Page 24 of Bossy Mountain Daddies
"Thou mayest. The most important words in literature."
I feel something shift in the air between us. Something very possibly dangerous. This woman is not just beautiful—she's brilliant. The combination is intoxicating.
"Why don’t more people talk about books and authors they enjoy?" I ask, refilling our glasses without thinking.
She accepts the second drink without comment. "Yeah, 'what are you reading?' is not your typical opening line."
"Maybe it should be."
She laughs, and the sound travels straight through me, landing directly between my legs. "Depends on the answer, I guess. If I'd been reading a trashy romance, we might not be having this conversation."
"Nothing wrong with trashy romance," I say. "Sometimes the brain needs candy, not a seven-course meal."
She raises her glass in a mock toast. "To literary junk food."
I clink my glass against hers, acutely aware of how her fingers wrap around the tumbler, how her lips press against the rim.Alright, Ford, that’s enough.This woman is at least fifteen years younger than me. She's stranded here temporarily. And then there's the way she and Griff look at each other—something's definitely happening there.
The memory surfaces even though I didn’t ask it to—Miranda, the artist who rented the studio space in town three years ago. How she'd come into the bar night after night, flirting with all three of us. How somehow, we'd ended up sharing her, an unspoken arrangement that worked spectacularly until it didn't. How she got pregnant and miscarried. The night she'd left town without a word, leaving a big fat hole in each of us.
It had nearly destroyed our friendship—and we'd promised never to go down that road again.
"You went somewhere else just now," Skye observes, pulling me back to the present.
"Just thinking about a book," I lie, finishing my bourbon. "So what do you think of Flounder Ridge so far?"
She allows the subject change with grace. "It's growing on me. Not what I expected when my car broke down, but there's something about this place. The people. It feels..."
"Real," I supply.
"Yes. Real in a way that Denver never did."
I understand exactly what she means. I left behind a lucrative corporate career, a big house, everything that looked good on paper but didn’t feed my spirit. Found this town, this bar, these people. Never looked back.
We fall into comfortable silence, the only sound the ice shifting in our glasses. I should be counting the register, closing out the system, but I can't bring myself to end this moment.
"I once had everything on paper and felt empty," I tell her, surprised by my own candor. "Now I have enough, and I'm content."
Her gaze is thoughtful. "That's rare. Most people spend their lives chasing more without ever asking if it's what they actually want."
"And what do you want, Skye?" The question is too personal, too direct, but I can't help asking.
She considers this, twirling her glass. "I thought I knew. Career in publishing. Marriage to Daniel. White house, picket fence. The whole package." She smiles ruefully. "Now? I'm not sure. But I think I want something authentic. Something that feels as real as this place does."
The longing in her voice resonates with something inside me. I recognize it because I've felt it too—that hunger for something genuine in a world of fakeness.
Don't even think about it, Ford, I warn myself. But it's too late. I'm already thinking about how her mind matches her beauty, how rare that combination is, how I want to talk bookswith her until sunrise. How I wonder if her skin feels as soft as it looks.
I clear my throat and step back, creating physical distance to counter the emotional pull I’m feeling. "We should finish closing up."
She nods, sliding off the barstool. As she gathers our empty glasses, her fingers brush against mine. The contact is brief but electric, and I know I'm in trouble.
"Thanks for the literary discussion," she says. "It's been a while since I've talked books with someone who gets it."
"Anytime," I say, hoping it happens again very soon.
This attraction—intellectual as much as physical—is a complication I don’t need. Yet, I can’t help myself. I’m just about to ask her if she’d like to have coffee with me sometime so we could talk more about literature, when I hear a key rattling in the lock.
The door swings open, and Vanna walks in with Loverboy trotting at her heels. Her copper hair is tied in a messy bun, and she's wearing pajama bottoms and an oversized sweatshirt.
