7. Ginger
GINGER
One week into our arrangement, and I'd developed a Pavlovian reflex to the sound of Tyler Reed's footsteps.
His navy Harvard sweatshirt had claimed permanent residence on the back of "his" chair, the fabric worn to buttery softness at the elbows.
Yesterday, I'd caught myself absently folding it, inhaling the lingering scent of his cologne before I realized what I was doing and dropped it like it had transformed into a venomous snake.
The most alarming development? Last night at dinner, he'd leaned across the table, blue eyes dancing with mischief, and murmured, 'Know what's on the menu tonight?
' When I'd raised an eyebrow, he'd held my gaze a beat too long before whispering, 'Me-n-u.
' The terrible pun delivered with such deliberate charm that my brain short-circuited momentarily.
The combination of terrible dad joke and unexpectedly flirtatious delivery had me sputtering on champagne, bubbles staging a full rebellion through my nose—only to realize the nearest potential audience member was a potted fern.
No performance necessary. No one to impress.
Just Tyler making me flush and laugh until my sides hurt.
This was not part of our negotiated fake-dating contract.
The transition had been subtle—awkward silences gradually filling with comfortable conversations, stiff side-by-side walks evolving into synchronized strides. Each day, another brick in the wall between us had quietly disappeared until I'd stopped noticing the construction noise.
This morning, I was alone in the suite's kitchen, savoring a rare moment of quiet while the boys demolished snow sculptures at a resort-sponsored activity and Tyler sequestered himself in his room for business calls—his voice occasionally drifting through the door in authoritative CEO tones.
I sipped my coffee—brewed well after his morning cup, as per our negotiated caffeine treaty—and flipped through a magazine, the glossy pages a blur beneath my distracted fingers, my thoughts stuck on the countdown clock to our inevitable 'breakup'.
Yesterday, the same resort manager who'd been slipping me his phone number daily had merely nodded politely as Tyler's arm draped around my shoulders.
The wealthy divorcée who'd cornered Tyler at the bar last week now barely glanced our way.
Mission accomplished. Problem solved. So why did success feel so. .. complicated?
When had I started looking forward to his corny jokes?
When had his hand at the small of my back stopped feeling like a performance and started feeling like a comfort?
When had our fake date nights become the highlight of my week?
And most troublingly, when had I started cataloging these dangerous shifts in my feelings?
"Dangerous territory, Ginger," I mutter to myself, closing the magazine with more force than necessary, the sharp slap of glossy pages breaking the silence.
Tyler's suite door opens with a subtle whoosh. I automatically smile at him, my face responding before my brain could intervene.
"Good morning, sunshine," Tyler announces. "Any word from the adventure seekers?"
"The youth coordinator called about twenty minutes ago.
" I wrap my hands around my mug, soaking in its warmth.
"Karl has discovered a natural talent for snow sculpture and was asking for more time to perfect his 'masterpiece.
' I'm expecting either the next Michelangelo or something that resembles a potato with legs. "
"Let me guess—baby Yoda?" he asks, revealing how he'd been paying attention to Karl's obsessions.
"Snow T-Rex. Julian is helping with the teeth."
Tyler grins, that particular smile that made the corners of his eyes crinkle in a way that was becoming far too appealing—the genuine smile reserved for conversations about Julian, not his polished public version. "Sounds about right. Those two are thick as thieves these days."
"It's going to be hard to separate them when vacation's over," I say, the thought souring my mood. One more week before real life came crashing back in—before this man across from me became nothing but an awkward memory and a series of unanswered texts.
Tyler seems to read my thoughts. "About that," he begins, then hesitates, his fingers drumming a nervous pattern on the granite countertop.
"About what?" I prompt, nervous at his shift in demeanor.
"The end of our stay. Our arrangement." He sits his coffee down, uncharacteristically serious. "We should discuss how we want to handle that."
"Right," I nod, forcing a businesslike tone. "The official 'breakup.'"
"Do we stage something public? Go with the 'mutual decision' route? Ghost each other at the airport?" His attempt at humor didn't quite reach his eyes.
I laugh despite the weird hollow feeling in my chest. "I vote against public drama. The boys would be confused, and I've had enough real relationship theatrics to last a lifetime."
"Agreed," Tyler says. "So we go with the adult approach—we met, we had a lovely time, but we live in different cities and have different lives."
"Perfect," I say, though it feels anything but. "Simple, clean, no hurt feelings." I nod decisively, as if I were discussing a minor schedule change rather than the inevitable end to whatever this increasingly complicated arrangement had become.
"Right," he nods, looking strangely disappointed. "Though..."
"Though?" I hear the hopeful note in my voice and hate myself for it.
He runs a hand through his hair, leaving strands sticking up in a way that made my fingers itch to smooth them. "I was thinking, maybe we could... stay in touch? For the boys' sake," he adds hastily. "They've become such good friends, it seems a shame to cut that off."
"Oh," I say, a ridiculous surge of hope fluttering in my chest. "Yeah, that does makes sense. For the boys."
"Great," he smiles, relief evident in his expression. "Maybe occasional video calls, or even a visit sometime if we're ever in the same area."
"Absolutely," I agree, trying to ignore the voice in my head asking if it was really for the boys' sake. "Karl would love that."
An awkward silence falls between us, unusual in recent days. Tyler fiddles with his coffee cup, the soft scrape against the counter unnervingly loud, and I become intensely interested in a loose thread on my sweater.
"So," he say, his tone lighter. "Any plans for today? Besides waiting for our young artists to return from their snow sculptor apprenticeships?"
"Actually," I begin, then stop, second-guessing myself.
"Actually?" he prompt, his eyebrows arching with interest.
"I was thinking of trying skiing again," I admit, feeling vulnerable saying it. "My first attempt was... less than successful."
Tyler's face lights up like I'd offered him the moon. "You should. It's supposed to be perfect conditions today—fresh powder, clear skies, not too cold."
"I don't know," I hedge, remembering the bruises from my last attempt. "I'm terrible at it. I spent more time on my ass than on my feet last time."
"Everyone falls their first few times," he assures me. "It's part of the learning process."
"Says the man who probably came out of the womb on skis," I scoff.
He laughs, the sound warming me more than it should have. "Hardly. I broke my wrist the first time I tried snowboarding. Julian has video evidence he uses for blackmail purposes."
"No way," I gasp, delighted by this revelation. "The great Tyler Reed, not naturally gifted at winter sports? I'm shocked."
"Believe it," he says, his eyes dancing with humor. "I'm much better now, of course."
"Of course," I echo dryly.
"I could help you, if you want," he offers, trying to sound casual and failing miserably. "Give you some pointers."
"Are you offering to be my ski instructor, Mr. Reed?"
"I prefer 'snow guru,' but instructor works too." He puffs up his chest in mock importance.
I eye him skeptically. "The last time someone tried to teach me, I nearly took out a group of actual children on the bunny slope. I may be a lost cause."
"No such thing," he declares confidently. "Just people who haven't found the right teacher yet."
The sincerity in his voice made something twist in my chest. "Fine," I concede. "But if I break something, you're explaining to Karl why his mother is in a cast."
"Deal." He beams, unreasonably excited by the prospect of watching me fall repeatedly on snow. "This is going to be fun!"
"For one of us, maybe," I mutter, but I was smiling too.