Page 55 of Bossy Mountain Daddies
I stack glasses into the plastic bin. "Is it that obvious?"
"Only to someone who's been watching you." His admission hangs in the air between us. I look up to find his eyes on me, steady and unabashed.
"Griff told you," I say. Not a question.
Ford nods, setting aside his rag. "He called earlier. Said you might need some space to process."
I offer him a small smile. "Process. Yeah, that's one way to put it." I carry the bin of glasses to the bar. "How do you process finding out that your ex-boyfriend is the son of the man you've been…" I trail off, not finishing the horrendous question but, by the look on Ford’s face, I know he knows what I’m talking about.
"I imagine you don't," Ford says thoughtfully. "At least not quickly."
His candor surprises me. I expected reassurances that everything would be fine. But Ford isn’t one for empty words.
We work together to finish up closing duties—wiping tables, sweeping floors, restocking the bar. The familiar routine comforts me, gives my hands something to do while my mind churns through the day's revelations.
When we finish, Ford reaches beneath the bar and pulls out a bottle of expensive whiskey.
"Nightcap?" he offers, already setting out two glasses.
I nod, sliding onto a barstool. "Why not?"
He pours two fingers for each of us, then comes around to sit beside me rather than staying behind the bar. The gesture feels significant somehow.
"To complicated lives," he says, raising his glass.
"And unexpected revelations," I add, clinking my glass against his.
The whiskey burns pleasantly going down, warming me from the inside. Ford watches me over the rim of his glass, those intense eyes missing nothing.
"Speaking of revelations," he says after a moment, "there's something I want to tell you."
My heart stutters. "Please tell me you're not related to Daniel too."
He chuckles, the sound rich and warm. "No, nothing like that." He takes another sip, seeming to gather his thoughts. "It's about my past. Before Flounder Ridge."
I wait, allowing him to continue.
"I told you I left the corporate world because I felt empty, despite having everything a man could want on paper. What I didn't mention is that when I left, I didn't leave empty-handed."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning I'm worth...well, more than I'll ever need." He says it matter-of-factly, no pride or boasting in his tone. "A little family money to start with, some smart investments, and a sizeable corporate exit package."
I blink, trying to reconcile this information with the man sitting beside me—the one who wears the same three button-down shirts on rotation, who drives a ten-year-old Jeep, who lives in a modest cabin at the edge of town.
"You're rich," I say with a smile.
"If you want to be reductive about it, yes." He smiles slightly. "But money was never what mattered to me. It was freedom. The freedom to choose the life I wanted, not the one expected of me."
"And this is the life you chose? Tending bar in a small mountain town?"
"Co-owning a bar," he corrects gently. "With two of my closest friends. In a place where I can see the stars at night and know my neighbors' names." He leans forward. "There are many things more important in life than money, Skye."
Something in his words resonates with me, touching a part of myself I've been trying to ignore. Before my parents died, before Daniel's betrayal, I had plans for the future. Plans that included all the things I thought I was supposed to want. But now...
"I don't know what I want anymore," I admit, the whiskey loosening my tongue. "I have no money, no job, no place to live. My car's still broken, and even when it's fixed, I don't have a permanent place to go to."
Ford nods, not rushing to offer solutions. "That uncertainty—it's terrifying, but it's also freedom. A blank page."
