Page 27 of Bossy Mountain Daddies
"Clever woman."
"She was a firecracker," Buck says, affection evident in his voice. "Played pool with the best of them, taking their money left and right. She was also the queen of darts. Used to play at all the local bars."
He looks up and his eyes meet mine briefly, and something warm unfurls in my chest.
I look away quickly, feeling my face flush. "What about your brothers? Did they learn too?"
He snorts. "Not a chance. They were older, already out in the world causing real trouble. I was the baby of the family—the one she thought she might still be able to save."
"How many siblings do you have?"
"Four brothers plus Vanna," he says. "All of us guys tall and hungry as wolves. Dinnertime was like a battle zone."
I try to imagine it—a table full of Buck-sized men, all grabbing for food and poor Vanna grabbing whatever she could. "That must have been chaotic."
"That's putting it mildly." He sets his knitting aside and picks up his muffin to butter it. "Grandma Sadie would make these huge pots of soup or stew, and it was every man for himself. You either ate fast or you didn't eat at all." He shakes his head, smiling at the memory. "My oldest brother, Jake, once stabbed Greg's hand with a fork for trying to take the last pork chop."
"Seriously?"
"Oh yeah. Drew blood and everything. Mom made them wash dishes together for a month as punishment. They're still arguing about whose pork chop it was, twenty-five years later."
I laugh, trying to picture it. "I can't even imagine. I was an only child. Dinners at my house were so quiet—just me and my parents."
Buck takes a bite of his muffin, watching me. "That has its own challenges, I bet. All their attention focused on just you."
"Yeah. It was... intense sometimes. They had big dreams for me. College, career. A big wedding. Kids."
"You said had. Are they not around anymore?" he says quietly.
I shake my head. "Car accident. A year ago. Drunk driver crossed the median on the highway." The words come out flat. I've said them so many times they've almost lost their ability to wound me.
"I'm sorry, Skye." His voice is gentle. "That's a hell of a thing to go through."
"Thanks." I take a sip of coffee. "It's strange, not having them around anymore. Like I'm untethered somehow."
He doesn't offer platitudes or try to tell me it gets better with time. He just nods, his eyes never leaving my face. "I lost my grandmother five years ago. That’s different because she was old and lived a long life, but I know that untethered feeling. Like your anchor's gone."
"Exactly." I feel a rush of gratitude for him. "Everyone expected me to 'move on' after a few months. Like grief has some kind of expiration date."
"People are uncomfortable with grief," Buck says. "They want you to hurry up and get back to normal so they don't have to think about their own mortality."
His words hit me hard. That's exactly it—the pressure to heal so people aren’t uncomfortable around you.
Buck picks up his knitting again, his hands working with such gentle precision.
"Want to learn?" he asks, gesturing with the needles. "It's good for processing grief. Keeps your hands busy while your mind works through things."
I hesitate. "I'm not very crafty."
"Neither was I at eight years old," he says with a shrug. "But if I could learn, anyone can."
"Okay." I slide off my stool and move around the counter to stand beside him. "Show me."
He pushes the blue hat aside and grabs a ball of soft yellow yarn from a bag near his feet. "We'll start with something easy. Just the basic stitch."
Buck slides off his stool, standing close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his body. He hands me the needles, then reaches for my hands.
"Hold them like this," he says, his fingers wrapping around mine to position the needles. His hands are warm and calloused in places. "Not too tight. You want to be able to move."
