Page 12 of Bossy Mountain Daddies
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 hetalks, 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?"
