Page 20 of Bossy Mountain Daddies
"Handle the money?" I guess.
His eyes crinkle at the corners. "That's one way of putting it. I prefer to think of it as keeping these two cavemen from running the place into the ground." There's affection in his tone that makes it clear this is an old, comfortable joke between them.
I like Ford immediately. There's something about him that puts me at ease—a quiet confidence, an attentiveness that makes me feel like he's really listening when I speak.
"So, Griff mentioned you’re stranded here," Ford says, sliding a glass of water across the bar to me.
I nod. "My old Mustang gave out on me on my way to Wyoming. The head gasket blew, among other things. Jed's looking for parts."
"You gotta love vintage cars. They’re beautiful, but temperamental." He leans against the back counter and folds his arms against his chest.
The door from the back room swings open, and Griff walks in, carrying a crate of beer. He stops when he sees me. "Hey," he says, his voice gruff.
"Hey," I reply, heat rising to my cheeks as images from last night flash through my mind—his hands on my body, his mouth on my lady bits, the way he growled my name when he came.
Ford's gaze flicks between us, one eyebrow raising slightly. "I'll go check on Buck," he says, a knowing smile playing at his lips. "Make sure he's not trying to reinvent the hamburger again." He slides past Griff, clapping him on the shoulder as he goes.
For a moment, Griff and I just look at each other. The air between us feels charged with vivid memories of last night.
"Sleep okay?" he finally asks, setting the crate down behind the bar.
I nod. "Great, actually. Your shirt's upstairs. I should've brought it down."
"Keep it," he says, a small smile playing at his lips. "I’m sure it looks better on you anyway."
Just like that, the awkwardness breaks. We fall into an easy rhythm as we prepare for the evening crowd—me wiping down tables and filling catsup bottles, Griff restocking the bar and checking inventory. Occasionally our paths cross, his hand brushing against mine, or his eyes meeting mine across the room, and each time my stomach does a little flip.
By six, the bar is half-full, mostly with locals stopping in for a Sunday dinner or a beer after a weekend of hiking or fishing. Buck emerges from the kitchen periodically to chat with regulars, his massive frame making the doorway look small. Ford is mainly upstairs in the office probably working on the books. He occasionally comes down to chat with some customers or mix a complicated cocktail that's not on the menu. And Griff... Griff is all over the place—pouring drinks, cleaning up tables, running food.
I'm delivering a tray of beers to a table near the window when the door swings open and four men walk in—or rather, swagger in. They're dressed in leather vests over t-shirts, arms covered in tattoos, hair wild and unkempt. Bikers—the real deal. They scan the room with the predatory gaze of men who are used to intimidating others, then make their way to a table and sit down.
I take a deep breath and approach them, pen and pad ready. "What can I get you guys?"
The largest of the four, a bear of a man with a graying beard and arms the size of my thighs, looks me up and down. "Well, ain't you a pretty little thing," he drawls. "What's a city girl like you doing in a place like this?"
I force a smile. "Can I start you with some drinks?"
"Four drafts," another one says, not bothering to specify what kind. "And you for dessert, sweetheart."
I grit my teeth while I try to ignore him. "I'll get those beers for you."
As I turn to walk away, I feel a hand brush against my ass. I spin around, ready to tell them off, but suddenly Griff is there, his eyes narrowed and a grimace on his face.
"Problem here?" he asks, his voice deceptively casual.
The bikers exchange glances, clearly sizing him up. But Griff isn’t intimidated—instead he looks dangerous, like a wolf calmly assessing its prey.
The bearded one speaks eventually. "Just ordering some beers."
Griff nods slowly. "Good. Because we run a friendly establishment here. Everyone's welcome as long as they respect the staff and other customers." The warning in his voice is clear.
He walks with me back to the bar, his hand at the small of my back. "You okay?" he asks quietly.
"I'm fine," I assure him, rolling my eyes. "Nothing I haven't dealt with before."
He frowns but doesn't say anything more, just pours four draft beers. When I deliver them to the table, the bikers are subdued, muttering thanks without making eye contact.
For the next hour, I keep my distance as much as possible, serving them when necessary but otherwise avoiding their table. I catch Griff’s gaze following me whenever I'm in their vicinity.
