Bossy Mountain Daddies: A Reverse Harem Romance, page 2
I grab my biggest suitcase from the closet and start throwing clothes in it. Jeans, t-shirts, hoodies, underwear, socks. I avoid looking at the lingerie Daniel bought me for Valentine's Day. I contemplate shredding it to pieces and leaving it on his pillow. But I don’t have time—I need to get the fuck out of here.
In the bathroom, I sweep my toiletries into a bag. Toothbrush, face wash, deodorant, makeup. My fingers brush against Daniel's expensive cologne, and I resist the urge to smash it against the tile floor.
My laptop goes into my backpack, along with my journal, the family photo album I keep in my nightstand, and the small box of jewelry that includes my mother's wedding ring. I don't bother with books or kitchen items or bed linens. I remember to grab my favorite pillow just as I’m about to walk out of the bedroom.
Fifteen minutes. That's all it takes to pack up the pieces of my life I care about.
I hesitate before leaving, pen hovering over a scrap of paper. What do you say to someone who shattered your trust? In the end, I write simply: "I know about you and Alicia. Don't contact me." I leave the note on the kitchen counter.
One last look at the apartment that never really felt like mine anyway. The gray couch Daniel insisted on that's too hard and too shallow to curl up on comfortably. The abstract art prints he chose that do nothing for me. The sleek coffee table where we ate takeout while watching shows I pretended to like.
I close the door behind me, and it feels like closing a chapter. I know I’ll have to come back eventually to get the rest of my stuff, but for now I’m done with this place.
Back in the parking garage, I load my bags into Grandpa's 1967 Mustang. The red paint is faded in places, and the chrome isn't as shiny as it once was, but the engine purrs when I turn the key.
"Come on, Poppy," I murmur, patting the dashboard affectionately. "We've got a long drive ahead of us."
When Grandpa died six years ago, everyone was surprised he'd left the car to me instead of one of my male cousins. But I'd spent countless summer afternoons handing him tools while he tinkered under the hood, soaking up his explanations about carburetors and timing belts, mesmerized by the way his weathered hands could coax life back into metal parts.
Poppy and I have history. We've weathered storms together—literal ones, like the flash flood two years ago that almost swept us away, and figurative ones, like the night I drove for hours after getting the call about my parents' accident, tears blurring the road ahead.
I point us toward the highway, the familiar rhythm of the engine settling my nerves. Three hours to the Wyoming border, another three to Charlotte's place. I can make it before midnight if I push through.
As the city disappears behind me, my thoughts drift back to Daniel. Three years together. Three years of building a life, making plans, imagining a future—all of it meaningless now. Was he cheating on me the whole time? Were there other women before Alicia?
My hands tighten on the steering wheel. My throat aches with unshed tears, but I refuse to cry for him again. I crank up the radio instead, letting some angry woman with a guitar drown out my thoughts.
By the time I reach the foothills, my fury has cooled into something more determined. There's a strange freedom in having everything fall apart. No job holding me back. No boyfriend to consider. No apartment lease to worry about. Just me and the open road and a friend waiting at the end of it.
My phone rings, Charlotte's name flashing on the screen.
"Hey," I answer, "I'm on the road. Sorry, I forgot to text you."
"Good," she says, and I can hear her relief. "Did you go back to the apartment?"
"Yeah. He wasn't there. I left a note."
"What did it say?"
"Just that I know about him and Alicia and not to contact me." I pause. "It wasn't much of a goodbye."
"He doesn't deserve a goodbye," Charlotte says firmly. "Did you take everything you needed?"
"Everything important," I confirm, watching the mountains grow larger on the horizon. "I'll have to figure out the rest later."
"We'll figure it out together," she says. "Where are you now?"
"Heading into the mountains." The landscape has changed, buildings giving way to pines and rocky outcroppings. "Should be at your place around eleven if I don't stop too much."
"I'll have wine and ice cream waiting," Charlotte promises. "And a shoulder to cry on if you need it."
"Thanks," I say, my voice catching. "I don't know what I'd do without you."
After we hang up, I settle into the drive, watching the world transform around me. The road climbs steadily, hugging the contours of the mountains.
Maybe Wyoming is exactly what I need. Space to breathe. Time to heal. Distance from the humiliation of being cheated on by my fucking boyfriend with my fucking boss. Ex-boss that is. I’m sure Daniel will tell her when he reads my note. At least there won’t be any question about why I didn’t come back from lunch today. Or why I won’t be returning ever again.
The Mustang starts to lose momentum as we climb higher, the engine working harder than usual. I downshift, giving her more gas on the steeper sections. A strange clicking sound starts coming from under the hood, but I ignore it. The old girl makes noises sometimes; it's part of her charm.
But when the clicking turns into a persistent knocking, followed by an ominous plume of steam from the edges of the hood, my stomach drops.
"No, no, no," I mutter, easing off the gas. "Not now, Poppy, please not now."
The knocking gets louder, and the car jerks beneath me. I pull over onto the narrow shoulder, hazard lights blinking as traffic moves past us. When I pop the hood, a cloud of steam billows out, obscuring my view. I step back, coughing, waiting for it to clear.
I know enough about cars to recognize this isn't a quick fix. Something major has gone wrong—head gasket, maybe, or worse. Shit… who do I call? Not Daniel. Never again Daniel.
A road sign fifty yards in front of me catches my eye: "Flounder Ridge - 2 miles." A town, at least. Somewhere to get help.
I close the hood and climb back into the driver's seat, praying she has one last push in her. "Just a little more," I coax, turning the key. The engine protests but catches, sputtering and wheezing.
The "Welcome to Flounder Ridge" sign is small and weather-beaten, the paint flaking at the edges. Population 847, elevation 6,800 feet. I ease the car past it, the engine now making sounds I've never heard before—grinding and sputtering.
Up ahead I see brick buildings that look like they've been here since the gold rush. My eyes scan desperately for anything that resembles a gas station or a mechanic. Relief washes over me when I spot "Jed's Auto Repair" at the far end of the street.
I continue to drive, wincing with each new noise. Poppy gives one final shudder as I pull into the gravel lot, then I turn off the ignition. Steam rises from under the hood like a final exhale.
A man emerges from the garage, wiping his hands on a rag tucked into his belt. He's older, maybe late fifties, with deep creases around his eyes and a cigarette dangling from his lips. His blue coveralls are stained with grease and oil.
"Sounds like you got yourself a problem there," he says, nodding at my car. His voice is gruff but not unkind.
"You could say that." I step out, running a hand through my tangled hair. "I was heading to Wyoming when she started making these awful sounds. I barely made it here."
He approaches the Mustang, eyes lighting up with interest. "Sixty-seven?"
I nod. "My grandfather's. He left it to me when he died."
"Beautiful car." He taps the cigarette, ash falling to the gravel. "Don't see many of these anymore. I'm Jed, by the way. This is my place."
"Skye," I offer, extending my hand. His grip is firm, his palm calloused. "Any chance you can take a look at it?"
Jed circles the car, assessing it with an expert's eye. "Pop the hood for me?"
I reach through the window and pull the hood release. Jed props it open, peering into the engine compartment. He makes small humming sounds as he checks various components, occasionally poking or prodding something I can't see.
"When's the last time you had the cooling system flushed?" he asks.
I bite my lip. "I... don't know. My boyfriend—" I catch myself. "My ex-boyfriend usually handled the maintenance for me."
Jed raises an eyebrow but doesn't say anything. "Well, someone hasn't been taking proper care of this beauty. Looks like you've got a blown head gasket at minimum. Might be more damage I can't see yet."
My heart sinks. "How bad is that?"
"On a scale of one to 'you're not driving to Wyoming today'?" He gives me a sympathetic look. "You're definitely not driving to Wyoming today."
I close my eyes, suddenly exhausted. The adrenaline that's been keeping me going since I saw Daniel and Alicia together drains away. "How long to fix it?"
"Can't say for sure until I get a better look. Why don't you head over to Rose's Diner while I check it out properly? Get yourself something to eat. You look like you could use it."
He's not wrong. I could definitely use something other than a protein bar to eat.
"It’s just up that way," Jed continues, pointing. "Can't miss it. Only place in town with a neon coffee cup in the window."
"Thanks," I say, grabbing my purse from the car. "How long do you need?"
"Give me an hour. I'll have a better idea by then."
I nod, setting off down the street. Flounder Ridge is exactly what you'd expect from a small mountain town—quaint, quiet, lost in time. A general store with rocking chairs out front. A post office the size of my bathroom. A bulletin board covered with community notices and lost pet flyers.
As I push open the door to Rose’s Diner, the smell of coffee and grilled onions hits me, and my stomach growls in response, reminding me that my last meal was those stale crackers and peanut butter hours ago.
A woman with silver-streaked hair looks up from behind the counter. "Take any seat you like, honey. I'll be right with you."
I slide into a booth by the window, the vinyl seat squeaking beneath me.
The waitress approaches, notepad in hand. "What can I get you?"
“What’s good?” I ask.
“What are you in the mood for? Our special today is meatloaf, but the BLT is what most people come in for."
"A BLT sounds perfect. And coffee, please."
As she walks away, I check my phone. No service. Of course. I should text Charlotte, let her know I'm delayed, but that will have to wait.
The sandwich arrives quickly, piled high with bacon and fresh tomatoes. I didn't realize how hungry I was until the first bite, and then I'm devouring it, washing it down with gulps of coffee.
My mind races as I eat. What if the car can't be fixed? How much will it cost? I’ve got no money in my account and my credit cards are just about maxed out.
The diner fills and empties around me as I sit there, locals coming in for early dinners. They chat with the waitress, with each other, occasionally glancing curiously at me. In a town this small, everyone must know everyone else's business.
An hour passes and I head back to Jed's garage, the sun is starting to dip behind the mountains.
Jed is leaning against the garage door frame, a fresh cigarette between his fingers. His expression tells me everything I need to know.
"It's not good news, is it?" I ask, bracing myself.
He shakes his head. "Head gasket's blown for sure. But you've also got a cracked cylinder head, and the radiator's shot. Coolant's been leaking into places it shouldn't for a while now."
"Can you fix it?"
"I can, but it won't be quick or cheap. Parts for these old beauties are hard to come by. I'll have to order them special, and that'll take at least a week. Maybe longer." He takes a drag of his cigarette. "Then there's the labor. All told, you're looking at about twenty-five hundred, minimum."
The number hits me like a physical blow. "Twenty-five hundred dollars?"
"I know it's steep," Jed says apologetically. "But that's what it costs to keep a classic like this on the road. I could try to find used parts, might save you a few hundred, but I can't promise anything."
"I—I don't have that kind of money," I admit, my voice small. "And I need to get to Wyoming. My friend is expecting me."
Jed studies me for a moment. "Rough day?"
"You have no idea," I laugh, but it comes out more like a sob.
He sighs, flicking his cigarette away. "Look, I know a place you might be able to stay while you wait for the parts. There's a bar called Devil's Pass about a half mile down the road. They've got a room they rent out over the bar. Nothing fancy, but the owners are good people."
"A room over a bar?" I repeat, trying to picture it.
"It's not as bad as it sounds," Jed assures me. "Lot of travelers end up there when they're passing through. Might be your best option if you're stuck here for a week."
A week in this tiny town, sleeping above a bar, waiting for car parts. This is not how I imagined my escape to Wyoming going. But what choice do I have?
"How do I get there?" I ask, resignation settling over me like a heavy blanket.
"I can give you a ride," Jed offers, jingling a set of keys from his pocket. "Got my truck right around back. No point in you walking when you've had such a rough day already."
His kindness catches me off guard. In the city, strangers don't offer rides. They don't look at you with genuine concern in their eyes. But Jed seems to operate on a different frequency, one tuned to small-town helpfulness that I've forgotten exists.
"That would be great, actually. Thank you." I glance back at my car, sitting forlorn in front of the garage. "Will it be okay here overnight?"
"Nobody's gonna mess with it,” Jed assures me. “I'll pull it into the garage before I close up."
I grab my overnight bag from the trunk, leaving the rest of my hastily packed life inside. Jed leads me around to a battered blue pickup truck that's seen at least as many miles as my car, maybe more. The passenger door creaks when I pull it open, and the leather seat is worn smooth from years of use.
We drive in silence. Through the windshield, I watch the mountains turning purple against the darkening sky.
"So," Jed says, "what's got you heading to Wyoming all by yourself?"
I consider how much to share with this stranger who's been nothing but kind. "I caught my boyfriend cheating. With my boss." The words still taste bitter on my tongue. "I decided I needed a change of scenery."
Jed lets out a low whistle. "That'll do it." He doesn't offer platitudes or unwanted advice, just a simple acknowledgment of the pain.
The truck slows as we approach a weathered wooden building set back from the road. A neon sign glows in the twilight: "Devil's Pass" in red letters, with a smaller sign beneath it that says "Bar & Grill." The parking lot is half-full, a mix of trucks, motorcycles, and a few sedans.
"Here we are," Jed announces, pulling up near the entrance.
Devil's Pass looks like it grew out of the mountainside itself—all rough-hewn timber and stone, with a metal roof that's developed a patina of rust along the edges. A covered porch runs along the front, with a few patrons sitting at picnic tables. Through the windows, I can see the warm glow of lights and the shadowy movements of people inside.
"It looks... rustic," I say, searching for a polite word.
Jed chuckles. "Don't let the outside fool you. Place is clean, food's good, and the owners don't tolerate any nonsense. C’mon, I’ll go in with you."
I follow him up the wooden steps, the boards creaking beneath our feet. When he pushes open the heavy door, a wall of sound greets us—laughter, conversation, the clink of glasses, and the low thrum of music from a jukebox in the corner.
Inside, Devil's Pass is larger than it appeared from outside. A long bar runs along one wall, stools occupied by a mix of people—most in T-shirts and jeans. Tables are scattered throughout, most filled with patrons eating or drinking. A small stage sits in the far corner, empty now but set up with microphones and amplifiers.
What strikes me most is the décor—a strange blend of biker bar and family restaurant. Motorcycle memorabilia hangs on the walls alongside vintage signs and framed photographs of mountain landscapes. The lighting is dim but not dark, casting a warm glow over the weathered wood interior.
I stand just inside the doorway, clutching my overnight bag, suddenly aware of how out of place I must look. A few heads turn in our direction, curious gazes taking in the newcomer.
"That's Griff behind the bar," Jed says, nodding toward a bearded man pouring drinks. "He and a couple other guys own the place. Come on, I'll introduce you."
I follow Jed through the crowded room. I've spent the past several hours making snap decisions, running on pure adrenaline and anger. Now, surrounded by strangers in an unfamiliar place, reality is catching up to me. I'm broke, my car is falling apart, and I'm about to ask if I can stay in a room above a bar in a town I'd never heard of until today.
The man behind the bar looks up as we approach. He's tall, with broad shoulders and a thick beard. His hair is pulled back in a ponytail, and his forearms are covered in intricate tattoos that disappear beneath rolled-up sleeves. I find it hard to look away.
"Jed," he greets, voice deep and gravelly. "The usual?"
"Not tonight, Griff. Actually, I'm here to ask a favor." Jed gestures to me. "This is Skye. Her car broke down on the way to Wyoming—'67 Mustang with a blown head gasket and a cracked cylinder head. Parts won't be in for at least a week. She needs a place to stay. Thought maybe your room was available."
Griff's direct gaze shifts to me, assessing without being intrusive. "You want to stay upstairs?"
I clear my throat. "Just until my car's fixed."
"Sure. It’s currently unoccupied," Griff says. "Includes breakfast. Bathroom's shared with the office, but no one's in there most of the time. It's not the Ritz. Just a bed and a dresser, but it does have a nice view of the mountains."
