Page 9 of Misadventures With My Fake Fiancé

“I need to tell you something,” he said, one hand rubbing up and down my back in a casual caress. He didn't seem to be ending the hug anytime soon.

At the moment, that was just fine with me.

“Violet!”

I tensed at the words, the voice. Oh shit. Mrs. O. She was here, and working her way toward us from somewhere. Plane ride from hell, perhaps?

Mike lifted my chin with one finger, tilted my face up so he could look me in the eye. His blue eyes were a little panicked, a little serious. “There isn't time to explain,” he murmured so only I could hear. “Play along.”

Before I could respond, he lowered his mouth to mine in a searing kiss. There, in the middle of baggage claim, Mike got to first base, tongue and all. With his mother, the dead bear and all the other passengers free to observe.

With his mouth on mine, the world slipped away. I forgot everything but the soft feel of his lips, his taste, the intensity of the kiss, the way it melted my bones like wax beneath a flame. His hard body pressed firmly against mine.

With one hand tightly about my waist, I felt Mike reach into his jacket pocket, then take hold of my left hand. As he lifted his head, our ragged breaths mingled and I felt him slide something on my finger. My ring finger.

I tried to yank my hand out of his grasp but it wouldn't budge, his hands too big, his grip too tight. Mike turned us both so we faced Mrs. O. She had to have seen the kiss—airport security would have it on video for playback later—but she hadn't seen the ring maneuvering as Mike's large frame had blocked her view.

“Oh, Violet. I'm so glad you're here.” Mrs. O was petite, making me, at five foot six, look like an Amazon. Her blonde hair was fairer now as she let it gracefully fade to gray. It was cut into a chin length bob that flattered her. Where Goldie would be considered voluptuous, Mrs. O was leaner, almost elegant. She wore dark jeans, a pink fleece jacket, a floral scarf about her neck and a large leather pocketbook slung over one shoulder. In her late sixties, she looked good. Too good for two in the morning. “I'm sorry I missed you; I stopped at the ladies’ room.”

“Mrs. O, how nice to see you,” I replied, hoping my voice held a warmer welcome than I felt.

Mike had not released me. In fact, now that I was here and practically glued to his side, I wasn't sure if he was going to let me go. Perhaps he was afraid I'd change my mind and hop thefirst available flight out of town. Hell, he’d just put a ring on my finger. I wasn't going anywhere, even if I wanted to.

“The ring. Let me see the ring!” She was nothing but smiles and kindness itself. Where was the taskmaster who forced push-ups and kicks and punches on less-than-eager eleven-year-olds?

Mike still had a firm grasp on my hand so he held it out for his mom to see. Me, too. I hadn't even seen it yet. I'd felt it. Heavy, solid.Significant.

Yellow gold, in swirling waves with several diamonds placed around, with a large round one in the center.

“It's...lovely,” she said. She was being polite.

It was awful. It was a hot mess of a ring. Whoever designed it was in Kindergarten. It was heavy, big and clunky. I was going to either get my hair caught in it or gouge someone's eye out if I wasn't careful. It was good Mike was a doctor as he could tend to any injuries, saving a poor victim hurt by the monster ring a trip to the nearest urgent care facility.

“Thanks,” I said. I could only imagine the stunned look on my face.

Growing up, I'd played with my Barbies and had many a wedding with Ken. But never once had my play included Barbie and Ken getting engaged with a honking ring because of a looming mother-in-law in the middle of baggage claim near the Arctic Circle. The bright side was when it really did happen, when I really did get engaged, it could only be better than this.

Mrs. O had that dreamy, happy, mother look going. I recognized it in the face of my own mother when Veronica and I graduated from high school, then from college. She even had that look the time she saw my first classroom as a teacher.

It didn't matter that the ring was hideous, but that Mrs. O's son, heronlyson, was engaged. I couldn't be sure she felt the same soft, gooey feelings for me as the fiancée, however.

Holy shit. I was Mike's fiancée! Not his girlfriend. I could be a pretend girlfriend, that wouldn't be too hard. But fiancée? I didn't know how to do that. How had this escalated?

Finally, Mike released me, reached over and took my carry-on and slung it easily over his shoulder. I wobbled where I stood, not sure if from shock or exhaustion. Maybe it was the weight of the ring pulling me to the left.

“I was just telling Vi how great she looked,” Mike told his mother.

I lifted one eyebrow in question as he was a total liar. I’d seen myself beneath the fluorescent lighting in the miniscule airplane bathroom. It had done nothing to hide the bags under my eyes, my hair that took on the quality of a bird's nest, nor the ginger ale spill down the front of my shirt. And that had been three hours ago somewhere over Canada. “Wait 'til you see me when I'm actually conscious.”

Mrs. O laughed heartily. Did she like me now because I was engaged to her son? I should have considered that when I was a kid.

Mike's smile ticked up a little bit more. “Let's get your stuff and get out of here.” Still holding my hand, with the gaudy ring pressed into my palm, Mike yanked me toward the baggage carousel.

“Fiancée?” I quietly hissed.

Mike glanced over his shoulder at Mrs. O who was a few steps behind us. He lifted our joined hands to his lips, kissed my knuckles. “Later,” he replied, a little louder, and grinned wickedly.

I flushed. I couldn't help it. His mother had to think I wanted to toss myself at him. From the heat of the kiss she and half of Alaska had witnessed, she could only surmise that was just the warm-up of things to come. Oh, boy. “You are such a?—”

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