Page 47 of Bossy Mountain Daddies
I smile, burying my face in his shoulder.
I slide a beer across the bar to a customer, avoiding Griff's eyes as he works beside me. My body still hums from Buck's touch earlier today, and being near Griff now feels like some kind of betrayal.
It's stupid—we never established exclusivity, never had "the talk"—but the guilt gnaws at me anyway. I’ve just never been in this situation before. Until recently, I’ve always thought of myself as a one-guy-at-a-time kind of girl.
Every time Griff's arm brushes mine as we pass each other behind the bar, I tense up, wondering if he somehow knows, if he can smell Buck on me despite the shower I took before coming to work.
"You okay?" Griff asks, his voice low enough that only I can hear it. "You seem jumpy."
"Fine," I say too quickly. "Just tired." And that’s the truth. Buck and I had taken a break before starting right back at it again and I’d lost count of how many orgasms I had. Apparently, multiple orgasms make meverytired.
Griff gives me a look that says he doesn't believe me, but he doesn't push. Instead, he reaches around me for a bottle of whiskey, his chest pressing briefly against my back. The contact sends a jolt through me.
"Order up!" Vanna calls from the kitchen window, sliding two plates onto the counter. I grab them, grateful for the excuse to put some distance between myself and Griff.
The evening rush keeps us moving, a blessing that prevents any real conversation. I deliver food, take orders, wipe down tables—all on autopilot while my mind spins with conflicting thoughts. What am I doing? I've been in town less than two weeks and already I'm tangled up with two men. No, if I'm being honest with myself, it's three. Because every time Ford looks at me with those intense eyes, every time we talk about books or poetry, I feel the same pull.
I glance over at Griff as he mixes a cocktail, his strong hands working with practiced precision. The same hands that held me at the waterfall. Then I think of Buck's gentle touch this afternoon, how he took his time with me, how perfect it felt. And how Ford’s mind connects with mine on a level that's equally intoxicating.
I want them all, in different ways. The realization should shock me, but instead it settles in my body like a truth I've known but been afraid to acknowledge.
"Two more beers for table six," Griff says, sliding past me to grab clean glasses.
As I fill the order, I catch him watching me, his expression unreadable. Does he know? Did Buck say something? The thought makes my stomach twist, but I push it down and focus on the task at hand.
The next few hours pass in a blur of customers and orders. Vanna shoots me knowing looks whenever I enter the kitchen, as if she can read the turmoil on my face. Maybe she can—Vanna has an uncanny ability to see through people's bullshit.
"You gonna tell him?" she asks quietly when I come to pick up an order.
"Tell who what?" I play dumb, though my racing heart says I know exactly what she means.
She rolls her eyes. "Buck came in whistling earlier, looking like he won the lottery. And now you're avoiding Griff's eyes like he might see through to your soul if you look at him too long." She flips a burger with expert precision. "You're not doing anything wrong, you know."
"It feels wrong," I admit, keeping my voice low.
"Only because you haven't talked about it." She nods toward the bar. "Communication, honey. It’ll set you free."
I return to the front with her words echoing in my head. She's right, of course. But how do I even start that conversation? 'Hey,Griff, I slept with Buck today but I still want you too, and also maybe Ford’? There's no easy way to say that.
As the night wears on, the crowd thins. By eleven, only a few stragglers remain, finishing their drinks. Vanna has cleaned up the kitchen and left with Loverboy. It's just Griff and me now, the tension between us almost tangible.
"Last call!" Griff announces, his voice carrying across the now-quiet bar.
The remaining customers finish their drinks, pay their tabs, and filter out into the night. When the last one leaves, Griff locks the door behind them.
I busy myself wiping down tables, my heart pounding.
"Skye," he says, and I stop what I'm doing and look at him. "Come sit for a minute."
I set down the cloth and move to the bar, perching on a stool while he pours some whiskey into glasses for each of us. He slides one to me, then leans against the back counter, studying me.
"Something's on your mind," he says. It's not a question.
I take a sip of whiskey, grateful for a moment to think. "Yes."
"Is it about Buck?" he asks, his directness catching me off guard.
My eyes widen. "How did you?—"
