Page 102 of Bossy Mountain Daddies
Buck joins us, completing our small circle on the dance floor. "What's that, sweetheart?"
"This is my family," I say, looking between them. "You three, Vanna, this town. This is what I've been searching for since myparents died. A place where I fit, where I belong." My voice catches. "A home."
Buck's arm wraps around my waist, pulling me against his side. I lean into him while keeping hold of Ford's hand, Griff's palm warm against my back.
The music swells, and we begin to move again, the four of us finding a rhythm that shouldn't work but somehow does. Just like us. Just like this unconventional, unexpected love that found me when I wasn't looking and held on tight when I tried to run.
I think about that morning when I left, sneaking away before dawn, leaving nothing but a note behind. How terrified I was of what people would think. How certain I was that happiness like this couldn't possibly last.
Now, standing on a makeshift dance floor under string lights, surrounded by the men I love and a community that accepts us, I finally understand what Ford told me weeks ago: different doesn't mean wrong. It just means finding your own path to happiness, even if it's not the one you expected to take.
I now know with absolute certainty that this is my path. These are my people. This is my home.
And I'm never running away again.
Epilogue - Skye
One Year Later
I burrow deeper into the warm spot where Ford’s body was just minutes ago, before he slipped out of bed to make coffee. It’s a chilly fall morning—and I thank god for the warmth of the blankets.
One year. It's been one full year since I drove back from Wyoming with my heart in my throat, not knowing if the guys would forgive me for leaving. Now I can't imagine being anywhere else but here, with these men, in this small mountain town that's become my home.
I glance at my phone and see I have a text from Charlotte. It’s a picture of Shawn and her, out with some friends for dinner. She looks so happy and it makes me smile. They’re getting married in three months, I’m the maid of honor and all my guys are going with me.
The smell of fresh coffee drifts into the room, and I finally drag myself out of bed even though I feel like I could just lay here for another hour or two. I grab one of Ford's shirts, pulling it over my head as I pad downstairs. His house—our house now, really—is my primary address, but that's just a technicality.We actually flow between all three homes with an ease that constantly surprises me.
"Morning, beautiful," Ford says, handing me a mug of the magical liquid as I enter the kitchen. His hair is still damp from the shower, and he's dressed in jeans and a button-down, ready for work.
"Morning," I mumble, accepting the coffee with grateful hands. "Buck still asleep?"
Ford nods. "He must have finished cleanup at the bar later than usual."
I smile into my mug, thinking about how naturally we've all settled into this arrangement. Some nights Buck sleeps here. Some nights we sleep at Griff's. We each have our own spaces but also our shared ones. It works better than I ever imagined it could.
"We should get going in twenty," Ford says, glancing at his watch. "We've got that zoom meeting with the new author at nine."
I nod, my mind already shifting to Ember House Publishing. The company was Ford's idea initially—a casual suggestion made during a late-night conversation about our shared love of books and his background in business. "Small presses are where the real innovation happens," he'd said. "Let’s go for it and see what happens."
Two months later, we signed the lease on a small office space just off Main Street. Ford handled the business side, setting up the LLC, securing modest funding, and creating our operational framework. I took charge of acquisitions, reading countless manuscripts from new authors, learning to trust my instincts about what stories deserve to be told.
"I finished the rest of that manuscript last night after you fell asleep," I tell Ford as I pour cereal into a bowl. "The one about the elderly man who befriends the troubled teen?"
Ford raises his eyebrows. "What did you think?"
"It's good. Really good." I feel the familiar excitement building as I think about the story. "The author needs some guidance on pacing, but the voice is authentic, and the relationship between the characters feels honest. It's exactly the kind of book we want to publish."
Ford's smile is slow and satisfied. "Let's make an offer then."
That's what I love about working with him—this perfect balance of independence and partnership. He never questions my literary decisions, and I defer to his expertise on the business side. Together, we've published three books so far, with three more in production. Small numbers by industry standards, but each one carefully chosen, lovingly edited, and proudly released into the world.
I’m about to pour some milk into the cereal bowl and I take a quick whiff of it first. It smells off and I give it to Ford to smell.
“Smells totally fine to me,” he says, giving me a questioning look.
I shrug and pour the milk into my bowl. For some reason, food has been smelling and tasting a little off lately.
"Griff's stopping by the office around noon," Ford reminds me as we finish breakfast. "He's bringing lunch."
