Page 13 of Bossy Mountain Daddies
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. "Especiallyif 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."
