Page 1 of Bossy Mountain Daddies
Chapter 1
Skye
Iopen the front door, my stomach giving another angry growl. Forty-five minutes. That's all I have before I need to be back at my desk, smiling politely while Alicia dumps another pile of work on me. I have just enough time to eat and catch my breath before diving back into the chaos.
I kick off my uncomfortable new heels that pinch at the toes, leaving them on the entryway rug. Daniel would frown at that—he likes everything in its place—but Daniel isn't here, and my feet are screaming for mercy. The carpet feels like heaven against my bare feet as I pad toward the kitchen, unbuttoning the top button of my too-tight blouse.
Our apartment is nice—too nice for what we should be able to afford, if I'm honest. Daniel insisted on the granite countertops and stainless steel appliances, the floor-to-ceiling windows with a view of downtown. I'd argued for something smaller, cheaper, with more character, but he'd given me that look, the one that says I'm not dreaming big enough.
I fling open the refrigerator door, the cool air washing over me as I scan the barren shelves. A half-empty bottle of white wine. Three bottles of Daniel's craft beer. A container of yogurtthat expired two days ago. A sad-looking lemon rolling around in the produce drawer.
"Shit," I mutter, my stomach responding with another angry gurgle.
I was supposed to go grocery shopping yesterday. I'd even made a list—a detailed one with meal plans for the week, categorized by store sections for maximum efficiency. But then Alicia had dropped that rush project on my desk at 4:55, and by the time I'd finished, the grocery store had closed. I'd dragged myself home at nine, too exhausted to go to the 24-hour market across town.
My new job is eating me alive. Literary assistant at Palmer Publishing sounded impressive when I accepted the offer. I'd imagined thoughtful discussions about manuscripts, discovering the next great American novel. Instead, I'm drowning in marketing plans and enormous manuscripts, fielding calls from entitled authors while Alicia takes credit for my editorial suggestions. My master's degree in literature gathers dust while I proofread press releases for celebrity cookbooks.
I close the fridge and lean against it, pressing my forehead to the cool metal. I open the freezer next—half a bag of freezer-burned peas and some vodka shooters Daniel keeps for impromptu parties. Shit.
The pantry is my last hope. I stand on tiptoe, stretching to reach the back of the top shelf. My fingers brush against a box—crackers, slightly stale but edible. Behind them, a forgotten jar of peanut butter with just enough left to scrape out with a knife.
"Gourmet lunch," I mutter, assembling my sad little meal at the counter. I consider having a glass of wine but think better of it.
Daniel and I used to cook together when we first moved in. He'd chop vegetables while I stirred sauces, music playing as webumped hips and stole kisses. Now he works late most nights, and I'm too tired to bother with any complicated recipes. We've been living on takeout and frozen meals. Last night he didn't come home until after I was asleep.
I check my phone as I chew a dry cracker. Twenty-eight minutes left on my break. Barely enough time to finish eating and get back through midday traffic. I spread peanut butter on another cracker, willing it to be satisfying.
I gulp some water, washing down the last of my makeshift lunch. The kitchen clock ticks loudly, reminding me that my break is evaporating.
I hear an unusual thumping noise from somewhere down the hall.
I freeze, water glass halfway to my lips. The sound is soft but distinct—like something falling onto carpet. My heart picks up speed.
Daniel's at work. He never comes home for lunch since he’s usually at lunch meetings with clients.
Another sound follows—indistinct, muffled, but definitely from the direction of our bedroom.
My brain cycles through possibilities: A burglar? But how would they get past the building's security? A maintenance worker? But the property management is supposed to call first.
I set my glass down silently, heart hammering against my ribs. Maybe it's nothing—the building settling, or the neighbor above us. But maybes don't explain away the goosebumps rising on my arms or the sudden dryness in my mouth.
I glance at my phone, calculating. I could call building security, but what if it's nothing? Daniel would roll his eyes, tell me I'm being dramatic again. I'd never hear the end of it.
Twenty-two minutes left on my lunch break. I should be heading back already, not investigating strange noises. But myfeet are moving before I can talk myself out of it, carrying me toward our bedroom.
As I inch down the hallway I hear an actual voice coming from the direction of our bedroom. It's a woman's voice, breathy and low, punctuated by a deeper rumble I recognize immediately. Daniel. My brain refuses to connect the dots, even as my body tenses, even as my lungs seem to forget how breathing works.
I tell myself there must be some explanation, some reason my boyfriend and another woman are in our bedroom. My hand hovers at the door, trembling slightly, as I try to swallow past the knot forming in my throat.
"Right there," the woman moans, her voice muffled. "Don't fucking stop."
My stomach clenches. I should turn around. Walk away. Pretend I never came home. But my feet are rooted to the spot, and my hand is already pressing against the cool metal of the door handle. I push the door open just enough to see inside.
The door swings inward without a sound—Daniel oiled the hinges last week after I complained about the squeaking. The irony isn't lost on me as the bedroom comes into view, sunlight streaming through the half-drawn curtains, illuminating the scene on our bed.Ourbed. The one we picked out together at that overpriced furniture store Daniel insisted on. The one I just made this morning, all neat and tidy.
My mind registers details in disjointed flashes, like a series of photographs I can't look away from. Daniel on his knees. Blonde hair splayed across our gray duvet cover. Deep red manicured fingernails clutching at Daniel’s shoulders. Red bottom soles of high heels digging into the mattress—Louboutins, real ones, not the knockoffs some women wear.
I blink, and the fractured images merger into a single, unmistakable scene. Daniel is on his knees before a woman,her skirt pushed up around her waist, her head tipped back in pleasure as his face is buried between her thighs. They're so engrossed that neither notices the door opening, neither senses my presence as I stand frozen in the doorway, trying to figure out how to keep breathing.
