Page 61 of Bossy Mountain Daddies
Ford shifts to look at me, his eyes serious in the dim light. "The best stories are the ones where the protagonist takes control of their journey, even when the path isn't clear."
I smile, pressing a kiss to his chest. "Is that from a book?"
"No," he says, pulling me closer. "Just something I had to learn the hard way."
I settle back against him, feeling more centered than I have in days. Daniel's social media attack still stings, but here, in Ford's arms, it seems smaller somehow. Less important than the story I'm creating for myself.
Chapter 17
Buck
The Friday night crowd at Devil's Pass is three-deep at the bar, and I'm pouring drinks as fast as my hands will move. Fridays are always busy, but tonight we've got a biker group passing through on their way to some rally in Utah, plus all the regulars who show up like clockwork.
Through the chaos, I keep an eye on Skye. Something's off with her tonight. She’s not herself, and she didn’t even laugh at my joke about the hairy biker with the teddy bear keychain on his massive ring of keys.
I slide a row of tequila shots down the bar to a group of weekend warriors pretending they're rougher than they are, then grab a rag to wipe up a spill. Skye passes by with a tray of empties, and I catch her arm gently.
"Hey, you need anything?" I ask, keeping my voice low.
She shakes her head and gives me a weak smile. "I’m good. Just busy."
But she's not fine. I know what fine looks like on Skye. Fine is bright eyes and quick comebacks. Fine is the way she hums under her breath when she thinks no one's listening. This isn't fine.
"You sure? Because that face you're making looks like you're plotting murder." I wiggle my eyebrows, trying to coax a smile out of her. "If you need help hiding the body, I know all the best spots."
She tries to smile but it doesn't even come close to reaching her eyes. "Thanks, but no homicide plans tonight."
Before I can press further, she's gone, weaving through the crowd.
I keep watching her as the night goes on. She delivers drinks, takes orders, cleans tables—all the motions of the job—but there's no life in it. The spark that makes her Skye is dimmed, like someone's turned down her brightness.
When I have a moment between drink orders, I sidle up to Vanna, who's cooking tonight.
"What's up with Skye?" I ask, nodding toward where she's taking an order from a table of locals.
Vanna follows my gaze, then shrugs. "Can't imagine what."
"Come on, Vanna. Something's clearly wrong. She barely smiled all night."
She gives me a look, one eyebrow arched high. "And why exactly do you think I'd know? Contrary to popular belief, I don't actually read minds."
"But you two talk," I press. "You're friends."
"We're friendly," Vanna corrects, flipping burgers. "Doesn't mean she tells me everything."
There's something in her tone, a defensiveness that makes me think she knows more than she's letting on, but before I can push further, an incoming order pulls her away.
Griff's working the floor tonight, refilling drinks and checking IDs at the door. When he passes near the kitchen, I catch his eye and wave him over.
"What's up?" he asks, leaning against the door frame.
"It's Skye," I say, keeping my voice low. "Something's wrong. She's not herself."
Griff's expression shifts, concern clouding his features. "Yeah, I noticed."
"Do you know what's going on? She’s not giving me anything."
He glances around to make sure we're not being overheard, then steps fully into the kitchen. "It's Daniel. He's been posting shit about her on social media. Really nasty stuff."
