Page 9 of Bossy Mountain Daddies
"Not much choice, is there?" A wry smile appears on her lips. "My car's shot, I'm basically broke, and Wyoming's still a long way off. So yes, I'll work here in exchange for the room."
"Deal." I extend my hand across the bar. "Griffin Hawkins. Most people call me Griff."
"Skye McMillan." Her hand is small in mine, but her grip is surprisingly firm. "I should warn you, I've never worked in a bar before."
"Everyone's gotta start somewhere."
Now that she's sitting still and I'm not busy being an ass, I really look at her. She's beautiful in a way that catches you off guard—not the obvious kind of pretty, but the sort that reveals itself in pieces. Wide-set eyes that can't decide if they're blue or green. A small constellation of freckles across her nose. Blonde hair that falls just past her shoulders. She's young—mid-twenties at most—which makes me feel ancient at forty-six.
"What can I get you to drink?" I ask, suddenly aware I've been staring.
"Just a beer. Whatever's on tap that isn't too hoppy."
I pull her a Coors Light, placing it in front of her. "On the house. Consider it a welcome to Flounder Ridge."
"Thanks." She takes a long sip, closing her eyes briefly. When she opens them again, some of the tension has left her face. "God, I needed that."
"Rough day?"
"You could say that." She traces a finger through the condensation on her glass, drawing patterns. "Though 'catastrophic' might be more accurate."
I lean forward, elbows on the bar. "Jed mentioned something about your car. '67 Mustang, right?"
Her face lights up for the first time since she walked in. "Yeah. Poppy. She's a beauty. Or was, before the head gasket blew and apparently took half the engine with it."
"You know your cars," I observe, impressed. Most women her age wouldn't know a head gasket from a hole in the ground.
"My grandfather taught me." She takes another drink. "He was a mechanic. Had that Mustang since it was brand new. Used to let me help him work on it when I was a kid."
"So he left it to you?"
"Yeah." Her smile turns soft with memory. "Everyone thought he'd leave it to one of my cousins, but Grandpa and I had a special bond."
I find myself smiling too. "My dad was like that with his truck. Could talk for hours about pistons and cylinders."
"Exactly! Grandpa would spend whole afternoons showing me how to change the oil or replace spark plugs. My mom used to get so mad because I'd come inside covered in grease." She laughs, then her expression falls. "She'd be horrified if she knew I let the car fall into this condition."
Something in her tone makes me tread carefully. "Where do your folks live?"
"They died." The words come out flat. "Car accident, about a year ago. A drunk driver crossed the median on the highway."
"Jesus," I breathe. "I'm sorry."
She shrugs, but I can see how her fingers tighten around her glass. "It's fine. I mean, it's not fine, but... you know. Life goes on, right?"
Her eyes swim with unshed tears, and I have the sudden urge to reach across the bar and take her hand.
"My dad died when I was sixteen," I offer instead. "Heart attack. Came out of nowhere."
She looks up, surprised by the confession. "That's rough."
"Yeah." I rarely talk about my dad, especially with strangers, but something about her makes me want to share. Maybe because she looks like she needs to know she's not the only one who's lost people.
"Anyway," she says after a moment, "the car is basically all I have left of him. Of them, really. I can't just leave it behind."
"Jed's the best mechanic in three counties," I assure her. "If anyone can fix it, he can."
"I hope so." She finishes her beer, and I automatically begin to pour her another. She doesn't stop me. "This whole day has been one disaster after another."
