Page 2 of Fake Date with the Mountain Man

“Shouldn’t you be out there arresting a porcupine or something?” I ask as I pour myself a cup of coffee.

Ryan lets out a sharp, humorless laugh, and I become acutely aware of how close we are standing. It’s too close. I can smell the hair product responsible for his stupidly perfect bedhead. Yet, we both refuse to step away. Invading each other’s space bubbles is just one of a thousand ways we choose to annoy the other person.

“Shouldn’t you be in your office ordering uniforms for the new interns? I asked you to take care of that days ago,” he retorts.

“And I did take care of it days ago. Purchasing just needs to approve the PO.”

“They usually approve it right away. Are you sure you did it correctly?”

“Yes, Ryan. I am very confident in my ability to fill out a purchase order for some pants.”

I square off to face him, which I’ll admit is a big mistake given our proximity. There’s barely room for our coffee cups between us. He hovers over me. I’m on the tall side, but my five-seven has nothing on his six-three.

There’s nothing left to do but glare at each other. This is how we communicate the true depths of our hatred for one another.

Ryan’s face is obnoxiously similar to one you might find on your high school’s prom king quarterback type. Just fast-forward ten years and add a beard. He has those stormy gray-blue eyes that seem genetically improbable when paired with hisdark hair and olive skin. Instead of hiding his square jaw line, his short beard seems to accentuate it. And somehow, the hideous green polyester shirt is exactly his color.

Then there’s his smirk. That stupid little smirk that makes everyone like him instantly. Ryan seems to be testing this theory by using it on every single woman who passes through town, and I’m sad to say that the results are pretty conclusive: the smirk works.

But not on me. Gross.

Ryan’s staring back at me. His eyes flicker across my features, mentally cataloging any shortcomings and faults, I’m sure. He’s just looking for ammo. Like the time he called me Freckles and Iaccidentallystepped on his toes. All of them. On both feet.

The problem with being a redhead in situations like this is that flushing with anger looks a whole lot like blushing. And I’ll be damned if Ryan Ehler thinks for one second that I’m blushing coyly over his attention.

The only visible difference between the two emotions is the way that the red-hot prickle of anger crawls down my neck and settles on my chest. I feel it there now, reddening my skin. And as much as I don’t want Ryan to think that I’m blushing, the idea of him looking at my cleavage makes me want to preemptively slap him.

“Oh, hey guys,” Linda says as she steps into the break room cautiously. It’s exactly the way someone would greet a family of raccoons who has overtaken their trashcan. “Any coffee left?”

I practically leap backwards, while Ryan stays coolly in place. That stupid smirk is right there, tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Morning, Linda. There’s a fresh pot here with your name on it,” Ryan says as he grabs Linda’s mallard coffee mug from the shelf and pours her a cup.

After saying a quick hello to Linda, I use this opportunity to retreat to my office.

If there’s one thing that annoys me about Ryan Ehler above all else, it’s the fact that he is perfectly nice to absolutely everyone…except for me. There isn’t a single person in Gatlinburg, Tennessee who he doesn’t seem to charm the pants right off from. And for someone whose life appears to be an endless string of pantless encounters of the single night variety, this seems like a particularly impressive achievement.

I’ll give him that much, I guess. Although I don’t really mean it as a compliment.

_____

Thirty minutes later, an email alert from Ryan pops up in the corner of my screen: “Here’s the approved PO from procurement. Make sure the vendor gets this before you leave today.”

“Will do,” I type back. This is the professional middle-ground between ‘thanks’ and ‘shut up.’

When I scroll down the email chain, I see an exchange between Ryan and the procurement manager time-stamped minutes after our break room staring contest. It’s dripping with his sickening brand of charm, of course. I’m sure the photo of him next to his signature line didn’t hurt his case either.

It’s just another way for Ryan to drive home his point that I do not belong here. That I could never do this job as well as he does.

Another email pops up a minute later and I sigh at Ryan’s name on my screen. The message reads: “Printed out the orientation packet you wanted. Pick it up whenever.”

I might as well get this over with. Maybe then I can spend the rest of the day blissfully Ryan-free.

He barely glances up at me when I enter his office. His eyes are still fixed on his computer monitor as he motions toward the file folder sitting at the far corner of his desk. When I reach for it, there’s the strangest scratching sound, like instant rice being poured out of a chipboard box.

And then there’s something dripping down the front of me.

I look down, but it takes a second to identify the sparkly flecks covering my crotch.

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