Page 100 of Bossy Mountain Daddies
Harry is handsome in a weathered way, with laugh lines around his eyes and an infectious grin. He shakes hands with each of the guys, then offers me a warm smile.
"Heard a lot about you all," he says.
Vanna gives us all a look that tells us to behave, then bends to scratch Loverboy behind the ears. The dog immediately flops onto his back, begging for a belly rub.
We chat for a while, the conversation flowing easily. Harry turns out to be a carpenter who's been hired to renovate the old library building. Vanna watches him as he talks, a softness in her expression I've never seen before.
"We're heading to get something to eat," Griff says when there's a lull. "You two want to join us?"
"Thanks, but we just had those amazing loaded potatoes from the stand by the entrance," Vanna says. "We're going tocheck out the craft booths now. Harry's looking for some new coffee mugs."
"Mine all broke in the move," Harry explains.
As they walk away, Loverboy trotting happily between them, I feel something settle in my chest—a quiet certainty that maybe, just maybe, everything really is going to be okay.
"I think I could use some of that cider Reynolds mentioned," Ford says. "Anyone else?"
As we navigate toward the cider stand, people continue to greet us with smiles and friendly words. No one stares. No one whispers.
I take a full, deep breath, letting the tension drain from my shoulders. I'm not sure what I expected today—pitchforks and scarlet letters, maybe—but whatever it was, the reality is nothing like that.
Eventually, the festival transforms as dusk settles over Flounder Ridge. String lights flicker to life overhead, casting a warm glow across the grounds. The air cools enough to make me grateful for my denim jacket, and the scent of woodsmoke mingles with sugar and spice.
On the main stage, the afternoon band packs up their equipment as a new group begins to set up—this one with a fiddle player and a stand-up bass.
We've spent the day wandering from booth to booth, checking out cute local crafts and eating like we’ll never eat again.
"They're clearing space for dancing," Ford observes, nodding toward the area in front of the stage where volunteers are moving benches to create an impromptu dance floor.
Buck's eyes light up. "Perfect timing. I need to dance off some of this food. Best way to work off four servings of pie," he insists, patting his belly without an ounce of regret.
The new band starts with a sound check, the fiddle screeching once before settling into a warm, resonant tone. The stand-up bass joins in, and then guitars, creating a rich blanket of sound that spreads across the festival grounds. People begin to gravitate toward the stage, drinks in hand, conversations shifting to background noise beneath the music.
"Sounds like they're playing a mix of country and folk," Griff says, his fingers tapping against his thigh in time with the beat. "Good dancing music."
The floor fills quickly as the band launches into their first real song—something fast and cheerful with lyrics about summer nights and whiskey kisses. Couples spin and sway, some with specific steps, others just moving along with the music.
Buck turns to me, extending his hand with an exaggerated flourish. "May I have this dance, madam?"
"You may," I reply, taking his hand with a curtsy that makes him chuckle.
He leads me onto the dance floor, his large hand warm around mine. I've danced with Buck before—late at night in the bar after closing, when he'd turn up the jukebox and spin me around the empty floor. He's surprisingly graceful for such a big man.
Buck's hand settles at the small of my back, guiding me through the steps. He spins me, catches me, pulls me close enough that I can feel his heartbeat against my chest.
"You know what my favorite thing about you is?" he asks, his blue eyes bright in the string light glow.
"My incredible taste in men?" I suggest.
He laughs, the sound rumbling through his chest. "Your smile. The real one—not the polite one you give to customers or the nervous one you had earlier today." His hand squeezes mine gently. "The one you're wearing right now. Like you finally believe you deserve to be happy."
The simple observation catches me off guard, and I stumble slightly. Buck steadies me, his arm strong around my waist.
"I'm working on it," I admit.
The song ends, transitioning into something slower, more intimate. Buck glances over my shoulder and grins. "I believe this is Ford's dance," he says, stepping back with a dramatic bow just as Ford appears beside us.
"If the lady is willing," Ford says, his hand outstretched.
