Page 69 of Fake Date with the Mountain Man

Emmett perks up a little. He raises his eyebrows and asks, “Really?”

“Yeah, it’s not like we’re getting any work done anyway. I’m sure they can spare us for half an hour.”

We formulate a plan to escape unnoticed, but when I meet Emmett at the rendezvous point – our regular table in the corner of the bar – Jack is sitting across from him. I guess he’s had a bad day, too.

If there are three rangers who don’t quite belong at our station, it’s the three of us seated at this booth. Jack less so. He at least looks the part, with well-earned muscles and a beard that Grizzly Adams would envy. Most of the men at our station aren’t the talkative type, but Jack takes it to a whole new level. The truth is – none of us will probably ever know if Jack fits in with the rest of them because we’ll never know much of anything about Jack.

Emmett is a little too pretty to be a ranger. Ryan’s pretty too, but he’s got an edge to him. Emmett still has a baby face, the type that gets rosy when he’s out in the sun for too long. He’s definitely muscular, but he also carries a little extra weight all over that makes it hard to tell. Aside from all that (whichobviously has nothing to do with him being a good ranger or not), I have a feeling that Emmett is a little more sensitive than the other guys. He comes across as young and careless sometimes, but I also think he caresa lot. About this job, about these people, and about everything.

And then there’s me: the girl who showed up to her first day in a dress. I’d like to think I’ve come a long way since then, but I also think I’d probably still wear a dress if it were my first day. Even so, I know I’ve been accepted into this little work family, and it feels nice to belong here.

Emmett has a tray of shots waiting. We cheers to nothing because the right thing to cheers to is the life of the man Emmett found today, but none of us want to say it out loud. Even if we wanted to, it would only draw attention to the fact that we don’t know his name, which somehow feels more tragic than it really is.

The liquid burns its way down my throat, coiling through me and making me aware of twists and turns in my digestive tract that I hope to never feel again. There is no type of alcohol that I find pleasant to drink on its own, but tequila has to be the worst. I’m also learning that it seems to be Emmett’s favorite. I guess it was everyone’s favorite at his age.

“Shit day,” Jack says as he sets his shot glass back down with a thud.

Emmett and I mumble in agreement. Mine comes out as a cough, which is basically just the tequila burning its way through me in reverse. This earns a genuine smirk of amusement from both men.

“I think I need a chaser,” I say through another cough as I scoot out of the booth and head towards the bar.

I’m emitting a series of tiny, almost imperceptible coughs with each step. Needless to say, I will be ordering the girliest drink of all time to wash that shot down.

It’s still early, so the bar isn’t crowded. There are a few regulars parked around the bar top, and the bartender is caught up in conversation with a short, curly-haired brunette. I vaguely recognize her, but the same can be said for most of the regulars. Aside from my group of coworkers, I haven’t really gotten to know anyone in town, but I at least recognize some of the locals.

There’s a sharp right corner between me and the woman the bartender is talking to. I’m far enough away to be decidedly un-pushy, but close enough to signal my distress with a polite wave. My throat still feels like there’s a lit match stuck in it.

For a second, I think I’ve caught the bartender’s attention. His eyes slide in my general direction as he crosses his arms over his chest and leans back. But then his attention is right back on the brunette, and I realize that I’ve just walked into some sort of tense situation between the two of them. I take a tiny step to my left and pretend that the wood grain of the bar is the most interesting thing I’ve ever seen, just to give them some privacy. I should walk away, but I am desperately in need of something.

Even just a glass of water.

No ice.

I’ll pour it myself.

Please help.

“What’s your deal?” the bartender asks the woman harshly. “I thought we had a good time.”

“Yeah, of course. It’s just…”

The woman draws her lip between her teeth only to drag it free again. Poor girl. I can pretty much guarantee that she didnotin fact have a good time with this guy. She’s just trying to be nice and let him down easy.

“Just what?” he spits.

What an asshole. Does this guy honestly not realize that she’s not interested in him?

“Ryan and I are back together,” she says after a long pause.

The air rushes out of my lungs. There are a million Ryans in this world, but somehow I know she’s talking about mine. And suddenly I know exactly why I recognize her – she’s the woman Ryan was huddled up with the night I left the bar early. The first night he stayed over.

“Ryan? That forest service guy?”

She nods while swirling her straw in her drink.

“Come on, you can’t be serious. That dude’s a prick,” the bartender says. “He sleeps with every chick that comes through here.”

I feel a sudden urge to defend him. Lord knows why. Then I feel the urge to flee, so that’s exactly what I do.

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