Page 38 of Fake Date with the Mountain Man

Friday is a mess. Brayden shows up an hour late without an explanation. Jeremy offers an unprompted (not to mention unnecessary) critique of his orientation experience thus far. The gist of it is that he could do it better. Beth takes notes on this for some reason.

Kayla is…well, she’s Kayla. She bats her eyelashes and squishes her breasts together like she doesn’t have a single brain cell in her head, but then contributes intelligently to the conversation. It’s bizarre and frustrating.

Honestly, I wish that the summer internship didn’t start at exactly the same time as Abby’s program. I’d much rather be helping her with the kids right now than sitting here at the office dealing with these four interns.

Five o’clock rolls around at a painfully slow pace. I haven’t seen Ryan all day, but it’s not unusual for him to spend the entire day out in the field.

Maybe I’m off the hook for happy hour. I’m still trying to figure out why Ryan wants me to go so badly. He probably hopes that seeing other women flirt with him will make me realize how much I want to sleep with him.

Ironically, I’m already fully aware of how much I want to sleep with Ryan. It’s a thought that plays on repeat when I’m lying in bed at night. The only thing that could make me want to sleep with him any less is seeing him flirt with a bunch of other women. It’s a giant reminder – a huge, blinking neon sign – of why things would never work out between us.

On my way out of the lobby, I see Kayla parked in front of Emmett’s desk, giggling over something he just said.

There, that’s a better match for her. Anyone but Ryan.

Emmett interrupts whatever Kayla is saying so holler across the lobby, “Are you going to happy hour, Marlow?”

I shake my head. “Not tonight.”

“Bummer,” Emmett says. Strangely enough, I think he actually is bummed that I’m not going.

“Have a good weekend!” Kayla chirps over at me.

“You too, Kayla.”

I turn left outside the building and follow the herd of rangers headed to the bar; except I keep going straight after they all turn toward the entrance. Just when I think I’m in the clear, a text message chimes on my phone.

It’s Ryan. We exchanged numbers after the hiking trip. Because we’re ‘friends’ now. Or something.

I open the message, which reads:Dropping the truck off at the station. Be there in 5.

Damn. So close.

I could tell him I’m sick. I got food poisoning at lunch. I got a migraine from dealing with the interns all day. I got so jealous of him and Kayla yesterday that I coughed my guts up onto the break room floor, where they’re still writhing around. I need to go home and rest.

Not feeling very well. Going home to lie down for a bit.

My stomach flutters as I hit send on the message.

Admittedly, part of me wants to go to happy hour. Maybe if Ryan and I spent more time together, we would find a happy medium between overly-considerate weirdos and mortal enemies. But it’s just as likely that it would make everything worse.

When I get back to my apartment, I’m surprised to find that Ryan hasn’t responded to my text. I fully expected an argument from him. I’m even a little disappointed that he doesn’t seem to mind that I bailed at the last minute, but I shake it off.

My after-work routine is pretty much carved in stone. After changing out of my Forest Service uniform, I queue up one of my favorite yoga videos on YouTube and asana the hell out of all thestresses of the day. After that, I make something quick and easy for dinner, take a shower, and read or watch some TV.

I’m just pulling my sports bra over my head when I hear a knock on my door. Once a week or so, Olga brings me some extra bread from the bakery. I’m crossing my fingers for a baguette or some scones when I open the door and see…Ryan.

He scans me from head to toe. His eyes catch on the bare inches of skin between my sports bra and my leggings. Then he glances behind me at the yoga mat that’s unfurled in front of the television.

For once, he doesn’t ask how I am. He already knows I’m fine. And that I’m a huge liar.

“I brought you some soup,” he says, holding up a Styrofoam container from downstairs. “Can I come in?”

Do I dare try to keep up the lie?

Yes, yes I do.

I clutch my stomach. “I don’t know, I’m really not -”

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