Page 28 of Misadventures With My Fake Fiancé

“We need to talk,” Mike said, his hands a death grip on the wheel. His face was hard set, like granite.

I flipped down the visor for the mirror and put on more lip gloss. Stalling.

The pine scent was overpowering. Cloying. I pointed to the dangling air-freshener. “Can we get rid of that stupid thing?”

Mike yanked it from the rear-view mirror, unrolled his window—by hand—and chucked it out. “There, can we talk now?”

“Litterer.”

“Cardboard, babe. It's compost. Let's talk.”

“I need a drink first. Maybe two.” I shifted my hips, pulling one knee up onto the seat so I faced him. “My role on this little trip from hell is to be a force field around you to deflect Susan. That requires my presence alone. I don't actually have to like you. Nor do I have to be sober.”

We were going to some bar, I didn't know which one, nor did I care. I wasn't sure Banks or the others knew either since none of us was a local. None knew where anything was. Some of us didn't even speak English. But Uncle Bob gave directions to his favorite watering hole and we were on our way. I wasn't a lush, but sometimes a girl needed a drink.

Two hours later,I'd learned several things. Banks didn't usually dress like a bum. Malibu Barbie had some brains behind the blonde. Mike got a tick in his jaw when he was mad. Jean-Luc and Marc could line dance like two boys from Dixie, and I really liked a drink called an Alaskan Suntan. In fact, the third one went down even smoother than the first two.

We sat at a high-top table near the dance floor with Banks and Trish. The room was dimly lit and smoky, the country-western music loud. A large moose head graced the wall behind the bar with some Mardi Gras beads dangling from the antlers. Jean-Luc and Marc were on the dance floor with two women they’d met while getting drinks. I wasn't sure how they lured them to dance since they couldn't communicate, but with moves—and looks—like theirs, they obviously didn't need words. They must have sensed my mood and been avoiding me. It was pretty obvious I was cranky. Or maybe it was the caveman glare Mike sent their way that had them seeking other female prey.

“I'm Vice President at the local bank. I have to wear suits every day,” Banks stated, taking a pull from his beer. “Including Saturdays.”

“I'm a lawyer so I have to wear a suit, too.” Trish tilted her head toward her husband. “Buthedoesn't have to wear heels.”

Amen, sister. My teacher's wardrobe was fairly casual, with a hideous seasonal sweater thrown in to make the kids laugh. But I'd trade a tie for heels any day.

“Since I can relate, he gets to be a complete bum on vacations,” Trish added as she patted the top of his hand. “I vowed not to interfere with his wardrobe holidays.”

That explained a lot. At the moment, Banks wore a pair of jeans with a hole ripped open at the knee and a different sweatshirt since dinner with some kind of orange stain down the front. Cheese puff dust?

“I'm over two thousand miles from home. No one knows me. If they do, they won't blame me because wearing a suit sucks ass.”

“Definitely,” Mike added. They clinked beer bottles in male commiseration.

The table was small enough where we had to sit close together. My right thigh pressed against Mike's left and it was definitely a distraction. Everything about him was a distraction. I tried to remember if I'd ever seen Mike in a suit. There was little doubt I'd forget that devastating look if I had. And there I was, mad at him but still lusting after his body. Crap.

“I can't go out looking like a slob. Genetics, I think.” Trish took a sip of her beer. “I'm what you call high maintenance.”

“No,” I said sarcastically. She had good genes, all right. Not everyone was born looking like her, and I had a feeling she didn't have to put too much maintenance time in.

Between myself and my sister, I was definitely the high maintenance of the two. I liked makeup—I wouldn't be caught dead out in public without at least mascara—used a hair dryer and made sure my clothes matched. Veronica was a little more...carefree. Her job as a plumber afforded her the opportunity since she spent her days wedged beneath a kitchen sink or installing a toilet. But no matter how much time and energy I spent primping, I couldn't compete with Trish.

“I get to wear scrubs all day,” Mike shared.

“Lucky bastard,” Banks grumbled. “But you get to deal with other people's athlete's foot and bunions, so it evens out.”

“I'm only interested in what's beneath the grimy clothes.” Trish waggled her eyebrows at Banks and got yanked into his lap for a kiss.

That went on. And on.

I took a big draw on my straw until it slurped against the bottom of the glass.

“Need another?” Mike asked as he rubbed the back of his neck, clearly as uncomfortable as I felt by the PDA right in front of us.

“Absolutely.”

We walked to the bar leaving the lovebirds to make out without us. With every step, I quickly realized I was more than buzzed, easily on my way to drunk the way the room blurred around the edges and all my problems didn't seem quite so bad. The floor vibrated with the beat of the music, or at least that was my explanation.

I watched Jean-Luc and Marc dance while we waited for our drinks, one woman being passed from move to country move between them. It seemed I wasn't the only one they were considering. Mike leaned against the bar. After placing a bill on the counter and handing me my drink, he turned, moved closer to me. He was definitely in my space because I could feel the heat from his body. I had to tilt my head back, way back, to look at him. Up close, he so was incredibly hot it made my mouth dry, even after three drinks. Dark red stubble roughened his jaw. His eyes were strikingly blue in the dimness and his mouth?—

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