Page 84 of Bossy Mountain Daddies
"You okay?" Ford asks, appearing at my elbow with empty glasses to refill.
"Fine," I lie, tearing my eyes away from the blonde woman now making her way to a table with friends. "Just thought I saw someone I knew."
Ford follows my gaze, understanding immediately. "I know," he says quietly. "I did the same thing earlier. Blonde woman at the grocery store. Nearly called out to her."
The admission makes me feel less alone, less foolish for that moment of desperate hope.
"You think we'll ever see her again?" I ask, the question slipping out before I can stop it.
Ford considers this, his eyes thoughtful. "I don't know. I hope so."
"Me too." The simple truth of it aches in my chest.
Later, after we've closed up and the last customer has staggered out into the night, the three of us sit down at the bar. Buck sets down a bottle of whiskey and three glasses, pouring generous measures for each of us.
"To moving on," he says, raising his glass.
Ford and I echo the toast, but the words ring hollow. None of us are moving on, not yet. The wound is too fresh, the absence too acute.
We sit in silence for a while.
"It'll get easier," Ford says eventually. "Day by day."
He's right. It will. The sharp edges of this loss will dull with time, the constant awareness of her absence will fade into occasional remembrances. We've been through this before, in different ways. We know the pattern of grief, its slow dissolution into memory.
But right now, in this moment, I miss her with an intensity that takes my breath away. I miss her laugh, her conversation,the way she looked at me like I was something worth seeing. I miss the future I'd started to imagine—one with her in it.
"Another round?" Buck asks, reaching for the bottle.
I push my glass forward, nodding. Tomorrow we'll start the business of forgetting, of moving on. But tonight, we'll sit together and remember. And maybe she's remembering us too.
Chapter 25
Skye
Charlotte's yellow craftsman house looks exactly like her Instagram photos—cheerful, welcoming, the kind of place that belongs on a postcard labeled "Home Sweet Home."
I park Poppy on the street, her engine ticking as it cools down after our long drive. My body aches slightly from the drive, but it's nothing compared to the hollow ache in my chest. My mind has been cycling between numbness and sharp pangs of regret since I left this morning.
Before I can even grab my bag from the passenger seat, Charlotte bursts through the front door, her curls bouncing as she rushes down the steps toward me. I force a smile as she throws her arms around me.
"You made it!" she squeals, squeezing me tight.
"Sorry I’m later than I said I’d be," I mumble against her shoulder. "Had to stop more often than I expected." I don’t tell her that a couple of times I had to stop because I was crying so hard I couldn’t see the road properly.
She pulls back, her hands still on my shoulders as she studies my face. Something in her expression shifts, concern replacing excitement. "Come on, babe, let's get you inside."
I grab my bag and follow her up the steps, my legs heavy.
Charlotte's house is warm and smells like cinnamon. It's cluttered in a cozy way—books stacked on end tables, colorful throw pillows on the couch, plants on a long table by the window. It's so distinctly her.
"I made up the guest room for you," she says, leading me down a hallway.
"Thanks," I say, trying to infuse gratitude into my voice. But I just feel so damn low.
The guest room is small but pretty, with a patchwork quilt on the bed and framed botanical prints on the pale blue walls. I set my bag down and sink onto the edge of the mattress.
"So," Charlotte says, sitting beside me. "How did they take it when you told them you were leaving?"
