Page 58 of Bossy Mountain Daddies
My cheeks burn with humiliation. This is a nightmare. I can't help but scroll through more comments, each one worse than the last. People I thought were my friends are laughing, adding their own jokes at my expense. No one is defending me. No one is questioning Daniel's version of events or the way he's putting me on blast publicly.
I force myself to close the app, but the damage is done. The words are seared into my brain. The questions start spinning again—what will people think if they find out about Buck and Ford? Would Daniel really go that far if he found out?
Of course he would. He's already proved there's no low he won't sink to.
I curl onto my side, phone clutched in my hand, torn between the urge to check for more comments and the knowledge that doing so will only make me feel worse. I need to distract myself, to get out of this room and stop spiraling.
Tomorrow, I remind myself. I have plans with Ford tomorrow. The thought of seeing him—his calm presence, his thoughtful conversation—soothes me slightly.
I close my eyes and try to push the horrible thoughts aside. Right now, I just need to breathe.
Ford's house sits at the edge of a clearing, the forest pressing close behind it like a protective wall. It's a modern cabin with clean lines and huge windows that showcase the mountains. I stand on the porch for a moment, taking a deep breath before knocking.
The door swings open, and Ford stands there in a dark blue button-down with the sleeves rolled up, a light dusting of flour on his forearms. His smile immediately eases something tight in my chest.
"You made it," he says, stepping back to let me in. "Perfect timing."
I follow him inside, trying not to gawk at the space. The interior is open and airy, with bookshelves lining every available wall. A stone fireplace anchors one end of the living room, while the other opens to a kitchen that gleams with professional-grade appliances.
"This is beautiful, Ford, " I say.
"Thanks." His eyes crinkle at the corners. "Can I get you something to drink? Wine? Beer? Something stronger?"
"Wine would be nice." I follow him to the kitchen, where I notice an array of ingredients spread across the marble countertop—flour, eggs, olive oil, tomatoes, herbs.
"What are you cooking?" I ask.
He hands me a glass of red wine. "Making pasta. From scratch." There's a hint of pride in his voice.
"I didn't know you cook," I say, taking a sip. The wine is rich and complex, nothing like the cheap bottles I usually buy.
"There's a lot you don't know about me yet." He winks at me and gestures to a mound of flour on the counter. "Want to learn how to make pasta?"
I set my wine down after taking another delicious sip and roll up my sleeves. "Yes, please."
He moves behind me, close enough that I can feel his warmth but not quite touching. "First, you create a well in the flour, like this." His hands guide mine, pressing our fingers into the soft white powder to form a crater. "Then the eggs go in the middle."
I watch as he cracks three eggs into the little hole we've created.
"Now comes the tricky part," he murmurs, his breath warm against my ear. "We need to gradually incorporate the flour without breaking the wall."
His hands guide mine in a gentle circular motion, slowly pulling flour into the eggs until a sticky dough begins to form. It's messy and precise all at once, and I find myself leaning back into him as we work. He smells masculine and delicious and I find myself wanting to turn around and kiss him.
"Where did you learn to do this?" I ask as the dough starts to come together.
"Italy," he says simply. "I spent a summer in Florence during college. Took some cooking classes as an excuse to eat more Italian food."
I turn my head slightly to look at him. "I've been there. During a trip after college."
His eyes light up with genuine interest. "Really? What was your favorite part?"
"The Boboli Gardens," I say without hesitation. "Everyone goes for the Duomo and the Uffizi, but there was something about those gardens... the way they're perfectly manicured but still somehow wild."
Ford's hands pause in their kneading. "The view from the top, looking out over the city at sunset."
"Yes!" I exclaim. "The light turns everything golden."
"I used to go there with a book and sit for hours," he says, resuming our work on the dough. "Found a little spot away from the tourists where I could read and watch people."
