Page 39 of Fake Date with the Mountain Man

“…a very good liar?” he asks with a smirk.

I slump back a step and motion for him to come inside.

“What are you doing here?” I ask.

“Just checking on you, making sure you’re alright.”

“I appreciate it,” I say in a tone that obviously conveys the opposite meaning, “but I’m fine. And I know you’re dying to get to happy hour, so…”

“Are you going?” he asks. One of his eyebrows is cocked above his challenging glare.

“Ryan, are you seriously going to make me say it? No, I’m not going.”

“Then I’m not going either.”

I cross my arms in front of my chest and sigh. “I thought youreallywanted to go.”

“No, Ireallywanted to spend some time with you.”

His words catch me off guard. I study his face for a second. Despite the harsh tone of his voice, his expression is soft and playful. He’s not mad, but he’s not backing down either.

“We can hang out here instead,” he says.

“You want to hang out at my apartment?”

He nods.

“And dowhatexactly?” I ask.

“Well, if you want to keep pretending to be sick, we could play doctor. Or you could do yoga while I watch.”

I roll my eyes and scoff, but I also have to fight off a smile that’s tugging at my lips. These are the conversations I’ve missed having with Ryan…the ones where he isn’t treating me like Little Orphan Annie.

“How aboutyoudo yoga andIwatch?” I counter.

“You couldn’t handle it.”

“Why? Would I spontaneously combust over the sight of your ass in downward-facing dog?”

“It’s possible,” he smirks.

That fucking smirk. I’m definitely starting to see the appeal of it.

“But if you’re going to keep me here, you’ll have to feed me,” he adds. “I usually grab dinner at the bar on Fridays.”

“I’m notkeepingyou here. Youcouldgo eat dinner at the bar.”

Ryan smiles and takes a step closer. It compresses the sizzling tension between us, trapping it all in the mere inches between our bodies. I feel it dancing along my skin, unrelenting in its quest for our attention.

“How about this: I’ll make dinner for both of us while you do your yoga. I won’t even look. I’ll be too preoccupied trying to create a decent meal out of your assorted vegetables,” he says.

“There’s no way I’m doing yoga in front of you.”

“Ok, then playing doctor it is. I’ll get the rectal thermometer. Go ahead and drop your pants.” He pretends to start walking away when I catch his arm and tug.

“Counter offer: you do yoga with me and afterward I’ll help you cook dinner.”

“Deal,” Ryan says with surprising ease.

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