Page 35 of Bossy Mountain Daddies
"Well, well," she says, straightening up and placing a hand on her hip. "Look what the cat dragged in."
Heat rushes to my cheeks. Griff chuckles beside me, seemingly unbothered by her teasing. "We were up at the waterfall. Gorgeous day," he says, his voice neutral, but the way his hand brushes against the small of my back feels possessive.
"I bet it was," Vanna replies, her eyes twinkling.
"Vanna," Griff warns, but there's no bite in his tone.
She laughs, holding up her hands in surrender. "Hey, I'm just saying what everyone's thinking. You two have been giving each other those looks since she got here."
"What looks?" I ask, genuinely curious.
"Like you want to devour each other," she says bluntly. "Like two hungry wolves."
Griff shakes his head, but I catch the small smile tugging at his lips. He turns to me, his expression softening. "I should head home, get cleaned up. I’m scheduled to open tomorrow."
"Okay," I say, suddenly uncertain how to say goodbye after everything we've shared today. Do I kiss him? Shake his hand? Wave awkwardly?
He solves the dilemma by leaning down and pressing a quick, firm kiss to my lips. "See you tomorrow," he murmurs.
"Tomorrow," I echo stupidly, watching as he nods to Vanna and heads out the door.
When I turn back, Vanna is watching me with a softer expression. "He's a good one," she says simply. "Rough on the outside, but solid gold underneath."
I nod, not trusting myself to speak.
"I'm going up to change," I say, already moving toward the stairs. "Be back down for dinner in a bit."
In my small room, I peel off my clothes, which smell faintly of lake water. My body aches pleasantly, little reminders of the afternoon. In the shower, I watch as pine needles and bits of grass wash down the drain, evidence of our makeshift bed by the waterfall.
What am I doing? This wasn't part of the plan. Get my car fixed, get to Wyoming, figure out my life—that was the agenda. Nowhere on that list was "have mind-blowing sex with the incredibly hot bar owner." And yet, here I am, unable to stop replaying every moment of our afternoon together.
I pull on clean jeans and a white t-shirt, run a brush through my hair, and dab on some tinted lip balm.
When I head back downstairs, the dinner crowd is starting to trickle in. Vanna is now taking orders from a family with two young children, and Buck's voice booms from the kitchen, letting her know there’s a pickup ready. Behind the bar stands Ford, arranging bottles with the precision of an art curator.
He looks up as I approach. "Evening, Skye," he says, setting down the bottle of bourbon he was examining. "Can I get you something to drink? Or are you working tonight?"
"Just a customer tonight," I say, sliding onto a barstool.
He nods, reaching for a glass. "What's your pleasure?"
The question feels loaded somehow, his eyes holding mine a beat too long. "Wine, I think. Red if you have something decent."
His mouth quirks up at the corner. "We may be a mountain dive bar, but we do have standards." He selects a bottle from behind the bar. "This is a nice pinot noir. Not too heavy for a warm evening."
As he uncorks the bottle, I notice a small book tucked beside the register. It's worn at the edges, clearly well-loved. "What are you reading?" I ask.
He glances at the book, a flash of something—embarrassment, maybe?—crossing his features. "Just some poetry. Keeps me company during slow periods."
"May I?" I reach for the book, and he hesitates briefly before sliding it toward me.
It's a collection of Mary Oliver poems, pages dog-eared and margins filled with neat handwriting. I open to a marked page and read the underlined passage aloud: "'Tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?'"
I look up to find Ford watching me intently. "Do you have an answer?" I ask.
He pours my wine. "I used to think I did. Then I realized I was living someone else's answer."
I appreciate the simple honesty of his response. "And now?"
