Page 86 of Bossy Mountain Daddies
Yes, I’ve finally made it to Wyoming. But as I lie in the dark, listening to the unfamiliar sounds of the house settling, I can't shake the feeling that I've made a terrible mistake.
"We need to get out of the house, babe," Charlotte declares the next evening, as she stands in the doorway of the guest room. I'm curled up on the bed where I've spent most of the day, alternating between staring at my phone (no messages from any of the guys, not that I expected any after how I left) and staring at the ceiling, replaying every moment of my time in Flounder Ridge like a film reel I can't shut off.
"I'm not really in the mood, Char," I say, not bothering to sit up.
"Exactly why we need to go out." She strides into the room and opens my bag, rummaging through my clothes. "There's a great little place downtown with live music. Good drinks, casual vibe, pretty chill. It will help you feel better to get out."
"I don't know..." My voice trails off as she pulls out a pair of jeans and a black sweater.
"I hear you," Charlotte says softly. "But lying here isn't helping. Trust me, a change of scenery, some music, one drink—I think it’ll help. We'll come back home the minute you want to."
I sigh, knowing she's right. I can't spend the rest of my life in this bedroom, marinating in regret. "Okay. One drink."
An hour later, we're walking into a cozy bar called The Spotted Owl. The space is warm and inviting, with exposed brick walls covered in vintage concert posters. A small stage occupies one corner where a woman with a guitar is singing something folksy. Tables are scattered throughout, most of them filled with people drinking and nodding along to the music.
"What'll you have?" Charlotte asks as we find a small high-top near the back.
"Whatever IPA they have on tap," I say automatically, then feel a pang as I remember Buck always teasing me about being "one of those craft beer snobs." He'd pretend to look disgusted whenever I chose an IPA over the domestic beer that all the locals drank.
Charlotte returns with our drinks, and I take a sip, barely tasting it. The music washes over us, and I try to let it soothe my battered heart. For a bit, it almost works. The singer has a beautiful voice, rich and emotional, and I find myself getting lost in her lyrics.
"Two beautiful women sitting alone? We can’t have that..."
The voice breaks through my thoughts, and I look up to find two men standing beside our table. They're both attractive—one tall and blond, the other shorter with dark curly hair. They're probably around our age, maybe a year or two older. The blond one is smiling at me, his teeth perfectly straight and white.
"Mind if we join you?" the dark-haired one asks, his question directed primarily at Charlotte, who's already smiling back at him.
"Not at all," she says, gesturing to the empty chairs at our table.
They introduce themselves—the blond is Ty, the brunette is Shawn—and they ask if we come here often. Charlotte launchesinto an explanation about showing me around town, carefully editing out the part where I'm nursing a broken heart.
"Let us buy you ladies another round," Ty suggests, flashing that perfect smile at me again.
Before I can protest, Charlotte jumps in. "That would be great, thanks!"
As they head to the bar, Charlotte leans over to me. "Ty is totally into you. He hasn't taken his eyes off you since they walked up."
"I'm not interested," I say flatly.
"I know, I know. Too soon. But a little harmless flirtation might make you feel better."
I doubt that, but I don't want to ruin her night. She seems genuinely into Shawn, laughing at his jokes when they return with fresh drinks, leaning in close to hear him over the music.
Ty slides his chair closer to mine. "So, Skye, what brings you to Wyoming?"
"Just visiting," I answer. "Taking some time to figure things out."
"Ah, the quarter-life crisis," he says with a knowing nod. "I had mine last year. Quit my job, went backpacking through Europe for three months. Best decision I ever made."
He launches into a story about losing his phone in Barcelona, and I try to look engaged. He's nice enough—attractive, well-traveled, seems to be interested in me. At one point in my life, I would have been flattered by his attention.
But all I can think is how different he is from the men I left behind. His hands are smooth and manicured, nothing like Buck's calloused palms that told the story of years of hard work. His stories about European adventures seem rehearsed, lacking the thoughtful depth that Ford brought to every conversation. And when he casually touches my arm, there's none of the electricity I felt whenever Griff was near.
I sip my beer and nod at appropriate intervals, but my mind drifts. If the guys were here, Buck would be critiquing the beer selection, probably complaining that there weren't enough "normal" options. Griff would be watching the crowd with those observant eyes, occasionally making a quiet comment that would make me laugh. Ford would be lost in the music, appreciating the singer's thoughtful lyrics.
God, I miss them so much it's like a physical ache.
"This place has great music," Ty is saying. "And they get some pretty impressive acts for such a small venue."
