Page 5 of Fake Date with the Mountain Man

When lunchtime rolls around, I don’t pass up the opportunity to go home and change.

My apartment is only three blocks away from the ranger station. My move to Gatlinburg was unexpected, so I had to take what I could get when it came to rentals. That’s how I ended up living in the apartment above a German bakery on Main Street.

And, strangely, I love it.

The woman who runs the bakery, Olga, lived in the apartment upstairs for years, but the steep staircase has become her nemesis in old age (her words, not mine) so she decided to rent the place out instead.

The bakery is tucked in a small alcove off the main road, behind a giant fountain where tourists stop to tie their shoes and consult their maps. The building is supposed to look like a storybook cottage. Amidst a sea of in-your-face tourist attractions, it’s cheesy in its own right, but I find it charming. It’s the sort of thing that would never exist in a serious city like Chicago.

Olga waves at me over the crowd as I pass the counter and head up the staircase in the back. For a woman with a bad hip, she sure keeps up with the lunch rush day after day. It seems like all the people who aren’t at the ranger station or out on the trails are here at the bakery today, nursing their blisters and gorging on German pastries.

The apartment is still filled with Olga’s furniture. The only thing I replaced was the bed. The rest of it is mid-century maple, but not the trendy type. It’s the type that will probably never come back into style, the type that feels like walking into a dollhouse. There’s a chair rail running around the entire common area with mint green floral wallpaper on top. It’s not going to win a spot on the cover of a home décor magazine, but I’m completely in love with the cozy, little apartment.

I change into a glitter-free pair of uniform pants and throw together a peanut butter and jelly sandwich before heading back to the office.

Ryan is walking out of the building when I arrive. He glances my way, eyes lingering on my crotch. I can’t tell if he’s disappointed or just amused by the lack of glitter. Either way, I’m definitely not a fan of having Ryan Ehler spend any amount of time looking directly at my crotch.

Chapter 4

RYAN

Happy hour is pretty much mandatory after work on Fridays. All of the rangers go.

Well, all of the rangers except for Marlow.

She has an open invite, just like everyone else, but she never shows up. I guess the Grumpy Toad isn’t exactly her style.

Tonight, I have one goal at this: find a date for Blair’s wedding. It needs to be someone local and someone who won’t read too much into it. I’m not interested in leading anyone on, but I also know that inviting a woman to an out-of-town family wedding is an inherently romantic situation. I just need to find a woman who doesn’t look at me all wistfully and doe-eyed when I explain that it’s just a one night thing. No strings attached, and no repeat performance.

Fridays are thick with tourists in Gatlinburg, Tennessee. The weekday tourists are having their last night out, while the weekend groups are just kicking off their trips. If you’re a local, you get used to the ebb and flow of endless tourists around here. If you’re a single guy, you learn to use it to your advantage.

Between sips of beers and snippets of conversation, I scan the bar. It’s disproportionately full of couples and old people tonight. There’s a group of attractive women in the far corner, but my eyes snag on the familiar face at the bar.

It’s Bonnie. Cute, sweet Bonnie.

She’s five-foot-nothing of curves and smiles with a big, generous laugh and an adorable smattering of freckles across her nose.

Tonight, her trademark brown curls are smoothed straight and her black top plunges to unseen depths behind the bar top. It looks all wrong on her, like she’s trying too hard. She’s laser-focused on the bartender, but he’s too busy to notice her.

Fucking idiot.

All this may make it sound like I’ve got it bad for Bonnie but trust me – I don’t. We almost hooked up once, but that came to a screeching halt when she spilled her guts mid-kiss about how head-over-heels she is for Eric, the bartender.

Ever since then, it’s been my mission to help her out. Because if someone as sweet as Bonnie can’t find true love, there’s no hope at all for the rest of us.

Not that I’m looking for love at the moment…or ever.

I make my way through the crowd and towards the bar in the center of the room.

“Hey, you,” I say, eyeing her up and down then speaking just loud enough to reach Eric’s ears, “Holy shit, you’re looking hot tonight.”

“Thanks,” she smiles with a knowing gleam in her eye. “You, too.”

Eric steals a quick glimpse at us as he pours a beer. Bonnie overcorrects her posture and fusses with her hair.

Personally, I don’t think this dude is worth the trouble. He’s a string bean hipster who can’t even make a decent Old Fashion. It pisses me off that he makes Bonnie work so hard for his attention. She may not be the obvious sexpot knock-out type, but she’s cute and sweet and way too good for this douchebag.

We’ve been playing this game for a few weeks now without much progress. It started after our almost-hook-up. We didn’t exactly plan it out, but we have come to a silent understanding.I flirt with Bonnie in front of Eric in hopes that he’ll get jealous and eventually ask her out.

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