Page 18 of Misadventures With My Fake Fiancé

A catcall from across the river had Mike lifting his head. Up close, I could see the little crinkles at the corners of his eyes as he smiled. “I guess we should get up.”

“Mmm,” I mused.

“Are you hurt at all?”

“No.”

“How's your head?” I started to reach up to touch it, remembered the mud.

“Smarts, but it's fine. The kiss helped my dented ego a lot, especially since I fell twice.”

He pushed himself up, got his balance and took the poles from me. I was proud to say I saved the reels from ruin. Carefully, he made the short trip up the incline, left the poles in the grass and returned for the rest of our gear as I separated myself from the mud. Stood.

I looked down. I had stepped out of a mud bath with my clothes on. Mike as well. The pouring rain started to wash the mud off our raincoats, but nothing would get us clean except stripping down and a hot shower.

“Here, take my hand.” He easily tugged me up the slope to flat, mud-free ground.

“Thanks.”

Mike bent over to pick up the tackle box he'd left with me and I got a great view of his ass, mud and all.

He turned and caught me looking. “Like what you see?”

I grinned. “Best view all day.”

7

After stripping off his outer layers by the car, including his sodden jeans, dumping the wet, muddy mess into the hatchback, Mike climbed behind the wheel in a fleece, T-shirt and his boxers, barefooted. Needless to say, I got confirmation on Jane's underwear question. A little thrill shot through me at the sight of him. His legs were long and corded with muscle, the little orange ducks all over the black boxers did not distract me in the slightest. I wanted to reach over and run my hand over his thigh, wondering if the dark red hair covering it was as springy and soft as it looked.

Touching him would surely lead to making out and that couldn't work in the clown car. I had to control myself, but my hormones were at war with my brain. Mike wasn't helping things at all. Perhaps he knew it and was subtly seducing me. Then I thought about how ridiculous that idea was. He'd fallen in the mud specifically so he could take his pants off, expose his goofy boxers all the while driving a speck of a car.

As if. I envisioned Mike more the press me up against a wall and have his way with me kind of guy. Oh crap. There went my hormones again. I swallowed, realizing I was in big trouble.

The only thing to my advantage was that his scent—always pretty potent when I was close—was completely knocked down by the scent of pine air-freshener and damp earth.

I, on the other hand, still had my pants on, which was a good thing because I wouldn't be able to control myself if they'd been tossed into the back as well. The waders had kept me mud-free, my jeans were dry and I was able to avoid showing my underwear to everyone driving in Anchorage's cross-town traffic. And Mike. When he caught me shivering, he gave me his dry fleece to wear. It was warm from his body when I slipped it on which was somehow...intimate.

Once back at Uncle Bob's, Mike—since he was dirtier than me—used the outside hose to rinse everything down while I went to our room to shower. I spent the time under the spray, now finished with my lusty thoughts of his legs, reliving the mud kiss. How soft his lips had been, how he'd angled his head to deepen the kiss, how he'd tasted. I didn't need the hot water to warm up. My thoughts were doing a really good job. After two rounds of shampoo, I was finally clean.

An hour later, we were sitting at the dining room table with all of Mike's family.

“Caribou hot dogs,” Mike's uncle said. “My favorite.” He stuck a fork in one on the platter and placed it on a bun.

Meeting Uncle Bob for the first time, it was easy to see where Mike got his size. He was well over six feet and broad-shouldered, just like his nephew, handsome in an imposing sort of way. I envisioned military men like him sprinkling ball bearings on their Wheaties for breakfast. That's where the similarities ended. Mike leaned more toward serious than silly and, being a doctor, that was a good thing. I expected the same for Uncle Bob as well, but the pendulum seemed to have swung the other way. Maybe a little too far.

Uncle Bob sat at the head of the table wearing a full Civil War Confederate uniform, Johnny Reb hat and all. The jacket was double-breasted with large brass buttons, a stiff high collar, epaulets on the shoulders. It was the real Civil War deal. The hat, gray with a black brim, was slouched exactly as I'd seen in pictures and movies. Beside him on the floor was his saber; he couldn't wear it while sitting in his closed-back dining room chair.

He was like watching a car crash; I couldn't look away. It was bad manners to stare, but he was asking for it. How often—if ever—did you see someone dressed up for the Civil War? It wasn't Halloween and he wasn't a middle school history teacher. Needless to say, it was hard to focus on filling my plate. I wasn't exactly sure what to think about his dress, or his sanity for that matter, so I remained quiet and glanced at him beneath my lashes.

Uncle Bob handed the platter to Mr. O, Mike's dad, who didn't raise an eyebrow at his brother-in-law's wardrobe. It seemed I was the only one to find it strange. No doubt everyone else had seen it before. Mr. O's hair had been white for as long as I could remember, his skin tan from golfing his retirement away. He wore a white golf shirt and khakis, pressed and neat. If I remembered correctly, he was a complete neat-nick, everything having to be clean, organized and polished within an inch of its life.

“Mmm, pickles,” Uncle Bob said as he put a spear on his plate.

“Have you ever had caribou before, dear?” Mrs. O asked. Mr. O held the platter for her as she took a hot dog.

“No, but it smells delicious,” I replied. I had no idea people ate Rudolph in hot dog form, but I was willing to try anything once.

“What?” I shrugged. “I like to eat.”

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