Page 18 of Fake Date with the Mountain Man

Time ticks on and there’s still no sign of her. I pull out my phone to check on the time and see that I have a few missed text messages, including one from Marlow.

“Can you please come back up to the room?”

Great. What now? More rules?

I take the elevator up to our room on the fourth floor, knocking once as a warning before slipping my key card into the door. Marlow is standing in front of the desk putting her earrings on when I step into the room.

“Holy shit.”

The words just slip out of my mouth before I can contain them. Marlow is wearing an emerald green dress that accentuates every curve from her collarbone to her knees. Her red hair is set into sleek, retro waves. She looks amazing. There isn’t a single person on earth that could argue otherwise – not even me.

She stops to smile at me for a second, letting her eyes travel the length of me. Then she winks and says, “Holy shit to you, too.”

It does something to me. Twists me up inside somehow. Maybe it’s the whiskey.

“Did you just compliment me?” I ask with a grin.

“Just getting into character,” she shrugs and turns back to the mirror to put on the other earring. “Can you zip me up?”

I walk over and see that her dress is only zipped to her waist in the back. Above that, a slice of pale skin cut with a black lace bra is exposed. When I place my hands on the delicate zipper and the soft fabric, I am consumed with the desire to rip it open instead.

Ithasto be the whiskey talking.

Marlow watches me in the mirror as I work the zipper carefully up her back. Our eyes catch in the reflection for a second before we take a step apart.

“I’m ready if you are,” she says.

“Let’s get this over with then.”

We walk silently down the hall and take the elevator back to the first floor. Obnoxiously glittery signs point us in the direction of the ceremony. As we get closer, the chatter of other guests fills the hallway.

A strange sort of panic wells up in my chest just as we’re about to enter the ballroom. Marlow and I are standing a foot apart. There’s no way we’re going to be able to sell this lie to anyone. And if we can’t sell it, then everyone’s going to think it’s pretty fucking weird that I lied about having a date in the first place.

I pull the door open and see a bunch of familiar faces. Marlow walks in first. I put my hand to the small of her back as she passes by me. She visibly flinches. This is off to a great start. Once we’re both inside and a good number of people have turned to stare at us, Marlow threads her arm through the crook of my elbow and urges me forward next to her. We find a seat near the back, next to an older couple who I don’t recognize.

I see the back of my dad’s head up near the front. Blair’s parents are across the aisle from him. Seeing them really drives home how awkward this whole situation is. For years, I tagged along to every family event, every holiday dinner, even the family reunion trip where 26 of us crammed into a single cabin for a week. What a fucking mess that was. These people know me – not as Blair’s husband’s stepbrother, but as her ex-boyfriend.

And now I’m sitting here, on a fake date with a coworker who sort of hates me, about to watch Blair marry into my family – just not in the way I had once imagined.

Music switches on and the doors behind us open. Kevin comes out, trotting down the aisle in his tuxedo. Next is a procession of familiar faces, Blair’s sisters and friends, all dressed in the same ugly purple dress. Each of them walks down the aisle on the arm of one of Kevin’s friends. Then the music changes and the crowd stands in unison. My throat goes dry before I even see her.

This is why people shouldn’t attend their ex’s wedding. I’m over Blair. There isn’t even a hint of feelings or attraction left between us. But seeing her in a big, white dress…well, it’s hardnotto consider the what-ifs. What if Blair and I hadn’t broken up? What if it was me standing at the end of this aisle in atuxedo? What if I had ruined my fucking life by marrying this woman out of some misguided sense of obligation?

Suddenly, all the doubt I felt after running into Blair at the bar evaporates. My life is exactly what it should be. I’m sitting here beside the hottest woman in the room. She may only be pretending to like me, but I’m not so sure that’s any different than most relationships. There’s a whole lot of pretending involved, and I’d much rather not have to pretend to be interested in anything more than a one-night stand with the women I take home. It works for me.

Blair walks down the aisle in unnaturally slow, hesitant steps while Kevin blubbers up at the altar. All that normal wedding bullshit. I look over at Marlow as the ceremony begins. She glances over and gives me a quick, sympathetic smile. When I turn my attention back to the front of the room, I feel Marlow’s gaze linger on me. Her hands slides over mine until our fingers are intertwined. Neither of us looks at each other again until the ceremony is over.

___

Halfway through cocktail hour, it’s pretty obvious that Marlow is a natural at weddings. If I didn’t know better, I would think she is actually enjoying being here…and that she actually likes me. She’s beaming at everyone, laughing at jokes (even mine), and touching my arm just enough to let everyone else know that we’re together.

I have to keep reminding myself that we’re not. Especially when Marlow leans against me and my arm finds a natural home at her waist.

Marlow does have a gift for talking to people – I’ll give her that. Most of the women I meet either never stop talking aboutthemselves or look to me to lead the conversation because they hardly have anything to say.

It doesn’t take me long to realize that Marlow’s trick in these situations is the same as mine: keep steering the conversation back to the other person. People like to talk about themselves. Every time they ask her a question, she provides a brief answer then deflects the conversation back to the other person. For some reason, everyone finds this charming. And Marlow has definitely mastered it.

She rarely lets more than a couple of words slip about herself. It might come off as humble to others, but to me, it’s a frustrating mystery. An ice princess who never lets anyone see beyond her hard shell of polite smiles and well-rehearsed talking points.

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