need him.
"Yes," I finally manage. "I'm sure."
He kisses me again—deeper this time—and starts backing toward the hallway, pulling me with him, our mouths tangled. We bump into a wall, laugh against each other’s lips, and keep going, neither of us wanting to let go.
By the time we reach his bedroom, I’m so wrapped up in the feel of his body against mine. He presses me against the wall, not roughly, but with a force that saysmine. His body surrounds me—solid and warm.
“You’re incredible,” he says low against my ear, fingers brushing the hem of my sweater. “Can I see more?”
