Page 52 of The Great Dating Fake Off
I stare hard at the fringe of my denim shorts as I battle the memory. It’s so strong I’m not sure I’ll win, but I have to at least try. This is not the week to develop an attraction.
Correction: there’s no good week when it comes to a guy like Sebastian.
It’s not only that he’s a studly turn-on of a man—whereas the best I’ve been called is cute—but also that he’s about to open a nonprofit in another state.
It’d be great if the first guy to stroke my lip like that in, oh, forever, was a banker or a teacher or something that kept him in one place.But no. It sounds like a life on the move runs in his family.
He’d be a great candidate for no-strings-attached sex. If the attraction were mutual, that is. And I think it might be.
But I think I could actually like him.
After the failed relationships and stalled situationships I’ve experienced, I should know better than to open the door for someone who can’t walk through it. I have to look out for my own heart, because no one else will. No one else ever has.
Sebastian was up front that he was leaving Great River soon. He all but hired a skywriter to emblazon don’t get any ideas over my head.
It’s now my job to heed the warning and not get any ideas.
Alessia says my name in a way that suggests it isn’t the first time she’s tried to get my attention.
“Hmm?” I shift in my seat to face her.
Winged eyeliner accentuates her probing stare. “Are you okay? You’re being very quiet.”
“I’m great. Really glad to be here,” I say. And that part is true, even if I’m a little distracted thinking about her fake boyfriend. Wondering how he’d react if he knew what his touch did to me.
I internally slap myself upside the head. Not even three seconds have passed and here I am, getting ideas.
We climb out of the car, and the four of us approach the saloon’s entrance in the same order we drove in: Gia and Ro in the front, Alessia and I bringing up the rear. All four of us have on cowboy boots and jean shorts. Rosalina is in a green corset top beneath her white bridal sash, as Italians claim green brings good fortune to a bride. Alessia has a white blazer over a black tube top—effortlessly cool as ever.
The instant Gia laid eyes on me when we’d met up to leave the lodge, she’d pointed at my bedazzled, long sleeve thrift-store shirt and said we can do better than that, pretty girl.
Now we are matching in white tank tops with the phrase Cowboy Pillows emblazoned across each of our chests.
Is this better? Who knows. But I’ll be damned if I’m going to turn down her kindness.
On the beat-up saloon doors, the silhouette of a man riding a bull is etched in the center, half on each side so that when they open, it gives the illusion that the man is being thrown off.
They creak as we pass through into a huge space with high ceilings, a big bar, and a roped-off dance floor where many people are line dancing. The rhythmic scuffing of boots is like a beating heart. It’s dark and smells wooded and sweet, like pineand hickory mingled with liquor.A mechanical bull draws a crowd on the far side of the bar.
It’s packed in here. It must be the only real game in town for going out.
We hit the ground running, meaning Rosalina and Gia run ahead to the bar to procure the first round of shots as Alessia and I trail behind.
Once we have our tiny glasses in hand, Gia lifts hers first. “To the most beautiful bride there ever was. I know this isn’t the tropical destination wedding you two had in mind, but we’re honored to celebrate with you anywhere, anytime. I’m grateful every day that of all the houses in the world, my family moved in next to yours, securing me a best friend for my entire life.”
A fierce swell of emotion twists up my throat as I match everyone else’s smile. I never think about my future kids—just in case that’s not the direction my life goes—but if I have one, I want to give them exactly that. What Ro and Gia have. The time to build something lifelong.
“Gia! That’s so sweet!” Ro cries, eyes soft. “Who are you and what have you done with my best friend?”
Gia thrusts her hand forward. “Cheers to beers and legs behind your ears!”
Ro is the last to clink her cup. “And she’s back.”
It doesn’t take long, just a few shots for those of us drinking, before we’re loose enough to hit the dance floor. But we never make it more than a few minutes before Gia is dragging us back for one more round. I am a walking lemon drop, floating on air before long.
Gia convinces a few cowboy types to teach us the basics of line dancing. We get better as a group, two-stepping like we belong, only minorly tripping over ourselves. It gets easier and easier, or maybe we just relax into it. Gia makes very good friends with a guy in a tan Stetson who says he’ll teach her how to work a lasso. Ro informs her that a man who’s good with rope is a bonus.
It’s not long until there are more locals swarming us, because apparently bachelorette parties are quite a draw. I’ve never been given so many one syllable names in my life.
