Page 16 of Fake Date with the Mountain Man

Ryan’s demeanor shifts. He shoves his hands in his pockets and the corners of his mouth tug down into a frown. We stand there silently for a few seconds before Ryan turns to leave.

I reach out for him – intentionally this time – and touch his arm. He turns around and studies my face.

“What’s the dress code?” I ask.

“Semi-formal.”

“And where are we staying?”

“The Henry in downtown.”

“Separate rooms?”

Ryan flinches. “One room, but separate beds. Blair set up the block of rooms, so she’d know if I reserved two.”

I nod slowly and suck in a deep breath. “Alright. What time are you picking me up?”

“Is noon okay?” Ryan smiles.

Looks like I’m going to Lexington.

Chapter 8

RYAN

By Saturday morning, I’m kicking myself. There’s no way this is going to work. Marlow and I have never spent five minutes together without wanting to strangle one another. Now, we have to spend hour after hour pretending to get along.

Then there’s the matter of all the other hours, the ones where I suggested that she could be as mean as possible to me. That should make for a fun drive.

I park in front of the German bakery at exactly noon. It’s swarming with tourists when I step inside. Glancing around, I realize that I don’t know how to get to Marlow’s apartment from here. There’s no staircase in plain sight.

Maneuvering through the crowd, I manage to duck in front of a large, indecisive group and catch the attention of the gray-haired woman behind the counter.

“Sandwich?” she practically yells at me without looking up from the loaf of bread she’s slicing.

“Actually, I’m here for Marlow.”

The woman glances up at me and points with her knife to the small hallway behind. “The stairs are at the back of the hall, hun.”

I thank the woman and head down the hall and up a narrow staircase. The landing at the top is almost nonexistent.

Marlow answers after the second knock. She’s wearing a light blue dress and a pair of flats. She looks pretty, but not overdone. That’s sort of a relief.

“Ready to go?” I ask.

“Yeah, I just need to grab my bags.”

She leaves the door open but doesn’t invite me inside. Through the doorway, I see that her apartment is immaculately clean and furnished almost entirely with vintage furniture. It looks like the inside of a grandmother’s cottage, and it’s way warmer and more welcoming than the ice den I imagined her living in. Marlow returns a minute later with a rolling suitcase and a garment bag. I carry both down the stairs as she locks the door behind her.

We’re twenty minutes outside of Gatlinburg and we’ve barely said a word to each other. In fact, we haven’t spoken at all since our encounter in the storage closet on Wednesday. For the past two days, I’ve been out of the office and spending some much-needed time in the field.

I’ve had a lot of bad trips back to Lexington in recent years, but this one has the potential to be the worst. Not just because of Marlow, but because of the whole shitty situation with Blair and my family’s commitment to making it even more awkward at every possible turn.

“So, should we figure out our back-story?” Marlow asks out of the blue.

“Yeah, I guess so. What do you have in mind?”

Marlow presses her finger to her lips as if she’s pondering.

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