Page 39 of Bossy Mountain Daddies
"Aw, don't be like that," Reynolds slurs, placing his hand on her arm.
The husband turns then, his face hardening. "She said we're fine. Move along."
Reynolds blinks, as if just noticing the man. "No offense, buddy. Just talking to the lady."
"She's not interested," the husband says, his voice low but tight with anger.
I start moving toward them, but Reynolds speaks again before I can get there.
"How ‘bout letting her answer for herself?" he asks, his hand still on the woman's arm. "What do you say, sweetheart? Let me buy you a real drink, not that fruity thing you're sipping."
The husband stands up, his stool scraping loudly against the floor. He's a good four inches taller than Reynolds, with the solid build of someone’s who’s lifted a dumbbell or two. "Take your hand off my wife. Now."
The bar quiets, conversations pausing as people sense the tension.
"Whoa, easy there," Reynolds says, raising his hands up but not backing away. "Just being friendly. No need to get all caveman on me."
The husband takes a step forward, his fists clenched. "I said?—"
"That's enough," I interject, positioning myself between them. "Reynolds, you need to go home."
Reynolds looks at me, blinking in confusion. "What'd I do?"
"You're harassing customers and making a scene," I say firmly. "You know the rules. Time to call it a night."
"Come on, Griff," he whines. "I was just talking to the lady."
"The lady isn't interested," I say, keeping my voice even.
The husband's still standing there, tension radiating from him. His wife touches his arm, murmuring something I can't hear.
Reynolds doesn't resist when I take his arm and guide him toward the door.
"I'll call you a cab."
"Don't need a cab," he grumbles. "Can walk."
He stumbles out into the night, muttering under his breath. I watch until he's down the street, headed in the direction of his trailer. Then I turn back to the couple.
"I apologize for that," I say. "Next round's on the house."
The husband nods stiffly, some of the tension leaving his shoulders. "Appreciate it."
"Not a problem." I gesture to Ford, who's already preparing fresh drinks for them.
The bar gradually returns to its normal hum of conversation. Ford and I resume our rotation between the bar and floor. By closing time, the incident with Reynolds is all but forgotten.
As the last customers file out, Buck emerges from the kitchen, wiping his hands on a towel. "Busy night," he comments, reaching for three beers from the cooler. He pops the caps off and slides them across the bar, one for each of us.
"Thanks," I say, taking a long pull. The cold beer feels good going down my throat. "Could've used Skye tonight."
Ford settles onto a barstool, loosening his collar. "Wonder how the movie is."
"Probably terrible," Buck says with a chuckle. "Vanna loves those cheesy horror flicks."
We drink in companionable silence for a moment. I'm turning over in my mind how to bring up what's been bothering me all day. Finally, I say fuck it and just go for it.
"So," I say, setting my beer down. "We should probably talk about Skye."
