Page 99 of Bossy Mountain Daddies
"Nobody's gonna say shit," Buck says confidently, his large frame reassuring beside me. "And if they do, they'll have to deal with me."
"With us," Griff corrects, coming around the truck to join us.
We walk toward the entrance, a simple wooden archway decorated with corn stalks and autumn flowers. I'm hyperawareof every glance that comes our way. A couple walking ahead of us turn and nod in greeting. The woman's eyes take in our joined hands—mine and Ford's—and Buck's arm slung casually around my shoulders, with Griff walking close to Buck. But her smile doesn't falter; if anything, it grows warmer.
"Afternoon, folks," she says cheerfully. "Beautiful day."
"Sure is," Griff replies with a nod.
And just like that, they continue on their way. No double-takes, no shocked expressions. Just a normal, friendly exchange.
Inside the festival grounds, the full spectacle spreads before us. Rows of booths selling everything from handmade crafts to local honey line the main path. Food vendors hawk fried everything, the smells of sugar and grease mingling with the crisp autumn air. A stage has been set up at the far end where a local band plays country covers. Children dart between adults, faces sticky with cotton candy residue.
"What first?" Buck asks, his eyes already tracking a man carrying what looks like a turkey leg the size of my forearm.
"Games first, then food," Ford says. "I want to try the shooting gallery before I'm too full to lift my arms."
"I could eat nowandlater," Buck argues, but he's already being pulled along by Ford toward the game booths.
Griff's hand settles on the small of my back as we follow them. "How you holding up?" he asks, his voice low enough that only I can hear.
"Better. I think I’m going to be okay."
"Reynolds at your three o'clock," he murmurs, nodding toward the ring toss booth.
I glance over to see his familiar weathered face breaking into a grin when he spots us. We haven’t seen much of him lately, now that he’s sober. He waves, abandoning his attempt to land a ring around a bottle neck.
"There they are!" he calls, making his way over. "The happy foursome!"
My face heats at his casual acknowledgment of our relationship, but there's no judgment in his tone, just genuine warmth.
"Afternoon, Reynolds," Griff says, clasping the man's outstretched hand. "Enjoying the festival?"
"Can't complain," Reynolds replies, then turns his attention to me. "These three treating you right?"
"They are," I confirm, surprised by the steadiness in my voice.
"Good," he nods firmly. "Because if they don't, they'll have me to answer to." He winks, taking any sting out of the words. "You all tried the cider yet? Some woman from over in Pine Creek's got a booth, and I swear it's the best I've ever had."
We chat with Reynolds for a few more minutes before he wanders off in search of his friend. As soon as he's gone, another familiar face appears—one of the women who comes to the bar every Saturday night for the live music. She hugs me like we're old friends and tells me she's thrilled I decided to stay in Flounder Ridge. "This place needs more young blood," she insists. "And these three need someone to keep them in line."
It keeps happening as we make our way through the festival. People we know from the bar greet us warmly. They ask about business, comment on the weather, critique the festival food—normal, everyday conversations that don't even acknowledge the fact that I'm there with three men who are all clearly involved with me.
By the time we reach the shooting gallery, where Buck proceeds to win a ridiculously large pink stuffed bear, I've nearly forgotten my earlier anxiety.
"Told you," Buck says smugly, handing me the bear. "Nobody gives a shit."
"Language," Ford chides, though he's smiling. "There are kids around."
"Like they haven't heard worse," Buck scoffs, but he ruffles the hair of a passing kid who's eyeing my bear with naked envy.
We're heading toward the food stalls, drawn by the smell of barbecue, when I spot Vanna across the way. Loverboy trots at her heels, and beside her walks a tall, lean man I don't recognize. Her face lights up when she sees us, and she changes course to intercept our path.
"About time you all showed up," she says. "I was beginning to think you'd decided to spend the whole day in bed."
"Vanna," Ford warns, but his tone is amused.
She grins, unrepentant, then turns to the man beside her. "Harry, these are the guys I was telling you about. Griff, Ford and my brother, Buck. And this is Skye." She looks back at us. "Everyone, this is Harry. We met at the farmer's market last week."
