Page 21 of Misadventures With My Fake Fiancé

Mrs. O beamed, clearly liking the idea.

“You teach second grade, right?” Banks asked.

“First,” I replied.

“Alex is going into Kindergarten in the fall. Did you always want to be a teacher? I'd say you almost need a calling from God to deal with little kids all day,” Banks said.

I smiled and nodded, forked up some salad. “I decided on Early Education in college.” It hadn't been my first choice, but my dream of being a writer was short-lived.

“We'll have plenty of time to go shopping for a wedding dress. I'll have to call your mother when we all get home.”

I choked on a piece of cucumber. Mike patted me on the back. “My mo?—”

“So, Uncle Bob. Remind me where you're headed first,” Mike cut in. His arm rested across the back of my chair, the tips of his fingers brushing my shoulder. I didn't exactly know what the touch meant, if anything, but it felt good; comforting, and recognizing that we were in this mess together. Although, he wasthe one who'd gotten us into this ridiculous situation in the first place—and didn't have a cross to bear.

I scrambled to figure out how to keep Mrs. O from calling my mother and planning a wedding dress excursion. After my mom recovered from her initial shock at learning her daughter was getting married, she'd soon remember that I was definitely not dating Mike, let alone engaged to him. I saw her several times a week, which meant there was only so much I could keep from the woman.

I told her if I went on a date, and if I hadn't had the chance to tell her about it, she'd learn on her own from someone on the Bozeman gossip circuit. I always ran into someone I knew at dinner or a movie. When I called her with the plan to spend the week with Mike and his family in Alaska, I left out the dating ruse. I definitely hadn't had the time—or desire—to update her on the revised relationship status. She was thrilled just by the very idea of Mike inviting me.

Uncle Bob's head popped up from his plate at Mike's redirect, his eyes bright with excitement. “First, there's a camp reenactment in Maryland before Gettysburg, then the big battle itself, and onto other events. The Campaign of 1863 kept Jubal busy.”

“Who are you again?” Mrs. O asked Uncle Bob. “Jubilee something?”

Uncle Bob waved his fork in the air and pointed to the epaulet on his shoulder. “Jubal Early. Confederate Brigadier General.”

Now I knew why he wore the uniform, but that was it. We weren't anywhere near Maryland and the Civil War had ended a long time ago. I looked at Mike in confusion as I sipped some water.

“Uncle Bob's into the Civil War. He's going back East to do reenactments.”

I shifted my gaze to Uncle Bob and figuredintowas an understatement. Between the wardrobe and the huge necklace from the President of the South's wife around my neck, it was more than obvious he had a passion for the War Between The States. Possibly an obsession.

“I've been a career military man my whole life. Civil War's my hobby. But being stationed in Alaska never let me go east, at least not long enough to have any fun. I've signed up to be Jubal Early as a reenactor all summer long. First stop is Frederick, Maryland.” Uncle Bob grinned, clearly thrilled with his retirement plans. “That's why I'm practicing now.”

“Wow, that's great,” I replied, wiping my mouth with my napkin. I'd learned American History in school, but never knew they had battle reenactments. Never really thought about it. Montana wasn't exactly Civil War territory.

“So instead of calling me Uncle Bob, you, missy, can call me Jubal.”

Alex knocked over his cup of milk. Trish hopped up to get a towel from the kitchen, Mrs. O scrambled to place napkins over the spill. I heard a small squeal from the kitchen. “Jefferson! Stop that,” Trish scolded the dog.

My cell phone vibrated in my pocket. Not wanting to be rude and check my phone during dinner, I glanced around, but no one was paying attention to me. I pulled it out, read the text.

U R engaged? Mrs. O FB'd the good news. What happened to dating? Call me. G

Our engagement was on Facebook? Goldie knew? We were doomed. Combine social networking with the Bozeman gossip network and there was no chance of stopping the spread. It was like a plague. My stomach felt queasy from the caribou hot dog. I passed the phone to Mike. He read the display, and then pounded the rest of his beer.

8

After dinner, Uncle Bob took off his Jubal Early outfit and moved to the den to watch baseball. The room was a total man cave. Four leather recliners faced an enormous flat screen TV. Floor to ceiling bookshelves flanked it, filled with books, mementos and electronic paraphernalia. The coffee table had three remotes on it. It looked like Uncle Bob could land an aircraft from his barcalounger.

Banks and Mr. O settled in to join him, beers resting in cup holders built into the recliners' arm rests.

Mrs. O and Trish were off helping Alex with his bath. The twins were doing the dishes. Mike and I were left to clear the dinner debris from the table.

“Word is out,” I whispered, as I stacked several plates and carried them to the kitchen, using my shoulder to push through the swinging door between the two rooms.

Marc, or Jean-Luc, I couldn't tell which, took the stack from me. He gave me the once-over a woman gets in a bar from a drunk man hoping to score. A little smile curved his full lip. Wow. Talk about steamy glances. I was a little flattered and a whole lot uncomfortable.

Deciding to not read into it, I pivoted and pushed open the swinging door and bumped into Mike who was coming into the kitchen with the platter of caribou dogs. He scrambled to keep his hold on the leftovers. “There's nothing we can do but run with it,” he said.

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