I’m not cool enough to pull off this fake girlfriend stuff for an entire weekend. I’m not a very good liar and besides that, I find him really attractive. Which should make it easier to fake, but it just makes it harder because I get all flustered and start telling stupid jokes.
This hotel is incredible. We’re not even past the lobby and I already know I’ve never stayed anywhere this nice. The flooring is a sort of cobblestone, which my suitcase would be bumping across right now if I had my suitcase. “They’ll send them up,” Boyd said, like it was no big deal. I guess it’s not if you’re used to that sort of thing.
We bypass the front desk and exit through a glass door into a courtyard centered by a fountain. The view is a little like being in the midst of a Disney fairytale come to life. Brick pavers line the ground, the sun is shining and I’m positive I just heard a bird chirp. The architecture makes me feel like I’ve been transported to an Alpine village somewhere in Europe. The slope of the roofs, the arched doorways, the stone construction and elaborate wooden terraces all combine to make the town look a century older than it can possibly be. It’s magic. On the other side of the courtyard we re-enter through another set of glass doors and walk across another cobblestone floor until we reach the hotel spa.
Where Boyd promptly leaves me. I don’t know how, but one minute he’s there and the next minute I’m being led into a fancy changing room by Hilda and given a fluffy robe to wear. By the time I get a massage good enough to make me forget why I’m here and my fingers and toes have been painted, my dress and shoes have materialized. But they’re not done with me. My hair and makeup are taken care of as well and now I really do feel like I’m in the midst of a Disney movie.
And then Boyd is there. In a tux. And somehow I manage to have a dozen dirty thoughts about him in under ten seconds, which makes my cheeks flush and my heart race. I start to get nervous but then I remind myself that this is fake—there’s no need to be nervous. But oh, holy wow. Boyd’s hotness isn’t fake, that’s for sure.
“I didn’t think about a wrap for you,” Boyd says, slipping his jacket off and putting it over my shoulders as we step outside into the cobblestone courtyard. He takes my hand and guides me out of the courtyard and along another fairytale-inspired walkway lined with shops and restaurants. When we reach the end of the walkway the view of Vail Mountain spreads before us and I realize we’re headed to the gondola.
“Are we going up?” I ask, bouncing a little in excitement.
“Just for the ceremony. The reception is back at the hotel.” He grins, seemingly amused with my excitement.
We get a gondola to ourselves and sit side by side facing the top of the mountain as we ascend. When I turn to look at Boyd I’m not sure if it’s him or the mountain backdrop behind him that threatens to take my breath away. And then I wonder what the mountain looks like covered in snow—and how much time Boyd spends here in the winter with how many different women.
The ceremony is as stunning as you’d expect it to be in that location, the group relatively small. It’s Boyd’s cousin Amy getting married, I learn. I spot a slide as we’re walking back to the gondola after the ceremony. A freaking slide, on a mountain. Boyd laughs as my steps slow a bit while I try to get a look at it. “I’ll take you tomorrow,” he promises.
At the reception I meet several members of his family. He introduces me to everyone as his girlfriend and his hands are constantly on me, not in a disrespectful way, but in a very comfortable way. I feel his hand lightly on my back as we walk, on my hip pulling me closer to him as we stand. When we sit he drapes his arm across the back of my chair and brushes his fingertips over my upper arm.
And I don’t have to freak out about any of it, worry about what any of it means or if I’m going to embarrass myself. I don’t have to be afraid of these people not liking me or judging me, because it’s all fake. I’m simply here as a favor to Boyd. So I relax and lean my head on his shoulder. I snuggle in next to him at every opportunity because it feels good. Whatever this is, it feels good.
When his great-aunt comments about what adorable babies Boyd and I would make, I don’t freak out and start telling jokes. I simply nod in agreement and hold up my empty ring finger and respond, “First things first,” with a sweet smile on my face. I’m feeling pretty smug about putting Boyd on the spot in retaliation for this charade, but he doesn’t look bothered in the least. He replies with some quip about teaching the kids to ski.
Being a fake girlfriend is the best gig ever.
I don’t have to stress about anything. Am I boring him? Who cares, this isn’t a real date. Will his family like me? Who cares, I’ll never see them again! Will I run out of things to talk about? Does he think I’m weird? Is he having a good time? Does he secretly care that I just ate both of our desserts? None of it matters because we’re just pretending!
When I meet his mother, whose attempt at small talk is coldly sizing me up and asking me to tell her what I like about her son, I guilelessly place my hand on Boyd’s chest and tilt my head to rest on his shoulder. Which as a side note was probably a huge tactical error, because the feel of Boyd’s chest under my hand is distracting. But I manage to persevere.
“How long do you have, Mrs. Gallagher?” I beam at the woman while sliding my other hand behind Boyd’s back. Damn, that’s a mistake too. How much time does this guy spend in the gym?
“Excuse me?” Mrs. Gallagher replies, clearly not understanding where I’m going with this.
“It would take me all evening to tell you everything I love about Boyd, so I was just wondering how much time you had?” I turn my gaze to Boyd midway through speaking to his mom and my heart falters for a minute because I realize that even though I’m fake-gushing to his mom, all of the examples that spring to mind of what I like about Boyd are completely one hundred percent true. Like the way that he looks at me. And how he always holds open the door open for me, even when he’s just arrested my date or he’s taking me shopping for a wedding he’s manipulated me into attending with him. I like the way he kissed me last week without overwhelming me. The way he teases me about my obsession with crime and safety. I like his eyelashes. And most of all I like how patient he is with me.
This hotel is incredible. We’re not even past the lobby and I already know I’ve never stayed anywhere this nice. The flooring is a sort of cobblestone, which my suitcase would be bumping across right now if I had my suitcase. “They’ll send them up,” Boyd said, like it was no big deal. I guess it’s not if you’re used to that sort of thing.
We bypass the front desk and exit through a glass door into a courtyard centered by a fountain. The view is a little like being in the midst of a Disney fairytale come to life. Brick pavers line the ground, the sun is shining and I’m positive I just heard a bird chirp. The architecture makes me feel like I’ve been transported to an Alpine village somewhere in Europe. The slope of the roofs, the arched doorways, the stone construction and elaborate wooden terraces all combine to make the town look a century older than it can possibly be. It’s magic. On the other side of the courtyard we re-enter through another set of glass doors and walk across another cobblestone floor until we reach the hotel spa.
Where Boyd promptly leaves me. I don’t know how, but one minute he’s there and the next minute I’m being led into a fancy changing room by Hilda and given a fluffy robe to wear. By the time I get a massage good enough to make me forget why I’m here and my fingers and toes have been painted, my dress and shoes have materialized. But they’re not done with me. My hair and makeup are taken care of as well and now I really do feel like I’m in the midst of a Disney movie.
And then Boyd is there. In a tux. And somehow I manage to have a dozen dirty thoughts about him in under ten seconds, which makes my cheeks flush and my heart race. I start to get nervous but then I remind myself that this is fake—there’s no need to be nervous. But oh, holy wow. Boyd’s hotness isn’t fake, that’s for sure.
“I didn’t think about a wrap for you,” Boyd says, slipping his jacket off and putting it over my shoulders as we step outside into the cobblestone courtyard. He takes my hand and guides me out of the courtyard and along another fairytale-inspired walkway lined with shops and restaurants. When we reach the end of the walkway the view of Vail Mountain spreads before us and I realize we’re headed to the gondola.
“Are we going up?” I ask, bouncing a little in excitement.
“Just for the ceremony. The reception is back at the hotel.” He grins, seemingly amused with my excitement.
We get a gondola to ourselves and sit side by side facing the top of the mountain as we ascend. When I turn to look at Boyd I’m not sure if it’s him or the mountain backdrop behind him that threatens to take my breath away. And then I wonder what the mountain looks like covered in snow—and how much time Boyd spends here in the winter with how many different women.
The ceremony is as stunning as you’d expect it to be in that location, the group relatively small. It’s Boyd’s cousin Amy getting married, I learn. I spot a slide as we’re walking back to the gondola after the ceremony. A freaking slide, on a mountain. Boyd laughs as my steps slow a bit while I try to get a look at it. “I’ll take you tomorrow,” he promises.
At the reception I meet several members of his family. He introduces me to everyone as his girlfriend and his hands are constantly on me, not in a disrespectful way, but in a very comfortable way. I feel his hand lightly on my back as we walk, on my hip pulling me closer to him as we stand. When we sit he drapes his arm across the back of my chair and brushes his fingertips over my upper arm.
And I don’t have to freak out about any of it, worry about what any of it means or if I’m going to embarrass myself. I don’t have to be afraid of these people not liking me or judging me, because it’s all fake. I’m simply here as a favor to Boyd. So I relax and lean my head on his shoulder. I snuggle in next to him at every opportunity because it feels good. Whatever this is, it feels good.
When his great-aunt comments about what adorable babies Boyd and I would make, I don’t freak out and start telling jokes. I simply nod in agreement and hold up my empty ring finger and respond, “First things first,” with a sweet smile on my face. I’m feeling pretty smug about putting Boyd on the spot in retaliation for this charade, but he doesn’t look bothered in the least. He replies with some quip about teaching the kids to ski.
Being a fake girlfriend is the best gig ever.
I don’t have to stress about anything. Am I boring him? Who cares, this isn’t a real date. Will his family like me? Who cares, I’ll never see them again! Will I run out of things to talk about? Does he think I’m weird? Is he having a good time? Does he secretly care that I just ate both of our desserts? None of it matters because we’re just pretending!
When I meet his mother, whose attempt at small talk is coldly sizing me up and asking me to tell her what I like about her son, I guilelessly place my hand on Boyd’s chest and tilt my head to rest on his shoulder. Which as a side note was probably a huge tactical error, because the feel of Boyd’s chest under my hand is distracting. But I manage to persevere.
“How long do you have, Mrs. Gallagher?” I beam at the woman while sliding my other hand behind Boyd’s back. Damn, that’s a mistake too. How much time does this guy spend in the gym?
“Excuse me?” Mrs. Gallagher replies, clearly not understanding where I’m going with this.
“It would take me all evening to tell you everything I love about Boyd, so I was just wondering how much time you had?” I turn my gaze to Boyd midway through speaking to his mom and my heart falters for a minute because I realize that even though I’m fake-gushing to his mom, all of the examples that spring to mind of what I like about Boyd are completely one hundred percent true. Like the way that he looks at me. And how he always holds open the door open for me, even when he’s just arrested my date or he’s taking me shopping for a wedding he’s manipulated me into attending with him. I like the way he kissed me last week without overwhelming me. The way he teases me about my obsession with crime and safety. I like his eyelashes. And most of all I like how patient he is with me.
