Page 42 of Bossy Mountain Daddies
"I added just a tad more vanilla," I tell her. "I’m always tweaking them."
"So, the hats," she says, changing the subject. "How many are we taking today?"
"Twelve," I answer, nodding toward the paper bag on the counter. "Not my best month, but not bad."
"Can I see them?"
I reach for the bag and slide it toward her. She peers inside, then carefully tips it, letting the tiny hats spill onto the counter. They're different colors—blue, pink, yellow, green, purple—each one small enough to fit in her palm.
"They're beautiful, Buck," she says, touching one with a fingertip. "All these different colors."
"The staff likes variety," I explain, feeling oddly vulnerable. "And it keeps it interesting for me. Same hat over and over would get boring."
She picks up a yellow one with a small pom-pom on top. "How long does each one take?"
"Couple hours, usually." I watch her handle my creations with such care, and something in my chest expands. "Ready to head out soon? The NICU nurses change shift at nine, and I like to catch Norma before she leaves. She’s my favorite."
"Sure," Skye says, carefully placing the hats back in the bag. "Just let me finish this amazing muffin first."
As we eat, I try not to stare at her—at the way the sunlight plays across her face, at the small scar near her eyebrow I hadn't noticed before. When she catches me looking, I don't look away. And neither does she.
"Ready?" I ask when our plates are empty.
She nods, standing. "Ready."
I grab the bag of hats and my keys. As we head out to my truck—a big black Ford that Skye eyes with appreciation—I feel a quiet kind of happiness settle over me. This thing between us may be temporary, complicated by my feelings and Griff's and Ford's, but right now, in this moment, it feels just right.
The hospital parking lot is half-empty when we pull in. Mountain View isn't a big hospital—just three floors of beigebrick with windows that reflect the surrounding peaks. I park in my usual spot near the east entrance, close to the NICU wing.
Skye's quiet beside me, maybe a little nervous. I understand that. Hospitals have a way of making people feel out of place, but for me, this place has become a kind of sanctuary over the years.
"You come here a lot?" Skye asks.
I nod, grabbing the bag of hats from the back seat. "Once a month, like clockwork. Been doing it for about five years now."
We walk through the sliding doors into the antiseptic brightness of the hospital. The smell hits immediately—that clinical scent that smells like sickness and worry. But there's something else too, something hopeful about a place where lives begin and sometimes, against the odds, are saved.
I lead Skye past the information desk with a wave to the volunteer who recognizes me. The NICU is on the second floor, down a hallway lined with photographs of babies who once fit in the palm of a hand.
"These are all preemies?" Skye asks, slowing to look at the pictures.
"Yeah.” I point to a photo of a dark-haired boy in a superhero costume. "That's Ryan. Born at twenty-six weeks, weighed less than two pounds. I’ll never forget meeting him."
Her eyes move across the wall of miracle children. "It's amazing what they can do for these babies now."
The double doors at the end of the hall require a security badge. I press the intercom and a woman's voice answers, warm and familiar.
"NICU, this is Carol."
"It's Buck."
There's a buzz, and the door unlocks. I hold it open for Skye, guiding her into a small room where we're met by a nurse with short silver hair and bright eyes that crinkle when she sees me.
"Well, well, if it isn't my favorite knitter," she says, hands on her hips. "And you brought a friend this time."
"Norma, this is Skye. Skye, this is Norma Thomas, head nurse of the NICU and the reason I started making these hats in the first place."
Norma's eyes appraise Skye with open curiosity. "About time this big lug brought someone along. I've been telling him for years that knitting is more attractive to the ladies than he realizes."
