Page 63 of Bossy Mountain Daddies
"Ridiculously charming, you mean."
She rolls her eyes, but the tension in her shoulders has eased a bit. "I should get back out there."
"We've got it covered if you need a minute," I offer.
"No," she says, straightening her spine. "I'd rather keep busy. But... thanks. For checking on me."
"Anytime," I say, meaning it more than she probably realizes. "And Skye? The offer stands. I really do have extra needles."
That gets me another smile, a bit stronger than the first. It's not much, but it's a start. And as she walks past me back toward the bar, I catch a glimpse of the resilient woman I've come to care for so deeply, fighting her way back through the pain.
The last customer staggers out just after two, leaving the bar in that strange silence that follows hours of noise. My ears are still ringing as I flip the sign to CLOSED and lock the door. Griff's already behind the bar, pulling out a bottle of good tequila—not the stuff we serve to most folks, but the smooth, amber liquid we keep for ourselves. Skye slumps into a chair, exhaustion written across her face after the long shift. But at least she's not looking quite as haunted as she did earlier.
"Hell of a night," I say, sliding into the chair beside her. "Think half the town came through here tonight."
Griff sets three shot glasses on the table and pours generous measures into each. "Good for business, bad for my feet." He pushes glasses toward us. "Here's to surviving another Friday."
Skye picks up her glass, studying the amber liquid. "Thanks for tonight," she says quietly. "Both of you. For checking on me."
"That's what we do," I say, lifting my glass. "We look out for each other."
We clink glasses and down the shots. The tequila burns pleasantly on the way down, warming my chest. Griff immediately refills our glasses.
"What we need," I announce, "is a good old-fashioned distraction."
Skye raises an eyebrow. "What kind of distraction?"
"A game," I say, leaning back in my chair. "Would You Rather. Ever played?"
She shakes her head, but I catch the slight upturn at the corner of her mouth. "I've heard of it. You ask impossible choices, right?"
"Exactly." I grin at her. "So, would you rather... fight one horse-sized duck or a hundred duck-sized horses?"
Griff groans, but Skye actually laughs—a sound I've been missing all night.
"The duck-sized horses, obviously," she says. "I could just kick them away."
"Wrong," I counter. "The giant duck would be slow and clumsy. Easy target."
"Have you ever been chased by a regular-sized duck?" Griff asks. "They're vicious. Now imagine that, but horse-sized."
This sets off a surprisingly heated debate about duck biology and fighting tactics that has Skye cracking up. When we finally settle the duck question (I'm still right, no matter what they say), we move on to more rounds.
"Would you rather never eat chocolate again or never have coffee again?" Skye asks.
"Give up coffee," Griff and I say in unison, then look at each other and laugh.
"Would you rather be able to fly or be invisible?" I ask.
"Fly," Skye says immediately. "Invisibility seems like it would get depressing after a while. Like you don't matter."
There's something in her voice that makes me think she's feeling a bit invisible right now, with all that's happening online. I catch Griff's eye, and I can tell he's thinking the same thing.
"Your turn, Griff," I say, nudging him with my foot under the table.
He thinks for a moment, swirling the tequila in his glass. "Would you rather... know how you're going to die or when you're going to die?"
"Damn, that got dark fast," I mutter.
