Page 35 of Misadventures With My Fake Fiancé

“Come on, you two. There's a bald eagle's nest!” Mr. O called to us from down the aisle. “You're missing it.” It was the most excited I've ever heard him.

Mike unwrapped his arm from around me and stood, ran a hand through his hair. “Coming?”

“I'll be there in a minute.” I watched out the window as Anchorage slipped away and was replaced by wild vistas. I faced east with a wall of green mountains as a backdrop that blocked most of the blue sky. Out the other side of the car was water. Flat, smooth like glass. I overheard someone from a few rows up calling it the Turnagain Arm. It was amazingly beautiful and I was glad the weather lifted for today.

I let my mind wander, thinking about Mike's words. His passion for medicine hadn't been brought on by a whim. It wasn't like one day he decided to take up golf. There was some reason, something that drove him, pushed him into a profession with years and years of rigorous schooling along with countless hours stuck in a hospital for residency, internships. It took commitment, drive and...a fire to push through. I couldn't do it. I liked my sleep too much.

Mike hadn't just walked away from me. He'd left his family, friends...everything behind for almost ten years. None of us had been enough for him to change his mind about his career. It hadn't just been about me.

I'd been selfish to think it had been, that the one night we had together was enough to keep him around. When he left, I thought it would be just for college, like me. I'd been away, he'd been away. But four years later, he still hadn't come home. When I was ready for him then—ha!—I'd selfishly thought he would return for me and give up his dreams. What if he'd asked me to be with him during medical school? Would I have gone with him if he'd asked? Was I any more willing to sacrifice my plans, my scholarship at Tulane, for that one night stand?

I'd been silly to think that and I felt shame coat my hangover with an extra layer of misery.

Then what was it?

The kiss we shared in the hallway the night before had been genuine.Thathad been a real kiss. Mike had meant it, every toe-curling, tongue-tangle of it. With his intense, dominant nature, he didn't take something like that halfheartedly. He put his all into it. I knew he had because I'dfelthis all. He'd kissed me not because we were engaged and it was expected, but because he wanted to. That man didn't need anesthesia to operate. He knew how to make someone lose all feeling with just a kiss.

Realizing it was time to pull on my big girl panties and help Mike out—Susan was a psycho-bitch from hell—I dragged myself to the back of the car to the overlook area and joined the group. The train rocked and swayed on the tracks, which made walking tricky. It was cool and breezy on the platform, a roof sheltering us from the sun. We could lean against the railing on either side of the train to take in the views without a window between us like in the bubble or elsewhere on the train. It was as if we were part of the wilds of Alaska. It wasbeautiful. Spectacular.

Mike's family lined up along the west side, Mr. O pointing out something in the distance. Smiling at me, Mike held out a hand and I went to him. Without question, doubt or anger. Whatever this faux engagement turned into, it was because of what we did now, not a result of something that happened so long ago. Last night, he hadn't kissed the eighteen-year-old girl he'd left behind, but the woman I was now. He tucked me into his side, held me close. I hadn't realized I was chilled until his warmth seeped into me everywhere we touched. He felt good, comforting. Secure.

The wind whipped hair into my face and I brushed it back. I saw Susan eyeing us, but it was easy to ignore her with the scenery and Mike's arms around me. Although the fresh airhelped my stomach, the rocking of the train didn't. “I don't feel very good,” I told Mike as I pressed my cheek into his chest, taking deep breaths of the clean, fresh air and the hint of laundry detergent.

Goldie, with her bat-like sonar hearing, came over and clucked at me. “I'll go back and sit with you, dear.”

I was miserable enough not to care.

Susan gave me a self-satisfied smirk as we passed and I saw her tromp over to Mike as the train door slid closed behind us.

“That woman has an eye on your man. This is a DEFCON ONE situation,” Goldie said as we sat down, her voice surprisingly serious for a woman who went through life meddling in other’s.

I could now relate to the woman from Goldilocks and the whirlwind of insanity that propelled her into the store the other day. It was no fun—make that deadly serious—when another woman was after your man.

“He's notreallymy man, Goldie.” I rubbed my forehead, hoping my headache would go away and my queasiness would stop. Mike wasn't mine, but I didn't want Susan to have him either.

Goldie reached into her mega-purse and pulled out some pills. “Here. I'm sure you need these. You smelled like a sailor on shore leave last night.”

I grabbed my water bottle and swallowed the medicine without question. Anything to make my hangover back off a bit.

“Mike isyour man.He put a ring on it. Isn't that how the song goes?”

I looked at the gaudy bauble. Yeah, he had. But even he'd said it was not arealengagement ring. “This thing?”

“I don't care if it looks like a kindergartner glued that together, it means something.” Her chandelier earrings swayed with her vehemence.

“What can I do about Susan? I can't hold Mike's hand for the entire trip. We'reengaged,Goldie, and that's not getting her to back off.She's out there right now, on the prowl. She does it right in front of Mike's parents.”

“It's rude.” Goldie pursed her lips in annoyance.

“She's bat-shit crazy.”

Goldie turned and looked down the aisle, then back to me. “This is war and it's time to pull out the big guns.”

“You don't have a Confederate musket, do you?”

“What?” Goldie asked, confused. “Oh, you mean Bob. That's funny, Violet. But seriously, don't worry. Like I said before, I'm here to help.”

Oh, shit. Maybe the musket would be better.

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