Page 13 of Misadventures With My Fake Fiancé

A yellow Lab, overweight and ungainly, trotted over to me, tail wagging. He looked like he'd had one too many dog treats and not enough exercise and seemed very happy about it.

The dog shoved his snout in my crotch. “Hey!” I shifted back as I pushed his head away.

“That's Jefferson.” Leaning against the counter, sandwich in hand, stood Mike. “Does that to everyone.”

The dog, hips shifting from side to side with the motion of his tail, made his way back to a soft dog bed in the corner, circled three times, and then plopped down with a sigh.

“Friendly dog,” I commented.

“Smart dog,” Mike replied as the corner of his mouth ticked up.

I could feel my cheeks heat at the idea of Mike putting his face?—

He wore faded jeans that molded to his butt quite nicely, an untucked blue flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up and the same ratty sneakers from the night before. Give him an axe and he was Paul Bunyan. A very sexy Paul Bunyan. And instead of Babe, the ox, oh— “Moose.”

I pointed toward the backyard.

Mike's eyebrows shot up and he turned to the large windows off the kitchen. “That's a moose, all right,” he replied, his mouth full of something that looked pretty darn good. I was starving.

We stood and stared at the wild animal for a bit before it decided to move on to greener pastures, disappearing into the woods that surrounded the yard. “Welcome to Alaska.”

Turning to face Mike, I eyed his sandwich with a desperate longing.

He smirked. “Hungry?”

“Starving.”

“Sit.” He pointed to the bar stools that were on the far side of the counter. “Turkey sandwich?”

“Sounds great.” I could eat Bullwinkle at this point. Seattle airport's food court was a distant memory. “You weren't the first person to welcome me this morning.”

“Oh?”

“You haven't seen anyone else?” I was doing a little fishing without a rod. It was important to see where Susan really stood with Mike and whether he would hide her earliereagernessto see him from me. I didn't come this far to help him if he had changed his mind. After seeing Susan in the flesh, literally, I couldn't blame him if he had. I couldn't compare to some of the things—large breasts that defied gravity specifically—she had to offer.

“Everyone's out,” he said. “My mom thought it was best you slept in, so they left to keep the house quiet.”

It was quite possible I had to change my feelings toward Mrs. O. It was very difficult to admit, but Goldie could be right. I was letting my inner eleven-year-old sway my thinking.

I looked around Bob's kitchen. The more rooms of the house I saw, the more I realized Uncle Bob was not, nor ever hired, an interior designer, and was most likely color blind. Some homes had a distinct style: modern, colonial, French provincial, American farmhouse. Bob went with Eighties. Faux red brick tiles on the kitchen floor. The cabinets were very dark wood, almost black, with a few stained-glass inlays. The counters were also tile, cream colored rectangles with a brown grout. The fridge was the only modern appliance: a stainless-steel side-by-side.

I ran my finger over the grout. “I met Susan.”

Mike leaned his hip against the counter once again, my sandwich obviously on hold. “Really?” He didn't sound excited about it. More like surprised.

“You didn't see her?” I tucked my hair behind my ear.

He shook his head as he got a plate from the cabinet.

“Susan and I had a little chitchat this morning. She's very welcoming.”

“Welcoming how?” he asked warily, pulling a napkin from the holder on the counter.

“Let's just say we learned more about each other in the two minutes we talked than most new acquaintances.”

Placing his hands on the edge of the counter behind him, Mike pierced me with a stare. “What did Susan do?”

I swallowed. Man, he could be intense. And hot, all at the same time. “She picked the lock on the bathroom door, stripped off her clothes and was about to join me in the shower.”

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