Page 17 of Misadventures With My Fake Fiancé

Once, Mike even had one on the line, but lost the fight as he tried to reel it in.

“Time to go. The tide's coming in,” he said as he came over, water dripping from the brim of his hood. “Sorry you didn't catch anything. So much for bringing dinner home.”

I looked up at him. Way up. His red hair, the bit that peeked out from beneath the hood, was wet and stuck to his forehead,rain dripping down his cheek. A streak of mud coated the side of his nose. His black raincoat only accentuated his broad shoulders. His jeans, from the front, were damp and I could just make out the mud coating the sides and back.

“Paul Bunyan fishing. It's quite the look.”

He quirked a brow. “Paul Bunyan, huh? So that makes you Babe, then?”

I thought of the moose earlier. I tilted my head. “Are you calling me an ox?”

Shaking his head, he replied, “No, I'm calling you a babe.” His voice was husky.

My heart skipped a beat at the heated look in his eyes. I shook my head, instantly pleased by his words, and hoped my heated cheeks were hidden beneath the dripping rain. Especially since I must've looked like a beached whale in my waders and raincoat, dripping wet. There wasn't much chance I looked much better than he, although fortunately I’d skipped the mud bath.

Fishing in Alaska was a big deal, more like an item on my bucket list, and the man recognized that. Besides bringing me to the creek to fish, he'd given me the room to appreciate the fishing-ness of it, walking off and leaving me alone on the creek bed. Then it was just me, my rod and the elusive fish. Mike didn't feel left out or jealous of a salmon. And I didn't feel the least bit prickly toward him.

Not every man knew the quiet aspect of fishing, but Mike did. I didn't know why he was flirting with me. He was acting as if nothing had happened between us, that our history hadn't made a place inside of me hurt. But it had been over ten years. Had he let go and moved on? I might not have caught a fish, but it's possible I might have caught me a man. And maybe I just had to start reeling him in.

I looked down and stepped out of the quickly rising water, now up past my ankles where there was dry ground just minutesago, and placed the hook into a guide and wound the line tight. It was amazing how fast the tide moved in. “This was great. I had the best time.”

Mike laughed, bright and clear. “Only you, babe. Seriously, what other woman could I bring to a muddy riverbank in the pouring rain to freeze her ass off to catch a fish?”

“Not just any fish. The elusive, infamous King salmon.”

“Careful walking up the slope,” Mike advised, letting me lead the way up the incline. “I'll go behind you to catch you if you slip.”

It was solid mud, deep and thick, our boots making sucking noises as we stepped. I was almost to the top when my right foot lost traction. With a rod in each hand, I couldn't stop myself. The reels would be ruined if they were caked in mud, so I lifted my hands up, landing elbows first with a big oomph. It was jarring, but the mud was soft and absorbed most of the impact.

“Ow!” Mike yelled as the top end of a rod whacked him in the head like a whip.

Besides my arms buried in mud, my entire front half landed hard and I quickly slid back down the incline and collided with Mike. It was easy to fell a tree when you cut it low to the ground, which was what happened with Mike.

“Shit!”

Taking his legs out from under him like I did, he fell forward, landing on top of me, smooshing me into the oozing mud even deeper, knocking the wind out of me.

He tried to push himself off, but sunk elbows deep himself with weird mud-farting sounds. Recognizing he was losing the battle, he rolled to his side, and then flipped me over like a pancake, deflecting one of the rods before it hit him again. I lay there, my back now equally cold and sopping wet from the mud, trying to suck air into my lungs as rain fell down onto my face.

“Jesus, Vi, are you all right?”

I just stared up at the thick clouds, waiting, waiting...gasp.

Sucking in gulps of air, I turned and looked at Mike. He had a red welt down the left side of his cheek in the shape of a fishing rod. His hood had fallen back, so now all of his red hair was wet. He was covered in mud from the chest down. “So much for catching me.”

“God, sorry about that. I did not see that one coming.”

Yeah, neither had I.

I was afraid to look down at myself, but I knew I had mud...everywhere, but fortunately was protected by my waders and raincoat. I was wet and cold from top to bottom. Squishy. This was one of those moments in life where you could either throw a total tantrum like a toddler or embrace the moment and see something ridiculously positive, even when bogged down in thick, dark, cold glop.

Struggling against the tug of the mud, I gave up the fight after a few seconds and collapsed back. I started to laugh at the situation. Mike brought his hand up to wipe something off my face, but when he saw that his hand was coated as well, he started to laugh, too.

“Is there any part of me that's not covered?” I asked, knowing we were quite a sight to the other fishermen. I saw a few people pointing from the pedestrian bridge. No doubt they'd be telling stories of the idiots who fell in the mud for years to come. So would I.

Mike's gaze raked over me, and not in a clinical, doctor sort of way. He looked from top to bottom and back up again, his blue eyes assessing, but stopped at my lips. “Just one.”

He lowered his head and kissed me, a gentle, soft brushing of his lips against mine. His mouth was warm, nohot,and the contact heated me better than a shot of whiskey and a crackling fire. Wow, his lips felt good. Soft, gentle. A little shock to thesystem. My body did a little ‘Oh yeah, I remember this’ moment. His kisses were not something easily forgotten.

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