Page 72 of Bossy Mountain Daddies
We watch through the window as they leave, her hand tucked into his as they walk to his truck—which, I notice, has been washed.
"That might be the most romantic thing I've ever seen," I say to no one in particular.
"Reynolds cleaning up his act?" Buck chuckles.
"No," I reply. "Someone seeing past all his mess to the person underneath."
The night continues in its whirlwind of activity—drinks poured, food served, tables cleared. By the time we finally usher the last customer out just after 1 a.m., my feet are aching and my shirt sticks to my back.
"I need to sit down or I might actually die," I announce, collapsing into a chair.
Buck laughs, flipping the sign to CLOSED. "Saturday nights'll do that to you."
Ford appears with four glasses and the bottle of good tequila. Griff joins us, pulling up a chair. The four of us sit in a small circle, the quiet of the empty bar a stark contrast to the noise of just minutes ago.
"To Reynolds," Buck says, raising his glass. "May we all find someone who makes us want to iron our jeans."
We laugh and drink, the tequila warming me from the inside. When I set my glass down, I notice all three men exchanging glances.
"What?" I ask, suddenly self-conscious. "Do I have something on my face?"
"We wanted to ask you something," Ford says, his voice taking on that thoughtful tone that makes me wonder what he’s up to.
Griff leans forward, his elbows on his knees. "We've been talking, and we had an idea for Monday night."
"An idea?" I echo, looking between them.
"Ford found this place up in the mountains," Buck continues. "A private cabin with a hot tub, amazing views. We thought maybe the four of us could go there. Together."
The implication hangs in the air between us. All four of us. Together.
"No bar, no interruptions. Just us," Ford adds, his eyes never leaving mine.
My mouth goes dry, and it has nothing to do with the tequila. Images flash through my mind—the four of us tangled together, hands and mouths everywhere, the endless possibilities of what could happen.
"You don't have to decide right now," Griff says gently, mistaking my silence for hesitation.
"Yes," I say quickly, my voice barely above a whisper. "I mean, yes, I'd like that. A lot."
The look that passes between them is hungry, primal, and directed entirely at me. My skin prickles with anticipation.
"Monday, then," Ford confirms, his voice low and full of promise. “We’ll leave here around two.”
Later, after we've finished cleaning up and said goodnight, I lie in bed staring at the ceiling. Sleep should come easily after such a long shift, but my mind refuses to quiet. All I can think about is Monday night—the four of us in that cabin, with nothing but time and privacy.
I imagine Ford's thoughtful touch, Buck's playful enthusiasm, Griff's steady command. All of them focused on me. All of them wanting me. I shift restlessly under the sheets.
Monday can't come soon enough.
Chapter 21
Skye
Ipace around my small room above the bar, checking my overnight bag for the third time. Toothbrush, change of clothes, the lacy underwear I threw in my suitcase when I left the apartment, even though I didn’t think I’d need it.
My stomach flip-flops with nervous energy. In less than ten minutes, I'll be heading to a secluded cabin with three men who make my body hum like a live wire. The clock reads 1:52 PM. Ford said we'd leave at two. Eight minutes of pretending I'm not simultaneously freaking outandturned on beyond belief.
"This is insane," I mutter to myself, sitting on the edge of the bed. "You're insane, Skye."
