Bossy Mountain Daddies: A Reverse Harem Romance, page 4
"More than okay," I assure her. "But I have to tell you, I’m kind of nervous."
Vanna's smile is warm. "Don't be. Breakfast is pretty low-key around here. Mostly locals grabbing coffee and something to eat before work." She gestures toward the tables. "Let's get set up. I'll show you the routine."
I follow her around the dining room, which looks different in the morning light—more worn-in and comfortable.
"So, we put condiments on each table," Vanna explains, handing me a caddy filled with ketchup, hot sauce, and various other bottles. "Salt, pepper, sugar packets, maple syrup. The works."
As we move from table to table, Loverboy follows us, occasionally sniffing at chair legs or looking for food that was dropped during last night’s dinner rush.
"Griff mentioned your car broke down?" Vanna asks, not looking up from arranging sugar packets.
"Yeah. It decided to self-destruct on the way to Wyoming."
"Tough luck. Jed's looking at it?"
I nod. "He says it'll be at least a week before the parts come in. Hence my new career as a waitress."
Vanna laughs. "Well, for what it's worth, we're happy to have the help. Our regular morning girl is on vacation, so it's been just me and Buck lately."
"Buck?"
"My brother. He's the cook—and co-owner with Griff and Ford. You'll meet him in a minute." She sets down the last caddy and dusts her hands on her jeans. "Let's head to the kitchen. Buck's probably wondering where I disappeared to."
We push through swinging doors into a kitchen that's surprisingly large for a place this size. Stainless steel gleams everywhere—countertops, appliances, a massive grill that takes up an entire wall. The air smells of coffee and something sweet, like cinnamon.
A mountain of a man stands at a center island, chopping fruit with practiced precision. He's easily six and a half feet tall, with broad shoulders that stretch the fabric of his black t-shirt. His right arm is covered in a colorful tattoo sleeve, and his salt-and-pepper hair is closely cropped. Despite his intimidating size, there's something gentle in the way he handles the knife, carefully cutting perfect slices of melon.
"Buck, this is Skye," Vanna announces.
Buck looks up, and his serious expression transforms into a wide smile that crinkles the corners of his incredibly blue eyes. "The Mustang girl! Griff mentioned you'd be helping out." He sets down his knife and extends a massive hand. "Welcome to the madhouse."
His huge hand engulfs mine completely. His palm is warm against mine, and I feel a strange flutter in my stomach that catches me off guard. I've never been particularly attracted to men built like linebackers, but there's something about Buck that makes it hard to look away.
"So you're stuck here until Jed fixes your car?" he asks, finally releasing my hand. I try not to stare at his forearms—thick, muscular, with veins visible beneath tanned skin—as he returns to chopping fruit. I just caught my boyfriend cheating yesterday, and here I am ogling a stranger's arms. What the hell is wrong with me?
"Yeah," I manage to say, trying not to stare at the way his t-shirt stretches across his huge shoulders when he reaches for a plate on a high shelf. "I'm happy to help wherever you need me."
"Ever worked in a kitchen before?" he asks, returning to his fruit.
"No, but I'm a fast learner."
Buck nods, seemingly satisfied with my answer. "We'll start you off easy. Breakfast is pretty straightforward—eggs, bacon, pancakes, that sort of thing. Nothing fancy, but we pride ourselves on doing simple food really well."
He guides me to a workstation nearby, setting out a cutting board and knife. "How about you help me with the fruit prep? Just follow my lead."
I watch him slice a cantaloupe with efficiency, then attempt to mimic his technique. My first few slices are uneven, but he doesn't criticize.
"That's it," he encourages when I get the hang of it. "Nice and even. We'll make a line cook out of you yet."
There's something soothing about the repetitive motion of cutting fruit, the kitchen quiet except for the sound of knives on cutting boards and the occasional instructions from Buck. He moves with surprising grace for someone his size, never wasting a motion as he starts toast, flips bacon, and cracks eggs one-handed into a bowl.
"So where were you headed when your car broke down?" Buck asks as he whisks the eggs.
"Wyoming. My friend Charlotte lives there." I focus on cutting a pineapple the way he showed me. "I was... leaving a bad situation."
Buck doesn't press for details and I wonder if Griff already filled him in. He just nods, his expression softening. "Well, you're welcome here as long as you need. Flounder Ridge has a way of taking care of people who need a little breathing room."
The swinging doors push open, and Vanna pokes her head in. "Andy's here for his usual."
"Coming right up," Buck says, already reaching for a pan. He turns to me with a smile. "Andy's our most loyal customer. Same order every single morning—two eggs over easy, wheat toast, side of bacon. Black coffee."
I follow Vanna back out to the front, where an older man sits at the bar, a worn baseball cap on his head. His weathered face breaks into a smile when he sees Vanna.
"Mornin’, Vanna," he greets her. "Beautiful day, isn't it? Reminds me of that summer back in '87 when we had three weeks straight of perfect weather. Not a cloud in the sky. My Maggie and I went fishing every single day."
"Good morning, Andy," Vanna says, already pouring him a cup of coffee. "This is Skye. She's helping us out for a while."
Andy turns his kind eyes to me, extending a gnarled hand. "Pleasure to meet you, young lady." His handshake is surprisingly strong for a man his age.
"Nice to meet you too, Andy," I reply, finding myself warming to his friendly demeanor.
"You're not from around here," he observes, taking a sip of his coffee. "I know every face in Flounder Ridge, and yours is new. Just passing through?"
"Car trouble," I explain. "I'm staying until it's fixed."
Andy nods sagely. "Jed's your man, then. Fixed my truck after I drove it into Miller's Creek last spring. That water came up faster than you'd believe. One minute the road was clear, next thing I knew, I was floating. Reminded me of the flood of '83 when—"
Vanna gives me a subtle wink as Andy launches into his story. She slips behind the bar to grab menus as I listen to his rambling tale. There's something soothing about the way he talks, like he's got all the time in the world and is happy to share it with you.
The morning flies by in a blur of coffee refills and food deliveries. More customers trickle in—a couple of construction workers in dusty boots, a woman with two small children, a pair of hikers with trail maps spread across their table.
I follow Vanna's lead, scribbling orders on a small pad and delivering plates from the kitchen. My nervousness fades with each successful interaction, replaced by the satisfying rhythm of simple work. It's nothing like my publishing job, where success was measured in manuscript pages edited and author egos soothed. Here, success is a hot plate of food delivered with a smile and an empty coffee cup refilled before being asked.
"You're a natural," Vanna says as we cross paths between tables. "Sure you haven't done this before?"
I laugh. "Believe me, this is a first. I’m just happy I haven’t dropped anyone’s plate in their lap yet."
Buck pokes his head through the kitchen window. "Order up for table four!" His smile is warm as he slides two plates of perfectly arranged pancakes across the counter. "Looking good out there, Skye."
I smile and feel my face redden. Get a hold of yourself, girl. He’s just being nice.
As the breakfast rush starts to wind down, Vanna nods toward the far corner of the bar. "Let's clear those glasses from last night. Sometimes the closing crew misses a few. Can’t believe I missed them earlier…"
I follow her to an area near the jukebox where several empty beer glasses sit abandoned on high-top tables. Vanna stacks them expertly, three in each hand.
"Griff usually closes on Thursdays, and he gets distracted easily," she explains, balancing her precarious tower. "Especially if there's live music. He'll be mixing drinks and completely forget he started clearing a table but didn’t finish."
I gather the remaining glasses, careful not to drop them.
"How long have you worked here?" I ask, navigating around a chair.
"Since the boys bought it five years ago. I was waiting tables at the diner before that." Vanna shifts her grip on the glasses. "Buck insisted I come work for them. Said he needed someone who'd tell him when his food wasn't up to par."
I smile at that. "You don't seem the type to hold back opinions."
"Life's too short for—" Her sentence cuts off as she stumbles slightly, her hip catching the edge of a table. One of the beer glasses tips sideways in her hand, splashing amber liquid across the floor. "Damn it!"
From somewhere across the room comes a scrambling sound, nails clicking rapidly against wooden floors. I turn just in time to see Loverboy charging toward us, his small body a blur of white and brown, eyes locked on the spilled beer with an intensity that's comical.
He skids to a stop at the puddle and immediately begins lapping it up, his pink tongue working overtime, his entire body wiggling with delight.
"Loverboy, no!" Vanna scolds, trying to nudge him away with her foot while still balancing her stack of glasses. "Bad dog! Stop that right now!"
The dog ignores her completely, too entranced by his unexpected treasure to do as he’s told. His tail wags so forcefully that his behind sways from side to side as he drinks.
From his perch at the bar, Andy bursts into laughter, his weathered face crinkling with delight. "There he goes again! Fastest tongue in the West!"
"This happens a lot?" I ask, unable to suppress my own laughter.
"Every single time," Vanna sighs, giving up her attempt to move the determined dog. "He can be sound asleep in the back office, but somehow he always knows when beer hits the floor. It's like he has a sixth sense."
Andy's laughter continues. "I've seen that dog come running from outside when someone spills a beer. Through the door, across the room, doesn't matter how far away he is. He'll find it."
Loverboy finishes his impromptu drink and looks up at us, his expression both satisfied and hopeful, as if asking if we might spill more.
"You're incorrigible," Vanna tells him, but there's affection in her voice. "Go on, go lay down."
The dog trots a few steps away, then circles back, giving the now-clean spot on the floor one last hopeful lick before reluctantly retreating to a sunny patch near the front window.
"He's been doing that since he was a puppy," Andy explains, turning on his stool to face me. "First time I saw it, Ford had knocked over a bottle on the bar and it dripped to the floor. That little furball came running from the kitchen like his tail was on fire, and started licking up the beer before anyone could stop him."
I set my collected glasses on the bar. "Sounds like he developed a taste early on."
"Folks around here think it's the funniest thing," Andy continues, warming to his story. "Some of the regulars, they'll pretend to accidentally spill a little just to see him do his beer dash. It’s become a form of entertainment."
Vanna rolls her eyes. "Which only encourages him."
"We joke he needs one of those twelve-step programs," Andy says, his eyes twinkling. "Doggie AA. 'Hi, my name is Loverboy, and I'm powerless over spilled beer.'"
The mental image makes me laugh out loud—this small, innocent-looking dog sitting in a circle of canine companions, sharing his struggles with alcohol.
"Last Christmas," Vanna adds, joining in despite her earlier exasperation, "Ford got him a tiny sobriety chip as a joke. Attached it to his collar. Buck was so mad—said we shouldn't make fun of addiction."
"That's Buck for you," Andy nods. "Heart as big as the rest of him."
I glance over at Loverboy, now seemingly asleep in his patch of sunlight, the very picture of innocence. "Does he go after beer if it’s still in someone’s glass?"
"No, only if it’s spilled, thank god," Vanna assures me. "Otherwise I wouldn’t be able to bring him to work with me.”
Andy drains his coffee cup. "Makes for good entertainment. You should see it when we're busy. People will stop mid-conversation to watch The Loverboy Show."
As I help Vanna bus a couple of empty tables, I find myself smiling. Maybe this unintended pit stop won’t be so bad after all.
Chapter 5
Griff
Saturday nights at the bar are always a blur of faces, drinks, and noise. Tonight's no different, except for one thing—Skye. She's been here just a couple of days but already moves through the crowd like she's done this for years.
I lean against the back counter, wiping a glass dry while watching her laugh with a table of hikers, the sound carrying over the jukebox and conversations. She's wearing these denim cutoffs that show off legs that seem to go on forever, paired with a cropped t-shirt that reveals an occasional flash of stomach. I'm staring. I know I'm staring. And I need to stop before someone notices.
But damn, she's something to look at. Not just her body—though I'd be lying if I said I haven't noticed that—but the way she carries herself. She’s got the kind of presence you don’t see a lot in women her age.
"Earth to Griff," Buck says, nudging me as he passes behind the bar. "We're out of limes."
I chew the inside of my mouth, knowing I’ve been caught. "I'll grab some from the back."
"Yeah, you do that," he says with a knowing smirk. "After you're done ogling our new waitress."
"I wasn't—" but he's already walked away, shaking his head.
I duck into the storeroom, grabbing a bag of limes and taking a moment to get my head straight. She's just a girl passing through. A very pretty girl with gorgeous eyes and a smile that makes me forget I'm twenty years too old for her. But she’s still just passing through.
When I return, Skye is at the bar, tapping her fingernails against the wood while waiting for an order.
"Two IPAs, a vodka soda, and a whiskey neat," she says when I approach. Her voice has a slight huskiness to it, like maybe she's been talking too much over the music.
I start pouring the first beer. "How you holding up? The Saturday crowd can be a lot."
"It’s a hell of a lot better than proofreading celebrity cookbooks." She leans her elbows on the bar, bringing her face closer to mine.
"That’s a pretty low bar," I say, sliding the beers toward her.
Her laugh is quick and genuine. "Was that a pun? Bar? Really, Griff?"
I feel my face warm. "Unintentional. But I'll take credit for it."
She watches me pour the whiskey, her eyes tracing my movements. "How long have you been bartending?"
"Longer than you've been legal to drink it, probably," I say before I can stop myself.
Her eyebrows rise slightly, but she doesn't look offended. "You don't know how old I am."
"Old enough to know better, young enough to do it anyway?" I offer, mixing the vodka soda.
"I'm twenty-six, in case you were wondering," she says, gathering the drinks onto her tray with ease.
She walks away with the drinks before I can respond, leaving me with my mouth half-open and my brain scrambling for something clever to say. Twenty-six. Way too young for my old ass.
The night rolls on, the bar filling to capacity as a local band sets up on our small stage. Skye moves through the crowd, delivering drinks, clearing empties, smiling, laughing. Occasionally our eyes meet across the room, and she gives me a smile that feels like it’s just for me.
Around ten, a few guys in hiking gear—clearly tourists stopping in on their way through—sit down at the bar. I watch as one of them, a blonde guy with an expensive watch, leans in too close when he talks to Skye. She steps back, maintaining her smile, but I can see the slight stiffening in her shoulders.
They keep waving her over, trying to chat her up.
"Another round for you boys?" she asks, gathering their empties.
"And a shot for you," the blonde guy says, reaching for his wallet. "Join us."
She glances toward me, a question in her eyes. I give a small nod. We're not strict about it—staff can have a drink if offered, as long as they stay functional.
"What'll it be?" she asks, maintaining her professional smile.
"Whiskey," he declares. "The good stuff."
I quickly pour three beers and four shots of mid-range whiskey. Nothing special, but not the cheap stuff either.
"You don't have to drink it," I tell her quietly as I line up the glasses in front of them.
"I know," she says. "But I kind of want to. Been a hell of a week."
I can't argue with that logic. "Just pace yourself."
She takes her shot with them, tipping her head back as she swallows. She doesn't cough or sputter, just sets the glass down with a satisfied little exhale. The blonde guy says something that makes her laugh, but she's already moving away, back to work.
An hour later, when the crowd has thinned slightly and the band is taking a break, I pour her another shot—this time from the bottle I keep under the bar for special occasions. It's a small-batch bourbon from a distillery in Kentucky that went out of business years ago.
When Skye comes to the bar for her next order, I slide it toward her. "Try this."
She looks at the amber liquid, then at me. "What is it?"
"Something better than what your hiking friend bought you."
She picks up the glass, sniffs it curiously, then takes a small sip. Her eyes widen. "Wow. That's smoothe."
I can't help but smile. "It's from a little place in Kentucky. They don't make it anymore though."
"And you're sharing it with me?" The way she says it makes it sound like I've given her a precious gift rather than just a shot of whiskey.
