Page 8 of Bossy Mountain Daddies
Ican't help the low chuckle that escapes me as I watch her walk off toward the stairs, clutching that overnight bag like it might grow legs and run away. Her face when I dropped that little bomb—priceless. The way her eyes widened, jaw going slack for a split second before she caught herself. She definitely wasn't expecting that curveball. But then, from what Jed just told me about her day, nothing's gone according to plan for her since this morning.
"You're an ass, Griff," Jed says, leaning against the bar. His weathered face crinkles with disapproval, but there's a hint of amusement in his eyes. "You know damn well I told her you rent that room out. Not exchange it for working in your bar."
I grab a glass and start polishing it, more for something to do with my hands than because it needs it. "Yeah, well, usually I do."
"So what's different about this one?" Jed raises an eyebrow, reaching for the beer I've already started pouring him. Guess he changed his mind about having a drink.
"Nothing," I say too quickly. "Just need the help, that's all. Tammi's gone for a couple of weeks, remember?"
"Sure," Jed says, drawing out the word like he doesn't believe me. He takes a long pull from his beer. "Nothing to do with the fact that she's pretty."
I shoot him a look. "I’m old enough to be her daddy."
And I really do need the help. Tammi left two days ago for her sister's wedding in Arizona. We've been managing without her, but just barely. Another pair of hands, even inexperienced ones, could be the difference between staying afloat and drowning.
"Besides," I add, "I’m sure she’s going to need some extra money after paying you to fix her car. This way she gets a place to stay, some tips, and I get some help. Win-win is how I see it."
Jed grunts, unconvinced and gulps half his beer.
I move down the bar to refill water for the Henderson brothers, who come in every Thursday after their shift at the lumber mill. They're deep in conversation about some football player, barely acknowledging me as I top off their glasses.
The evening crowd is starting to filter in—familiar faces mostly, with a few tourists mixed in, probably staying at the campground up the road.
Devil's Pass isn't much to look at, but it's mine. Well, mine and Buck’s and Ford’s. The three of us bought it five years ago when Old Man Cartwright decided to sell. We kept the name, kept most of the décor—the biker paraphernalia, the vintage beer signs, the collection of license plates from all fifty states. Added a few touches of our own, like the stage for live music on weekends and the kitchen that serves actual decent food instead of just microwaved frozen pizzas.
When the girl walked in with Jed, I noticed her right away. Hard not to—she stuck out like a sunflower in a pine forest. City clothes, expensive-looking purse, that deer-in-headlights look that screams "not from around here." But there was something else too, something in the way she was standing there. She’s running from something. And not just a broken-down car.
I've seen that look before. Hell, I wore it myself about ten years back when I first rolled into Flounder Ridge on my Harley, nothing but a duffel bag and enough cash for a tank of gas. I wasn't planning on staying, but then Cartwright offered me a job bartending, and one month turned into six, turned into a decade. Sometimes the place you're running to finds you before you even know you're looking for it.
Should I have told her she had to work for her room and board? Probably not. But something about the way she stood there, trying so hard to look composed, made me want to challenge her a little. See if there was some steel under all that polish. Not exactly my most mature moment.
"You think she'll take you up on it?" Jed asks, interrupting my thoughts.
I shrug, wiping down the bar top. "Fifty-fifty. Depends on how desperate she is."
"Desperate enough," Jed says with certainty. "That car of hers isn't going anywhere anytime soon. And from what she told me on the drive over, she doesn't have much in the way of options."
A twinge of guilt nips at me. I push it away. "What's her story anyway?"
"Not mine to tell," Jed says, but then suddenly changes his mind. "She's had a rough go of it lately. Caught her boyfriend with another woman today—her boss, if you can believe it. Packed up and left, heading to a friend's place in Wyoming when the Mustang gave out."
Jesus. No wonder she looked shell-shocked. "That's a hell of a day."
"Yeah," Jed agrees. "So maybe cut her some slack."
If she takes the job, what would I even have her do? Can't put her behind the bar, not without training. Waiting tables maybe, or helping in the kitchen. Buck's always complaining aboutneeding more help with prep work. Nothing too complicated to start, just enough to earn her keep while her car gets fixed.
I'm sending a tray of shots over to a table of hikers celebrating the end of some trail when I see her coming down the stairs. She's changed clothes—jeans and a simple t-shirt now instead of the dress she had on before. Her hair's pulled back, face freshly washed. She hesitates at the bottom of the stairs, scanning the crowded room, before her eyes find mine at the bar.
Her chin lifts slightly as she makes her way through the crowd toward me. That little gesture—that's what I was looking for. Steel underneath, just like I thought.
She slides onto an empty stool at the far end of the bar, away from the regular crowd. There's a determined set to her jaw now, like she's made a decision she doesn't love but will have to live with.
I finish pouring a whiskey for one of the regulars before making my way over to her, giving her time to settle. Up close, I notice details I missed before—the slight redness around her eyes that suggests she's been crying, the tension in her shoulders, the way her fingers nervously tap against the wooden bar top.
"So," she says when I approach, "about that job offer."
I lean against the back counter, giving her space. "Whatchya thinkin’?"
