Page 39 of Misadventures With My Fake Fiancé

“Ooh la la,” Goldie murmured. “The horse is out of the barn, Vi.”

I looked down at Mike's crotch. “His fly isn't open,” I whispered back.

Mike's eyebrow went up as he watched me; even thirty feet away he saw where I was looking. I felt heat creep into my cheeks.

Goldie tsked me. “No. The saying, 'Closing the barn door after the horse has bolted.' You're already pregnant. Clearlyeveryone thinks you've had sex. Go for it. Why close the barn door? Do that man, Vi.”

Do that man.

“What about the French sandwich?” I hissed.

“That's just the backup plan. The way he's looking at you, I don't think you'll need Plan B. Like I said, do Mike. Climb him like a rope in gym class.”

I ogled the father of my imaginary baby until he stood in front of us, placing the blanket on the table.

“We need to talk.” Mike kept his eyes trained on me. “Excuse us, Goldie.”

He held out his hand.

I took it.

He led me down to the water's edge, the wind a little stronger making little whitecaps form. Seagulls squawked overhead. The scent of damp, salty earth was strong with the tide out. A hint of fishiness lingered.

“I haven't had a chance to get to talk to you all morning,” Mike said, as if that wasn't a good thing.

“It's not like we had to worry about keeping our stories straight. It's not like our engagement and everyone wanting to know how we got together. No one asks the details about how a baby is made.”

“Like missionary in a truck?” He stopped and looked down at me, grinning.

“Exactly.” I smiled a little envisioning the one time we'd had sex. Missionary in his old pick-up truck. He remembered. It was kind of hard to forget your first time, even more so when you got your hair caught in the seatbelt buckle and Mike had to turn on the overhead light to work it loose.

“What are we going to do?” He ran a hand over his face. I could hear the rasp of his stubble beneath his palm. “This is not what I was envisioning when I had you come up here.”

We both turned to look back at the rest of our group. They all were around the picnic table now, paper plates in hand, piling food on them from Tupperware containers or digging into pre-made sandwiches. Jubal lifted his arm and waved us over. Mike lifted his hand briefly in response.

“Your mother took me to the dining car and stared at me the rest of the trip. She was beaming and sighing, not caring what was out the window. She wouldn't have noticed if Big Foot stepped out of the forest.”

“Baby definitely trumps Big Foot. I was stuck with my dad on the observation deck. He was either slapping me on my back for my virility or taking pictures of bald eagles. And that moose that was in the pond. I think he has forty pictures of it alone.”

“He's not happy about having an imaginary grandchild?” I asked, surprised.

“It's not that. That was a once-in-a-lifetime train trip that lasted three hours. A baby takes nine months. He'll be happy for us now that he's off the train.”

“Can you please tell me how we're going to get out of this one? I might have to borrow someone's red-headed baby if this keeps up.”

“I have no idea, Vi.” He turned to face me, put his hands gently on my shoulders. “We're in this together, whatever happens.”

“Why don't we just march over there and tell them the truth?” I asked, although I dreaded the prospect immensely.

Mike took a deep breath, gave my shoulders a little squeeze. “Let's not do anything too hasty. We still have three more days here. Right now everyone still likes us, and we have to live with them for the rest of the trip.”

“Yeah, but you're not the one who can't drink anymore and everyone's not staring at your belly.”

Mike's gaze raked down my body, but didn't make it as far as my stomach. “It's not hard pretending I'm into you. I don't want a real baby right now, but I sure wouldn't mind practicing.”

With that, Mike lowered his head and brushed his lips across mine. Once, twice. Softly and gently until I relaxed. He pulled me in closer so our bodies touched along with our mouths, his hands slipping from my shoulders, one to cup my nape, the other to curl around my jaw. Tilting his head, he ran his tongue over my lower lip and, when I gasped, slipped inside.

The kiss was much shorter than I would have liked and, when Mike pulled back, the dark look he gave me said he wasn't finished either. But we were in a public park, with his family as chaperones not so far away. It wasn't the time or place. “Practice,” he repeated, as he ran his thumb over my lower lip.

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